Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) (10 page)

Fifteen

“Hi,” I said to Dean, who had left my door unlocked. Must be nice.

He looked out his window as Eva’s headlights swung past.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“A pattern is definitely emerging with Bruce,” I said. “Eva really didn’t want to give specifics, but he mistreated her. She hasn’t seen him since college, but he was still emailing her occasionally as of two months ago. And she’s scared of him.”

“No way. Why was he emailing her?”

“Trying to start things up with her again, apparently,” I said, not hiding my disgust. “I don’t know how Mia got mixed up with someone like this. But at the same time, I do. I think he’s a slimy, great actor.”

I fiddled with my cell phone and swiped at my email, noting a two-sentence message from Lydia: “Must talk. Please call,” followed by her hospital phone number.

We did need to talk. But there was no way I could give her or Mia this update. I didn’t want to tell Frank the latest about his son, either.

“I got a call from Frank while you were inside,” Dean said.

“Really? Gee, I was just thinking about how I don’t want to call him.”

Apparently anger was like alcohol for me. Once it was in my system, I didn’t think much about what I said, and I wasn’t sure how long it would take to sober up.

Andrea and Eva couldn’t be Bruce’s only victims. His alleged mistreatment of women, and what it might mean for Mia and others, hit a nerve that I could only relate to Jason, whose behavior was light-years away from Bruce’s. But whether Bruce was dead or alive, there was no way I’d let Mia live with a lifetime of questions.

“He wants you to call Lydia.”

“Me specifically? Why?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just said she has something to tell you.”

“That’s strange. Lydia just emailed me and asked me to call. When she asks about Bruce, what am I going to say? I can’t tell her what we know. Not yet.”

He shrugged. “Say we’re not any closer to finding him.”

Unfortunately, that felt like the truth.

Lydia was still in the hospital, and we were repeatedly interrupted by medical staff checking vital signs, IVs, and more.

“It’s so hard with Bruce gone,” she told me during a quiet moment. “I just want to know he’s okay. He’s my whole reason for living. Without him, I just…” Her voice sounded weaker than I remembered. “I need my son.”

“The best thing you can do for him is take care of yourself. Is everything set up for the transplant in the hospital?”

“Yes. It wasn’t easy to arrange, but as soon as Mia’s labs come back, we’re on.”

“Lydia, was there another reason you wanted me to call? I got the impression there was.”

“Yes, and please forgive me for asking. You remember the male spirit who stepped forward for you? Someone with the letter J?”

Oh, no. Not this.

“I remember, but please don’t worry about that now.”

“Well that’s my point. I don’t want to worry about it, but he keeps pestering me. It’s actually making it hard for me to rest. He’s insisting on getting a message to you, and I’d appreciate it if you’d let him. Are you okay with that?”

No, I wasn’t. But I was more uncomfortable with preventing her from resting.

“Go ahead, Lydia. It’s okay. I’m listening.”

I turned down the volume on my cell phone, hoping Dean couldn’t hear Lydia’s side of the conversation. Often I had it on full blast so I could tune out the kids’ rambunctious play.

“Nicki, there’s a Jason stepping forward for you,” she began. I looked out my window into the darkness, feeling trapped. “Do you know a Jason?”

“Hang on,” I said, turning to Dean. I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to him, “I’ll be right back.”

He lifted his shoulders in a “Huh?” gesture. I opened the door anyway, stepped out, and closed it behind me. Then I walked a few feet, turned away, and raised the volume. If I had to do this, I needed to hear every word.

“Jason is my late husband,” I said. “He died five years ago.”

“Do you have something of his? Oh, I don’t know what this is. Wait. Something like a…”

Child?
Yes.
Life insurance policy?
Yes.
Apology?
No.

“Like a cake pan?” she continued.

My heart stopped. I was a terrible cook who only baked twice a year, and it was on my kids’ birthdays. I always used a hand-me-down pan from Jason’s mom—the one in which she’d baked his cake every year. It was our family tradition.

“I do,” I said. “I bake with his mom’s pan on my kids’ birthdays. But why would he tell me that?” It seemed so pointless.
Gee, thanks, Jason. Big news. Maybe you could tell me why I have a broken heart.

“Because it’s validation that it’s him. Do a lot of people know you have that pan?”

“No.” And definitely no one Lydia could have asked. I guess that made sense. Come to think of it, it was one of the most harmless secrets about me. Thank goodness Lydia (or Jason) wasn’t spouting embarrassing things. (“Did Jason ever buy chocolate-flavored condoms?” “Do you secretly despise your school’s PTA?” “Did you pee in the hotel shower this morning?”) Then I’d really want to end the conversation.

