Tate shouldered his shovel and walked into the foyer. He clomped the snow from his boots before walking up two flights to his loft on the top floor, where windows climbed to a soaring ceiling. Once in his living space, he kicked his boots to a spot under the hall tree and peeled off his vest. In the kitchen area he cracked open a beer, took a swallow, then dropped into his favorite chair in front of the TV already tuned to an all-news channel.
He’d taken a break from his deep dive into the case that had consumed him for most of his adult life. Well, really since he was eleven. A helluva thing, losing your dad like that. His mother had remarried a few years after the tragedy, and her new husband, Darvin Williams, was a good enough guy. Another cop, now retired. He had stepped into the role of father without too many problems, especially in dealing with Wesley’s younger sister, who had ended up adoring her new “Papa-D.” But Wesley had been another story, always ended up comparing Darvin to his father. Of course Darvin came up short each and every time, an earthly man being sized up against a martyr, a saint.
So the whole father-son thing hadn’t really gelled between them.
Now, all things considered, it never would.
*
Faiza Donner sat in her Mercedes SL450, a convertible that, all things considered, was impractical in winter in Oregon, but she’d always lusted after this model and had decided, just three months earlier, to indulge herself. Why not? she’d asked herself, though she’d known all the reasons leasing the vehicle.
Now she was parked in the circular driveway staring at the house she’d called home for nearly twenty years, a huge Tudor in the West Hills. Her sister Zelda’s home once upon a time.
Oh, Faiza had been jealous then, envious of this house, the boat, the cars, the trips, the mountain “cabin” on Mount Hood—even that house had been a mansion—Zelda’s “second home.” And most of all Faiza been envious of the fact that her sister had been a mother, not just once but three times, not counting the stepchildren, which Faiza definitely did not.
But then . . . well, fortunes had changed, hadn’t they? She rolled down the driver’s side window of her sleek car, then lit a cigarette, her last Parliament, she silently swore, as she’d given up the habit three years earlier and picked at the pack she kept in her glove box only when she was particularly stressed.
Like now.
Taking a deep drag, she stared at the house, festooned as it was in Christmas lights that illuminated the peaks and valleys of the roof line. Cedar garlands sparkling with fairy lights framed the double doors where matching wreathes hung, red bows and sprigs of holly visible. Lights glowed from within, and even the curved walkway was glowing with the soft illumination from the landscaping lamps reflecting on the snow.
Picture-perfect.
And soon to be gone, wrested from her as Jonas was released from prison and Kara’s birthday was about two weeks away, that special day that had seemed eons away when Faiza had first become her guardian.
What a joyous day that had been.
Soon after the court gave her custody, Faiza and Roger and their menagerie of pets had claimed this home as their own with Kara as their would-be child and, of course, source of all their income. And it had been wonderful, she thought, smoking and fighting tears at the thought of everything she’d worked so hard for disappearing, like snowflakes melting on her palm. It just wasn’t fair.
She thought of what she would lose, including her beloved red 450. She blew a stream of smoke out the window and wished she’d listened to that nagging voice in her head reminding her that she was running out of time, that everything she loved so dearly would be wrenched away.
If only she hadn’t let Roger influence her, but then, didn’t he always?
His mantra of “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out,” had eased her mind, but, of course, hadn’t changed things.
“Crap,” she said, taking another puff before jettisoning the butt through the open window. She watched as the red tip arced in the night before dropping into the snow-covered azaleas to sizzle and die. Scrounging into the console, she found a box of Altoids, shook two into her hand and popped them. As she did, she caught sight of her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her blond hair had been lightened to platinum, and her complexion was still flawless, she worked hard to maintain it, but her blue eyes were shadowed, worry evident in their depths.
“Pull yourself together,” she told herself. “You’ve been in tighter spots.” And that was true. She didn’t want to think of her younger years, the ones in which she struggled so hard while Zelda seemed to live a charmed life. Zelda had married young, had two kids with Walter Robinson, then got involved with Samuel McIntyre and found herself pregnant. Zelda had always claimed it was a mistake, that she hadn’t planned on her third pregnancy, but Faiza had never bought it. Faiza still believed the conception had been planned, that Zelda, still married to Walter, wanted a way out and the new baby was her avenue.