Kill and Tell Read online

  He knew she had cried; her eyelids were swollen. She had cried, and he hadn't been there to hold her.

  He would be, he thought fiercely. From now on, he would be.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

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  The day was overcast, with rain threatening any minute, and so muggy Karen felt as if she would melt. Sweat gathered in a pool between her breasts, trickled down her sides. Her dress was thin and short-sleeved but still black; she could feel the fabric absorbing the heat. She concentrated on her physical misery and on the distant sullen rumble of thunder. She thought about how lush the grass was, listened to the birds singing, and let herself be annoyed because her heels kept sinking into the soft black dirt. She'd never before seen dirt so black, and she marveled at its richness.

  She looked at the massive trees, the flowers. This small country cemetery was prettier and more peaceful than the large, manicured "garden of rest" where Jeanette was buried. Perhaps she should move her mother down here, rather than have Dexter taken Her stomach clenched. She had tried so hard not to think about what was happening, but her wayward thoughts had led her to the funeral anyway. She didn't want to think about the man in the casket. Dexter Whitlaw. Her father. Whatever his failings, whatever devils had driven him, at this moment she admitted that her memories of him weren't all bad.

  There had been a few times when he sat on the floor and played dolls with her, folding his long legs as if he didn't even notice his cramped position, listening with apparent raptness as she spun elaborate stories about what the dolls were doing. Usually, they were sick, and she was taking care of them, an early manifestation of her nursing tendencies. And a couple of times, Dexter had taken her with him on walks in the woods and showed her how to hide in a bush and sit very still so that even the squirrels and the birds forgot they were there. Did those few bright moments outweigh a lifetime of darkness? Was she supposed to remember only them and forget the nights when her mother sobbed into her pillow, longing for a man who wasn't there?

  What a waste of life, both Jeanette's and Dexter's. Regret swelled in her chest, suffocating her, or maybe it was just this damnable humidity making it impossible for her to breathe. It couldn't be regret; why should she cry for a man who had never given her a second thought, who bothered to call or visit only when he needed something? And yet he had kept his wedding ring, sewed it into his cuff to keep it safe. It had been important to him, as Detective Chastain had pointed out. Whether it was the life the ring represented, the normal life he had walked away from, or the people in that life, she couldn't begin to imagine.

  She wouldn't cry for him. She refused to. But the outline of the casket was blurred, the minister's words were nothing more than background noise, and the pressure in her chest was so great she could barely contain it.

  The trees stirred and rattled, breathing. A surprisingly cool gust of wind hit the backs of her legs, breathed down her neck. A chill rippled down her spine. The sensation was refreshing, though, and she sighed as the sweat evaporated on her body. She was grateful for the reprieve from the heat, even when a fine mist of rain closely followed the wind.

  In only moments, she went from overheated to downright chilly, as the wind picked up and the rain began to pelt down. Detective Chastain opened an umbrella and held it over their heads, moving closer so they were both sheltered. She didn't know what she would have done without his assistance these past two days, she thought numbly. He had done more than walk her through the necessary procedures, much more; he had stepped in and taken care of arrangements, cut through red tape, smoothed over glitches before they became real obstacles. He had even remembered the flowers for the casket and helped her arrange for them.

  She couldn't think why he had done it. She was a commonsense person, but she was beginning to think she had imagined his dislike the first time they met, because not even a glimmer of hostility had shown since then. Maybe fatigue and shock had made her hallucinate. Still, Chastain had gone above and beyond duty, even if she had been mistaken in her initial impression of him. Maybe this was an example of the courtesy toward women for which Southern men were so famous, but he had gone a great deal farther than opening doors for her or standing when she entered the room.

  Yes, that was it. Think about the detective, or about regional differences in general; think about anything but the fact that the minister was pressing her hand and murmuring condolences, and the funeral director was waiting for her to leave so they could lower the casket into the grave and begin shoveling dirt over it. The grave was even disguised by a green felt carpet, as if the sight of it would be too much for the bereaved.

  But she couldn't leave. She couldn't walk away from Dexter now, not in his last moment above ground. He deserved to have someone there for him, someone whose memory would record these details, so that he wouldn't vanish without a trace. Whatever his failings, he was her father, forever linked to her through shared genes.

  "Go ahead," she said hoarsely. It was an effort to speak. Her arms roughened with chill bumps, and she hugged them against the bite of the wind, wondering where the heat had gone. The rain drummed down on the umbrella, spattered her legs and her back, and a shiver seized her.

  She saw the funeral director glance at Detective Chastain, as if the final decision was his. Perhaps it was. If he chose to drag her away from the graveside, she didn't know if she would be able to protest, or to resist. If she tried to argue, the tenuous control she was maintaining would shatter, and she would collapse into a sobbing heap. A sobbing heap was not a good position from which to assert authority.

  But he gave a brief nod, and she tried to tell him with her eyes how grateful she was, not just for this but for everything. The funeral director turned aside with a quiet word to the waiting men. Chains creaked, and the casket was slowly lowered into the grave.

  Karen shivered again and found she couldn't stop. Was she shivering or trembling? She couldn't tell, didn't care. All she knew was that she was shaking from the inside out, her teeth clenched hard to hold back the sob that was choking her.

  Silently, Chastain stepped behind her, blocking the wind and rain from her with his body. She stood stiffly, locked rigid with the effort of control, but he moved closer, so close that he pressed against her, strong and solid and warm. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he opened his jacket and enfolded her inside the sheltering wings. The cloth draped over her shoulders, her bare arms, wrapping her in warmth. He still held the umbrella in his left hand, but his right arm slid around her and held her anchored to him, tight against his hard chest.

  The gesture stunned her. Except for her mother, no one had ever put themselves between her and the world. Chastain's action was so unexpected and intimate… and protective. The protectiveness was what destroyed her, even while it supported her.

  Hot tears blurred her vision once more, washing out the images of the men bending and digging their shovels into the mound of dirt, but she heard the sound of dirt spilling into metal. They worked methodically, despite the pouring rain, as if the job was too somber to be hurried. She stood until they were finished, and all the while Chastain stood at her back, warming her, lending her his strength so she could continue to stand upright.

  Karen was accustomed to standing alone. Even as a child, she had tried not to bother her mother with her problems, because she had always sensed Jeanette carried enough burdens. Nursing school had only enhanced her independence by giving her even greater responsibilities. She hadn't leaned on anyone in years, and she was shattered to find herself doing so both emotionally and physically with a man who had been a total stranger a mere two days before. She tried to blink away the tears that kept burning her eyes. She tried to say something and found the pressure in her chest was too great to allow the words to escape. She straightened, though something in her cried out at the sudden cold, the loss of contact. She turned to face him, but his face swam before her eyes, and suddenly she couldn't bear it any longer.