“I’m also getting that when you use that cake pan, he’s with you and the children.”

That was nice. Maybe something I could tell the kids.
Daddy is with you on your birthdays.
But still. Would Jason annoy a gravely ill woman to tell me that? I took a deep breath and thanked Lydia for the message.

“Nicki, we’re not done. He wants to apologize to you and the kids for causing so much pain. Does that make sense? He takes responsibility for something he did.” It was selfish of me, but all I could picture was him with Megan, and I didn’t feel forgiving. “She…Megan?...thought you were separated. Getting divorced. He lied to her. I’m not sure what that means, but that’s what I’m hearing.”

“Okay.”

“He lied to her. She never would have done that to your family otherwise. Please tell her family she didn’t know. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes, it does.”
In some ways. In other ways, it’s utterly crazy.
On top of it, I was being asked to reach out to Megan’s family. With information from “the other side.” That kind of private investigation was all new to me.

“There’s something else he wants you to know. He and Megan are both okay and at peace. And he wants you to see something. Something in a red box.” I heard rustling. “Excuse me.” More rustling and other voices. “It’s time for my medication, Nicki. I have to go. But think about a red box. You must have one somewhere.”

Think about it? I’d be obsessed with it. I’d rip apart my storage corner, closets, and junk drawers. Jason had given me jewelry in red boxes. I stored photos in colorful boxes. We even had an old, red trunk. Did a red eyeglasses case count? I had my work cut out for me.

“I’ll do that, Lydia. Thank you. Have you talked to Frank today?” I asked.

“No, he called, but I couldn’t talk, and I have to go now.”

So she didn’t know about Bruce yet, which meant Mia might not either.

“I hope you get some rest tonight,” I said. “God bless.”

“You too,” she said. “Please call with good news soon.”

I felt like lying down on the asphalt, looking up at the stars, crying, and talking back to Jason. But no matter how incredible Dean was, I didn’t think he’d understand. So I pretended I was still on the phone and strolled around the parking lot, mumbling to myself and wiping my eyes and nose. I hoped Dean couldn’t see that in the dark.

Was that really you, Jason? If you came to apologize, why didn’t you give me what I’ve always wanted—an explanation? And you better help me find that box. While you’re at it, how about arranging some help for Mia and Lydia, too?

After one lap around the empty lot, I glanced at the car, where Dean was leaning on the driver’s side door, gazing at me, bemused. I’d never even heard him get out.

“Done with your call?”

“Yeah.” I lowered my phone to my side. “Sorry about that.”

“What was it about?”

Too bad I hadn’t been mumbling about what to say to Dean.

I approached him in silence and decided to go with honesty.

“Lydia hadn’t heard from Frank, but she gave me one of those psychic medium reading things I didn’t want.”

“Seriously? Are you okay?”

We hadn’t talked much about loss, but we had an unspoken understanding.

Instead of responding, I went in for a hug.

“I don’t know,” I said to Dean’s chest. “I freakin’ feel like I just talked to my late husband.”

I was relieved but stunned. After five years of wanting to talk with Jason, I might have just done it—right in the middle of a random parking lot, a crazy investigation, and a new romance. Not the conversation I’d envisioned. I stifled a giggle and hoped I didn’t seem nuts.

Dean held me at arm’s length, and our eyes locked.

“He better treat you right. Because I will hunt him down, no matter what galaxy he’s in.”

I laughed again and felt my shoulders sink and tension slip away. Dean got me. It’s not that I didn’t want a big, emotional discussion. It’s just that I didn’t want one right then.

“Don’t worry. He was nice. A little mysterious. But nice. Apologetic.”

I felt tears rising and went back into Dean’s arms, hoping I wouldn’t soak his shirt.

After a few minutes of comforting silence, Dean spoke.

“You wanna get out of here?”

I did. With him.

It struck me that after talking with Lydia, I hadn’t rushed to call Kenna or Liz. Instead, I’d stood on my own two feet and marched them to Dean. And that felt like progress.

On the way back to the hotel, I didn’t ask Dean about his housing situation, and I wasn’t sure if that was a mistake. Given my past and everything we were investigating, I wanted to know if he was living with a hot blond—or anyone, with or without hair—even a cat. (What if he had one of those hairless cats? Now that would be surprising.)

Instead, I focused on Eva and waited to see if natural segues arose.

We hadn’t gotten far down a canal-lined highway when I noticed bright headlights in Dean’s blind spot.

