She Can Tell (2 page)

Discipline was the key. Lesson learned. He wouldn’t forget it again.

But at that moment, all he could think about was how to make Harry disappear.

Present day

Leave town or die, you fucking whore
.

Not the most original statement, but it sure got the point across.

Rachel raised the portable lantern over her head and scanned the side of her barn. In the artificial light, the blood-red words slashed across the white paint like fresh wounds. Every letter was still billboard clear despite hours of cleaning.

She rolled her aching shoulder and shut off the pressure washer still chugging at her feet. Silence fell abruptly on the too-warm, wet October night. It was no use. The graffiti wasn’t coming off. Fresh coats of primer and paint would have to wait until the weather cleared.

Someone was not happy she’d returned to Northeastern Pennsylvania.
Troy?
Who else would bother? Didn’t matter. She wasn’t leaving, no matter how difficult her brother-in-law made her life.

Exhaustion weighted her quivering muscles as she half-dragged her equipment to the detached garage. On the
way out, she secured the outbuilding with a thick padlock. No sense in tempting fate—or her vandal. The soggy grass squished under her boots as she crossed the lawn to her back door. After slipping off her boots in the mudroom and making sure her new deadbolt clicked securely into place, she padded into her empty kitchen.

The rumble of her stomach reminded her she hadn’t had time for a grocery store run—or dinner. She yanked open the ancient refrigerator door and let the cool air waft over her sweaty skin. One lonely yogurt huddled next to a nearly empty quart of skim milk. Rachel poked a green and furry package in the bottom of the vegetable bin. When had she bought broccoli? And why? She picked the plastic bag up by the corner with her forefinger and thumb, and gingerly transferred it to the garbage can. It hit the bottom with a wet squish. She snatched a box from the counter, shook out the last strawberry Pop-Tart, and washed it down with water.

A damp breeze and the patter of light rain drew her gaze to the window. Through it, the barn sprawled behind the house. Pride expanded her chest. She had ten horses boarded, not bad considering the number of setbacks the barn renovation project had suffered. Come winter, New Hope Farm would welcome its very first foal. Was it possible the black cloud that had dogged her for the past thirty-one years had decided to move on?

Don’t jinx it. The pot of gold at the end of your rainbow has a way of turning into a pile of crap.

As evidenced by the return of her vandal last night.

Rachel’s cell phone burst into its digital rendition of the “William Tell Overture” from its charging cradle on the kitchen counter. She reached for the phone. The tiny
screen displayed her sister’s name. Rachel’s heart fumbled a beat as she flipped open the cover. “Sarah?”

“I’m sorry for calling so late.” Sarah’s apology trembled.

Rachel’s heart squeezed. “It’s OK. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Troy.”

Wasn’t it always? Sarah’s husband was the lowest form of life Rachel could imagine, at least two rungs below amoeba on the evolutionary ladder. Chimpanzees would be appalled to learn they shared ninety-eight percent of their DNA with Troy Mitchell. He was the main suspect for her vandalism—and the reason Rachel had returned to sink every single nickel into the rundown family farm.

Six years Rachel’s junior, Sarah had her reasons for marrying young, but surely she could have done better than him.

Rachel heard banging in the background, then Troy’s voice yelling for Sarah.

“Sarah? Are you OK?” Sarah didn’t answer. “Do you want me to call the police?”

“No.” Sarah blurted out her answer too quickly.

“No, you’re not OK, or no, you don’t want me to call the police?”

All Rachel heard was Sarah’s ragged breathing for one long moment.

“Could you please just come and get me and the girls? Troy and I had an argument earlier, and now he’s back. He’s drunk and he’s really mad. Please, Rachel, just until he sleeps it off.”

“OK. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Stay on the line with me.” Rachel stomped into a pair of battered tennis shoes, snagged her keys from the bowl on the counter, and bolted into the drizzle. Behind her the door closed with a
resounding
thwack
. With her cell phone still pressed against her ear, she sprinted toward her truck. “Sarah?”

Sarah didn’t respond, but Troy’s voice came through, louder this time. “Gimme the damn phone!”

A muffled smack and a thud sounded over the open line as Rachel slid behind the wheel. Her heart thumped in her throat. “Sarah, are you OK?”

Nothing.

Rachel’s truck engine roared as she took off down her rutted dirt driveway. Her tires screeched as took the turn onto the paved rural road too fast. Raindrops blurred her windshield. She flipped on the wipers. “Sarah, are you there?”

She lifted the receiver from her ear and glanced down at the display.

Call ended
.

“Shit!” She smacked the steering wheel. Possibilities reeled through her mind. None of them good. Did Sarah hang up to call the police? Or did Troy take the phone? Should Rachel call the cops? She debated for a nanosecond before dialing 911. She described the situation and gave Sarah’s address to the dispatcher, who assured her that a patrol car was en route.

The next five minutes stretched out in slow motion marked by the steady drip of sweat down Rachel’s spine and the rhythmic thud of her heart against her breastbone. Shiny pavement stretched out in front of her headlights like an endless black ribbon. Wipers swished on wet glass, arcing like dual metronomes.

Each second that ticked by was an opportunity for Troy to commit an act of violence against her sister.

Rachel turned the truck into Sarah’s tidy middle-class neighborhood. The sidewalks were edged, the shrubs
trimmed. Minivans, SUVs, and basketball nets lined the gently curving streets, but the wholesome suburban scene was an illusion. Nothing was ever exactly what it seemed.

