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WHEN THE DOORBELL to the Winterses’ home did nothing more than give a reluctant clunk, Luke pulled open the ripped screen door and knocked on the warped wood.
He heard shuffling inside, muttered curses of the female variety, and when the occupant wrenched open the door, Luke’s planned approach took a detour off a cliff.
“Mrs. Winters.” Luke tipped his department baseball cap and kept his face passive. “I’m Sheriff Saxon.”
“I know who you are.” She blinked as if the sun was too bright, but the pinprick pupils shining glassily up at him told another story, as did the soiled housecoat that looked as though it had been rescued from a nursing home’s trash bin. “Sorry,” she mumbled sleepily. “It’s still early.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As if three in the afternoon was early. Luke nudged Kyle’s backpack out of sight on the ground. “I was hoping to speak to your son. Is he home?”
“Whatcha want with Kyle?” Mrs. Winters leaned her cheek on the hand gripping the door. “He’s a good boy.”
Luke’s head throbbed and took exception to the claim.
“Ma’am, your husband’s being held down at county jail on a variety of charges, including resisting arrest. I need a statement from your son about their altercation at the community center on Wednesday.”
“Their what? Yesterday, you say?”
Luke clung to the irritated breath lodged in his lungs. Holly was right. Kyle’s mother was definitely part of the problem. “Day before, ma’am.”
“Do I need to bail him out?”
“That will be up to you.”
She frowned, as if the idea of having a choice never occurred to her before now.
“Ma’am, do you know where I can find Kyle?”
Mrs. Winters shrugged. “With his friends. He doesn’t come home much.”
Imagine that. And Luke wouldn’t exactly call the kids Kyle had been hanging out with yesterday friends. Enablers, maybe. He pulled out one of his new business cards. “If Kyle does come home, please have him call me. Your husband’s been transferred to county jail pending formal charges of assault against a minor.”
“Okay.” She slipped the card in her pocket. “Someone will tell me how much, right?”
“If you ask, yes. The courthouse will have that information once his bail hearing is over.”
“Thanks.”
“Mrs. Wint—”
The door snapped shut in Luke’s face. He stood there for a long moment, and the dull headache that had been knocking against his skull since he’d gotten up this morning picked up speed. Disgust and rage mingled. Mrs. Winters was more concerned with her husband’s situation than her son’s whereabouts, but he’d bet both took a backseat to whatever drugs she was on.
Luke stepped away from the door, picked up Kyle’s pack and headed to his squad car. Cash was waiting for him, golden head stuck out the window to enjoy the breeze coming in over the Pacific.
And here Luke thought he’d had it bad. At least his mother had been three years in the ground before his father had raised a hand to him. Luke didn’t have any memories of his mother. She’d died when he was four. Cancer, he found out when he was old enough to inquire. Ovarian. At least that was what his father had told him.
To this day Luke wondered if his mother had been subjected to the same violent outbursts Luke had withstood. In his darker times, Luke was convinced his father had been a different man—a better man—when Mary Saxon was alive; maybe her death had been the trigger that had later fired Ward Saxon’s irredeemable behavior. And then came the darkest hours, when Luke was convinced he was the one to blame for his father’s violence.
He made a U-turn and drove down Red Admiral Lane, taking note of the neighborhood—save for the Winters house—and that it wasn’t as run-down or as empty or neglected as other streets in Butterfly Harbor. Lawns were manicured and kept in check. Flowers cascaded in small clumps, as if afraid to take the chance in fully developing under the May sun.
The model street when it came to reinvigorating the town.
Instantly, he was reminded of those areas he’d haunted as a kid, wishing he was a part of something—anything—other than a dank cave of alcoholic rages and terrible abuse. Luke shook his head and recalled that for a number of years he thought his house was black-and-white while the rest of the world existed in Technicolor. Like those old movies they used to play at the now-closed theater.
As if color was something he’d had to search for and achieve.
Right now he needed to track down Kyle Winters. He hadn’t been able to shake the look of terror on the teen’s face while under the fists of his father—terror warring with defiant anger aimed at his father, but taken out on Luke.
There was little worse in this world than a teenager teetering on the edge of despair, which was why Luke had stashed the fifteen-round automatic he’d found in Kyle’s bag under lock and key back at the station. Until he spoke to Kyle face-to-face, got a better feel for him, Luke wasn’t going to rest easy. If he’d had access to a gun, who knows what else he had stashed away wherever he was.
Part of Luke wanted to believe the gun was for protection against a father who obviously had no qualms about beating the daylights out of the boy—whether in private or in public. But if Kyle wasn’t home a lot...that possibility seemed remote.
Luke squeezed the steering wheel. Maybe he was projecting his own experiences onto the kid. Things had gotten bad enough for him he’d taken to losing himself in the same liquid darkness his father had succumbed to rather than targeting the rest of the world as responsible for his lot in life.
But Kyle wasn’t Luke.
What it had taken to kick him out of his own situation was almost killing Jake Gordon.
There were nights he wondered what would have happened if he’d never picked up the phone that night, if he hadn’t agreed to Jake’s request he come pick his father up at the Dusty Rose. His dad had gone on a bender that would have tested the alcohol tolerance of the god of wine himself.
If Luke hadn’t gotten in the car that night, Jake’s life and Holly’s wouldn’t have been derailed; her mother might never have left. And Luke would probably be lying in a grave next to his dead daddy. Or worse.
How could something that had gone so wrong given him so much? Luke reached over and stroked his hand down Cash’s head, taking comfort once again in the dog’s presence.
“We need to find Kyle, boy.” Luke’s fingers curled into the soft fur. “You have any ideas, I’m open to them.”
“Woof.”
“Yeah.” Luke pressed his foot on the accelerator and headed up the hill and to the outskirts of town, back to the house that had never been a home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I THOUGHT YOU and Charlie were going to go out bike riding again today.” Holly looked up from filling the first tray of salt-and peppershakers. “What’s going on?”
Simon shrugged. He was halfway through his second new schoolbook, but for the few minutes Holly had been watching him, he hadn’t turned a page.
“You two have a fight?” Holly pressed.
Another shrug.
“Charlie’s acting the same way.” Paige brought over a second tray. “Says she doesn’t feel well. Just wants to stay in her new room and read.”
“You let her have the bedroom, didn’t you?” Typical mom.
“Of course.” Paige looked at Holly as if there wasn’t another option. “She’s never really had one to herself. Well, not since she was a baby, but she doesn’t remember. She loves the apartment, by the way, and I’m sure she’ll thank you herself if and when she stops moping around and faking a fever.”
“How high did she get the thermometer?”
“One hundred and ten.” Paige chuckled. “Stuck it in her hot chocolate, I’m assuming. I’m letting it play out for a while yet, but she knows if she doesn’t come to me about whatever’s bothering her soon, I’ll wheedle it out of her.”
Holly arched a brow.
“My mac and cheese,” Paige said. “She’ll tell me anything for my homemade mac and cheese. I have a secret ingredient. Cheesy crackers as the topping.”
Holly’s stomach rumbled as she mouthed a silent ooh.
“You planning another run on my kitchen, girl?” Ursula’s accusation blasted from the kitchen window.
“No, ma’am.” Paige bit her lip and shot a guilty look at Holly. “Sorry,” she whispered.
Holly grinned. “Don’t worry about it. She already asked me yesterday about your kitchen-sink breakfast. I saw her scribbling down notes. If things get nasty, offer up your mac and cheese. That’ll smooth things over.” It would make Holly exceedingly happy, as well. Nothing better than hot pasta and gooey cheese.