“Is that person trying to be annoying?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the passenger-side mirror’s reflection. I could hear the other car’s motor revving, and I wished we were in Dean’s Aston Martin instead of a cheap rental.

“I’m already going fifteen over the speed limit,” Dean said. “I’ll slow down and let them pass.”

He eased off the gas, and the other car slowed, too.

I twisted around to get a better look at it. In the dark, I could only make out that it was a black sedan with tinted windows and no front license plate. As I strained to see the driver, the car sped up, put on its left blinker, and veered toward us.

“They’re trying to get over,” I warned Dean.

He reacted by honking and pulling toward the shoulder and canal. That would have worked, except the sedan did the same thing more quickly, threatening to hit us if we didn’t move. Dean cursed and swerved away, sending us toward the water in what felt like slow motion.

I screamed, tried to recall pertinent emergency tips, and wished I had a window-busting tool I kept in my van. If water short-circuited the doors’ controls, we’d be trapped. Normally, I was prepared for worst-case scenarios, but not in a rental car.

We hit the canal, and the car pitched forward, sending disorienting water over the hood and windshield. Thank God the airbags didn’t go off and add to the confusion.

Feeling as if every moment was an hour, I pulled instructions from the depths of my long-term memory, accompanied by motivating images of Jack and Sophie. If they lost both of their parents to drowning…

“Open the windows and take off your seatbelt!” I commanded. “Swim out!”

There was no time to spare. If the car sank with no escape, we’d probably have to let the pressure equalize before the doors might open, and then, if we were lucky, we’d find and share an air bubble while waiting.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, lowered my window, and held my breath as water rushed through the opening. With inky currents rising around us, I took one last glance at Dean to ensure his window was open. It was. Pushing determinedly against the flood, bracing my feet on anything solid, I forced myself out the window and emerged next to the sinking trunk, desperate to see Dean—hopefully sans alligators and other canal dwellers.

I wiped water and hair off my face, barely able to see Dean treading water on the other side of the car. He got to me quickly, and we made it to the shore together, speaking just enough to encourage and confirm each other’s safety. We climbed a grassy, muddy slope—filthy clothes hanging off, breaths heaving, shoes sloshing. I hugged him at the roadside and felt something hard against my leg, its weight practically dragging off my pants.

“My phone,” I said. I’d paid extra for a waterproof case, thinking it might prevent a toilet disaster someday. Good call. I pulled away and showed it to Dean. “It was in my pocket.”

“Call 911,” he said.

Done.

We suspected we’d been run off the road, and that’s what we told the emergency crews who ensured we were okay, wrapped us in blankets, questioned us, and transported us back to the hotel while they began efforts to retrieve the car. We’d chattered the whole way, retelling the story, shivering, and second-guessing ourselves. Had Dean overreacted to a bad lane change from an aggressive and/or impaired driver? Possibly. The police said we weren’t the first to end up in the canal. Either way, the other driver had fled the scene, and that said something.

“I’m dying for a shower,” I told Dean when we got to our third-floor hallway. “And my adrenaline rush is wearing off. I need to put on something cozy and relax.”

“Me too,” Dean said. “Do you want to come down to my room after? Maybe order some drinks from room service?”

Something told me drinking might lead to other relaxing things, and I felt like I’d been handed a fantasy suite card on
The Bachelor
. Did I want to forgo my individual room to spend quality time with Dean? Would saying “no” be prudish? Would saying “yes” lose his respect? Or had I been watching too much reality TV? (
None of the above
, I decided.) Thankfully, America wasn’t watching.

“I don’t want to say goodnight yet,” I confessed. “But I’m exhausted.”

Too bad he didn’t ask to take a nap
,
I thought,
because my answer would have been a resounding
yes
. Note to self: Suggesting a nap is an easy way to get me into bed. Consider myself warned.

“I understand. What do you have in mind for tomorrow?”

“Touching base with the police first. I hope our licenses and credit cards will be recovered. But then we should visit Bruce’s frat. I figure they stick together through thick and thin. Maybe he’s reached out to them somehow.”

“Good. And we’ll follow up on Eli. Sleep well, and text me when you’re up, okay?”

“How about if we meet at ten in the lobby?” I suggested. I wanted to sneak in enough zzzzs and report writing before being on mommy duty. Plus, I needed to pack.

“Okay. I’ll be in the gym early working out. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Great,” I said, squeezing his hands and thinking maybe I regretted saying goodbye. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sweet dreams.”

I wish.