She pulled up to the curb in front of Sarah’s house and jerked the gearshift into park. Except for the weak amber glare cast by streetlights, the neighborhood was dark, the street empty. No police yet. She was on her own.

Rachel shoved open the truck door and jumped down to the curb. The rain intensified, filtering through the leaves of the mature oak and dripping on her head. She brushed a droplet of water off her cheek with a forefinger and turned to face Sarah’s deceptively quaint house. The furious yaps of Sarah’s little mutt came from around back.

“You lying bitch!” Troy’s expletive carried through the open living room window and burst the neighborhood’s peaceful bubble. Next door, a light in the second-floor window blinked on. The dog yapped louder.

A female scream sliced through the humidity.

Rachel sprinted across the wet lawn and flew up the cement steps to the front stoop. Heart hammering, she pushed the unlocked door open. Her sister lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, one arm twisted behind her body at a grotesque angle. Red-faced and sweaty, Troy stood over her in the narrow foyer.

As Rachel stepped across the threshold, Troy’s booted foot connected with her sister’s unconscious body with a sickening thud. Limp, Sarah slid a few inches on the polished oak floor. Rachel’s lungs sucked in a reflexive gasp before she could stop them. Troy’s head swiveled toward her. Under a shock of sweaty brown hair, green eyes glittering with unnatural, rabid excitement. “What do I have to do to get rid of you?”

Shock paralyzed her for a few seconds. He swung. Rachel slipped sideways, but her reaction was slow, and the
sloppy hook glanced off her cheek. Pain, bright and sharp, burst through her face with a kaleidoscope of colors. She stumbled sideways. One hand caught the banister and kept her upright.

Rachel shook her head. A glance at her sister’s broken body jolted her into movement. The pain in her face evaporated as Troy moved closer. She raised her hands, twisted her torso, and plowed an uppercut into Troy’s soft solar plexus. He grunted. An exhalation of stale whiskey passed over Rachel’s face. She brought her arm up to block a looping right, and then looked for a groin opening. No shot.

Swinging wildly, Troy stumbled forward. Rachel moved away until her back hit the wall. Troy grabbed for her throat. Her ears strained for sirens as she shoved the heel of her palm under his chin. Troy’s head snapped back, the movement taking his body with it.

His eyes shone with malice. He lunged unsteadily for the hall closet and pulled out an aluminum baseball bat. Rachel’s heart rammed against the inside of her chest as if it wanted out. She stepped in front of her sister. Running wasn’t an option. She’d never leave Sarah. Nor could she abandon the little girls that she knew were upstairs somewhere, terrified. But if Troy managed to hit her with that bat, it was game over. Sarah would be alone. Just like when Rachel had abandoned her little sister all those years ago.

Where were the damned cops?

Troy raised the bat over his right shoulder in a two-fisted batter’s grasp as he weaved toward Rachel. His face contorted with hate as he swung at her head.

Rachel vaguely registered approaching sirens as she ducked under the bat’s arc, catching Troy’s arm on the backswing. Her right hand grabbed Troy’s wrist while the other forearm slammed into the back of his elbow, hyperextending the joint.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Troy lifted a work boot to stomp on her foot. Rachel sank her weight into the arm-bar, bending Troy hard at the waist and bringing her knee up to meet his face. Her peripheral vision caught strobe lights in the open doorway just as bone crunched and blood spurted onto the hardwood. The bat dropped to the floor with a metallic clunk. Rachel pulled her gaze off the red liquid.

“Police!” A hulking figure stepped over the threshold. The cavalry.

About freaking time.

Rachel maintained her hold on Troy and lifted her gaze to the huge cop in the doorway. Though he was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt instead of a uniform, Rachel recognized the massive shoulders and red hair of Westbury’s
chief of police, Mike O’Connell. Her eyes locked on his for a second—just long enough for her to be surprised at the soft shade of baby blue—before Troy’s flailing and cursing broke the strange connection between them.

“Little help here?” Rachel adjusted her grip on Troy’s sweaty wrist.

The chief blinked. He holstered his weapon, cleared his throat, and moved toward her, calling out over his shoulder to the uniformed officer who had joined him in the doorway. Rachel recognized the young cop as the one who’d handled her vandalism complaints. She couldn’t remember his name, but his black hair and nice manners were distinctive. “Ethan, call for an ambulance.”

“Yes, sir.” Ethan turned around and disappeared. Flashing red and blue lights reflected disco-ball-style off Sarah’s freshly painted front door.

Rachel released Troy and stepped back. The chief brushed past her. They’d never met, but she’d seen him around town. Always from a distance though. He was way bigger up close. Way, way bigger. Though not particularly tall at about six-foot, his linebacker body exuded raw power. He handled skinny Troy like a toy, spinning him around and cuffing his hands behind his back in a few deft movements. “You’re under arrest.”

With Troy restrained and the police chief’s giant body as a barrier, Rachel was suddenly aware that her heart was racing and she couldn’t suck in enough oxygen. The flowered wallpaper closed in on her. She took a step back, away from the chief and Troy. Her sneaker slid a couple of inches. She glanced down at the smear of red left by her shoe.
Blood.
The foyer tilted. Blackness encroached on the edges of her vision, and a rushing sound echoed in her head. She averted her eyes from the spatter, planted both hands on her knees, and gulped moist air.

“You OK?” The police chief’s baby blues zeroed in on Rachel.

With no air to spare for words, she nodded. Her eyes locked onto his. With vague discomfort, her brain registered this was the first time in her life she’d been tempted to hide behind someone else instead of facing risk head-on.