No Ordinary Sheriff

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

ON MONDAY MORNING, Shannon Wilson stood in front of her brother Tom’s apartment door with dread running cat’s claws across her nerves. She’d already given him a good ten minutes to answer.

Her sister’s voice came through her cell phone. “I’m concerned about him,” Janey said. “He looked terrible when he was here.”

Two weeks ago, Tom had come to see Shannon, and he had looked awful, emotionally spent.

Go to rehab, she’d said.

Sure, he’d replied with his sweet lopsided smile.

She’d known he wouldn’t.

Instead, last week Tom had visited Janey in Ordinary, Montana.

“Before he left,” Janey said, “he wouldn’t stop hugging me and telling me he loved me.”

Shannon needed her to stay calm. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Promise you’ll check up on him?”

“I’ll head over to his apartment as soon as I hang up.” Liar. You’re already here. “I’ll call if there’s a problem.”

Had those visits been Tom’s way of saying goodbye? Had he planned to hurt himself? Shannon knocked again, rapping so hard her knuckles hurt, covering the phone with her other hand so Janey wouldn’t hear.

Come on, Tom, answer.

“I’m so worried.” Janey was the older, wiser sister, but Shannon had an urge to reassure her.

“I know.” Me, too. Terrified. “You go to Disneyland. You worked your butt off for this trip, sis, and planned it for a year. It’s your family’s dream vacation. Go. I’ll take care of things here.”

“I don’t know—”

“If you don’t leave, I’ll come to Ordinary and drag you to California myself.”

Janey chuckled. “Okay, okay. I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

Shannon tried to laugh, but it sounded phony. “Something really tacky?”

“You got it.” Janey’s answering laugh was genuine. Good. Shannon had managed to assuage her fears.

“Call me if you need me.”

Not likely. Her sister really had earned this trip.

Shannon ended the call. She glared at Tom’s apartment door. What about her own unease? Who would reassure her, when she was the one always taking care of others?

When she’d called Tom half an hour ago, he’d sounded out of it, but not drunk. Which drug was it these days? She knocked again, loudly enough to rouse everyone in the building.

He’d said he was home and didn’t plan to go out—why wouldn’t he answer?

Swearing, she hurried down to the first floor through a dirty stairwell that reeked of boiled cabbage. The smell nauseated her, reminded her of the poverty she’d clawed her way out of.

She knocked at the first apartment. The superintendent answered.

“There’s something wrong with my brother in 308. You have to get me into his apartment.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes. Now.” Her panic made an impression and he followed her upstairs with his set of master keys.

On the third floor, he unlocked Tom’s door.

The stench hit her first—garbage and stale cigarette smoke. He’d started smoking again. Despite everything the family had done, was doing for Tom, it wasn’t enough if he wouldn’t take care of himself.

Why couldn’t men handle the problems in their lives?

She stepped over a pizza box.

With the toe of her shoe, she nudged aside a grubby shirt. There was something on it—God, old vomit. Oh Tom.

Afraid of what she would find, she stepped into the living room. Laundry and dishes littered every surface. Dust coated the room.

When she walked across the stained carpet, something crunched under her foot. An unfinished pizza crust.

At first, she looked right past Tom.

He lay on the sofa so folded in on himself she’d mistaken him for a pile of laundry. She approached. His clothing was soaked with sweat, his once hale body ravaged, his stomach concave as though it were eating itself. He’d grown even thinner in just the past week. The deep clefts bracketing his mouth looked deeply ingrained, as though he’d carried them for a lot longer than his thirty years.

Shannon sank to her knees beside him and touched his arm. Too hot. He stank.

“Tom,” she whispered. “What have you done to yourself?”

He raised a hand as if to touch her cheek. Too weak to complete the action, it fell back to his stomach.

“Cathy,” he whispered and smiled.

Cathy? He thought she was his dead wife? What was he on?

His pulse raced beneath her fingers. How could a man’s heart beat so fast without hurting itself?

She turned to the super. “Call 9-1-1. It’s an overdose.”

Of what, though? He’d done so many different drugs, taken anything to deaden memories of the crash.