Dead Right. Brenda Novak

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      “Nineteen years.”

      “Almost two decades? Aren’t you a bit late in following up, Ms. Barker?”

      The accusation in his tone made her throat clog with emotion. “I’ve done what I could,” she managed to say. She’d even crossed the line a few times—breaking into Jed Fowler’s auto shop, hiring Officer Hendricks to scare Allie into believing someone out there was still dangerous.

      “And you’ve learned what?”

      Very little. The mystery was beyond her own sleuthing ability, as well as that of the entire Stillwater Police Department. Mr. Solozano was right, she should’ve looked for an outside investigator long ago. “Not enough.”

      “Who stood to gain the most from his death?”

      “It’s not that straightforward. My stepmother inherited the farm, but she’d never hurt a soul.”

      “Who else is there?”

      “Jed Fowler, an older man who was working on our tractor in the barn the night my father went missing. He can seem…strange. And a younger guy, Mike Metzger, who’s in prison on drug-related charges. But I don’t know if either one of them is responsible. That’s what I want you to find out.”

      “Sounds like a murder investigation to me. You should contact the police.”

      She bristled at his lack of compassion. He had to know, in twenty years, she would already have tried the police. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to get involved. Maybe Hunter Solozano was a good investigator but he was the most insensitive jerk she’d ever met.

      “Forget it. I’m sorry I bothered you. Just—” her voice cracked “—just go back to fighting with your ex-wife. I hope she wins, by the way,” she said and slammed down the phone.

      

      Antoinette had already won. Hunter tossed his cell phone onto the side table. He deserved Madeline Barker’s anger. Hell, he’d asked for it. He’d provoked her at every turn. After speaking with his ex-wife, and then his daughter—God, what she’d said to him—he’d been angling for a fight he could win.

      But he didn’t feel any better. If anything, he felt worse.

      The flicker of his muted television served as the only light in the room. The darkness generally soothed him, but not tonight. Raking his fingers through his hair, he stood up, then sat down again.

       Forget Maria. She didn’t know what she was saying. Her mother put her up to it, as usual.

      But he couldn’t forget. The pain was too physical. It felt like he had an open wound in his chest, as if his daughter had reached into that wound, wrapped her little hand around his heart and squeezed with complete abandon.

      Considering the Barker woman’s terrible timing, it was a wonder the desperation in her voice had penetrated at all.

      “Ms. Barker is not my problem,” he said aloud. His daughter was his problem. Or, more specifically, the fact that his ex-wife had turned his daughter against him. Although he paid exorbitant amounts of child support—he’d sent Antoinette an extra two thousand dollars just this month—it was never enough to make his ex happy. He doubted his daughter was even receiving the benefits of the money he sent. The last time he’d seen Antoinette, she’d had a new nose and breast enhancements that were so large she looked like a damn porn queen. The way she was spending money and hitting the L.A. party scene, trying to keep up with the rich and famous, was humiliating even though he wasn’t married to her anymore. Her behavior had to be doubly embarrassing for their daughter. How many PTA moms had tits the size of watermelons?

      But Antoinette hadn’t become quite so obsessive about plastic surgery, designer clothes and who was who in L.A. until after the divorce.

      The guilt that fueled his self-loathing settled deeper in his gut. How had he managed to screw up so completely? If only he could go back…

      But it was too late. The damage was done. And now Antoinette was using their child to extort more and more money out of him while painting him as the devil himself, the cause of all Maria’s problems.

      Automatically, his eyes cut to a picture of his twelve-year-old daughter. Her photograph rested on one of the empty shelves above the television, and was about the only decoration left in the beach house. Antoinette had stripped the place bare when she moved out more than a year ago.

      Maria stared back at him, wearing a somber expression. He imagined the school photographer coaxing her, “Say ‘cheese!’” But she seemed to be thinking, “Get real. What do I have to smile about?”

      The desire for a drink slammed into him like one of the waves he could hear churning down the beach. He felt helpless, pinned beneath his craving for the smooth burn of alcohol and the resulting disconnect. He wasn’t asking for a lot. Just one night of escape. Then he’d get back on the wagon. It had never been so bad before. His daughter had never said what she’d said tonight.

       Please, leave us alone. You make everything worse…I don’t want to be with you, okay? It’s all your fault!

      Wincing as the memory lashed a part of him that was already raw, he reached for his keys and his wallet, both sitting next to his phone. He’d go down to the bar on the corner. If he planned to drink, he had to go somewhere. Sober for six months, he had no alcohol in the house.

      But he stopped at the door. Maria’s eyes seemed to be following him, accusing him. You’re just what she says you are. A drunk.

      Clenching his jaw, he bowed his head, battling the weakness that threatened to overtake him. He’d beat the craving for booze—if only to prove Antoinette wrong.

      Eventually, he forced himself to return to the couch and pick up his guitar. It was all so damned ironic, he thought, trying to gain some perspective on the phone call that had hurt so badly. Alcohol was the only thing that had made it possible to cope with the irritation and dislike he faced on a daily basis in his marriage. And alcohol had caused him to make the one mistake he’d promised himself he’d never make, the mistake that had landed him in their neighbor’s bed and destroyed his marriage.

      He strummed through several Nickelback songs, hoping to get lost in the music. His guitar helped him relax. But tonight nothing could release the pent-up frustration. Antoinette had promised he could take Maria to Hawaii next weekend for seven days. He’d been planning on it for two months. And then Maria had called to say she wouldn’t go…

      He played a few more chords, but his heart wasn’t in it. His throat and eyes burned, his muscles ached with the effort of subduing his reaction.

      Grasping for something, anything, to fill his mind besides the echoing rejection of his daughter, he turned his thoughts to the Southern woman who’d called. What are you looking for…? A person…Who…? My father.

      Hunter sighed. Maria didn’t want her father. They lived less than ten miles apart, but she refused to see him. Which pleased Antoinette inordinately, of course. His ex hated him—because he’d never really loved her.

       Stop! Think of something else!

      Madeline Barker’s СКАЧАТЬ