No One But You

“Someday, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

She recognized that tone, associated it with the afternoon he’d nearly run her over. He had the capacity for violence. She could sense it—and it frightened her as much or more as going to work for a man suspected of murdering his parents, maybe even more because it was directed at her. “I’ve got to go,” she said.

“Don’t hang up on me! We’re not finished yet.”

“I don’t have to put up with your abuse anymore.” She saw her son coming toward her, so she hit the button that would end the call. But she knew what she’d just told her ex-husband was a lie. She did have to put up with his abuse. There wasn’t any way to avoid it. She’d been fighting that battle for years.

All the power was on his side.

* * *

Dawson Reed was so tired by the time he finished working in the fields that he skipped dinner. Hungry though he was, the thought of trying to prepare a meal was too overwhelming when he could hardly climb the stairs to reach his bed. Bottom line, he needed rest more than food. His body was no longer accustomed to long days of physical labor, not after sitting in a jail cell for more than twelve months. Trying to salvage what he could of the artichoke plants he’d been helping his folks grow before they were murdered, and preparing a large section of land for new plants—which he had to get in the ground before spring, since artichokes needed a period of vernalization—was more than any one man should attempt on his own. But if he was going to bring Angela home, he couldn’t hire farmhands. He’d be spending what disposable income he had, what his defense lawyers hadn’t already taken of his parents’ estate and what was left of the money he’d borrowed against the farm on Sadie Harris, the caregiver he’d hired this morning for his sister.

He hoped he’d done the right thing. After Officer Harris had left, he’d almost decided to get the farm up and running—and turning a profit—before bringing Angela home. He’d figured, by then, maybe people would’ve had time to cool off, wouldn’t be so angry and determined to persecute him. But Angela wasn’t happy where she was, so he couldn’t wait. He was too stubborn to let the arrogant ass who’d threatened him tell him what to do, anyway.

Once he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, as he always did, to stare at the closed door looming at the end of the hallway. The two people he’d loved most in the world had been murdered behind that door. When he thought of his parents, of what he’d encountered the night they were killed, he felt so much anger and grief he didn’t know what to do. He tried to funnel it into his work, in the promises he told himself about the future and how he’d eventually find justice. But sometimes, the loss still hit him like a tidal wave, made him want to fight someone, anyone. Or he had to contend with a debilitating sadness that stole over him like wisps of fog, chilling him to the bone.

He reached for the knob, made sure the door was still locked, then dropped his hand. Aiyana Turner, the administrator of New Horizons, the boys ranch here in town where he’d gone to high school, had done her best to board up the place—as soon as the police gave her permission to come onto the property. She’d offered to clean up the blood for him, too. She was the only one, it seemed, who still had a kind word for him, who believed he was innocent. But he’d told her to leave the scene exactly as it was. He felt there might be some clue, some piece of evidence the police had missed that he could use to find the man who killed them—and he wouldn’t rest until he did. After everything he’d lost, everything he’d been through, he’d find justice eventually.

His cell phone rang. Someone from the Stanley DeWitt Assisted Living Center in Los Angeles, where they’d taken his sister, was trying to reach him. He’d spoken to a member of their staff almost every day since he got home.

He needed to remove his dirty clothes and shower before he could lie down, so he finished the short journey to his room and sank into the wooden chair by the desk he’d been using to apply for the loan on the farm, handle the paperwork for assuming guardianship of Angela and create the spreadsheets that charted out the farm acreage, growth time, projected earnings and cash flow. “Hello?”

“Mr. Reed?”

He’d been legally adopted by Lonnie and Larry when he was fifteen, had used their last name ever since. He certainly didn’t want to claim the name he’d been born with. The Reeds were the only ones who’d ever given a damn about him. “Yes.”

“It’s Megan. From Stanley DeWitt.”

She’d called before. He recognized the name. “What’s going on, Megan?”

“I’m sorry to bother you again, but... I thought maybe if you spoke to your sister, she’d cooperate with me.”

Fighting the exhaustion that hung on his arms and legs like wrist and ankle weights, he covered a yawn. “What’s she doing?”

“She’s been up since six this morning, but she won’t put on her pajamas and go to bed. She insists you’re coming to get her tonight.”

“Tonight.”

“Yes. She’s waiting by the door, her purse on her arm, her coat buttoned to the top, even though it’s too warm for that in here.”

Dawson sighed as he pictured his sister stubbornly resisting the young Megan’s pleas. The image that came to mind broke his heart. Not being able to help Angela had been as bad as everything else. “Let me talk to her.”

“Yes, sir. One sec.”

“It’s your brother,” he heard as she transferred the phone.

Angela came on the line almost immediately, her voice eager. “Dawson? Where are you?”

“I’m at home, honey. I can’t come tonight. I told you I have to get the house cleaned up before they’ll let me bring you here.”

“Then clean it! Why aren’t you cleaning it?”

“I am cleaning it. I’m doing a lot of other things, too—things that take time. I need you to be patient. I’ll come for you as soon as I can. I promise.”

“Okay. I’ll wait here.” She handed the phone to Megan, but that had been too easy, so easy that Dawson knew Angela still didn’t understand. He had Megan put her right back on the line.

“It won’t be tonight,” he reiterated. “I’m not coming now. It might be as long as a week. These things take time.”

“How long is a week?”

“Seven days.”

“Seven days!” She groaned as if he’d said seven years. “That’s forever!”

“That’s how it has to be. Moving you requires some paperwork, too, and it’s the paperwork that takes the longest. They won’t let me pick you up until everything’s done.”

“But it’s been so long.” She started to cry. “I don’t like it here, Dawson. Come get me now.”

“I’ll come as soon as I can, honey. I just... I need you to listen to Megan and get ready for bed. If you cooperate, the time will go faster for everyone. Then, before you know it, you’ll be home.”

She sniffed. “Will I get to see Mom and Dad? Or are they still dead?”

Dawson scrubbed a hand over his face. She had no concept of death, of forever. She only knew that she missed the people who’d always been there for her. He missed them, too. “They’re still dead. They’ll always be dead. But I’ll take you to see their graves and try to help you understand when you get home.”

“They’ll come back,” she said, supremely confident. “I know they will.”

“They can’t, Angela.”

“Yes, they can!”

“We’ll talk about it later. For now, listen to Megan, please? Put on your pajamas and get into bed. Megan doesn’t need you to make her night difficult.”

“You’ll be here in the morning?”

“What did I tell you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied, and cried even louder.

“It’ll be a week. I’ll be there in seven days. Have Megan count them on your fingers.” He wasn’t positive he could get there in exactly seven days, which was why he’d been careful not to name a date so far. But after what they’d been through the past year, dangling a “soon” out there wasn’t comforting to her anymore. Angela needed a concrete figure, something Megan could circle on the calendar and she could look forward to in a more definite way.

He hated the thought that he might have to disappoint her at the end of the week—due to circumstances beyond his control—but it was better than disappointing her every night, like he was doing now.

“A week,” she repeated with another sniff.

“Seven days.”

“Megan? When is a week?” he heard her ask.