Flamingo Diner

One thing was for certain, until he had conclusive proof otherwise, he intended to give the family the small comfort of thinking that Don had died in a tragic accident.

3

Suicide was such an ugly word. Maybe that was the reason it was seldom spoken above a whisper, Emma thought as she arrived in Florida, still dazed by the call that had come in the predawn hours. The officer who’d called her in the middle of the night had been very careful to describe her father’s death as an accident. Emma wished she believed him.

In fact, she desperately wanted to be convinced that her father had somehow missed a curve that he’d driven every day of his life for thirty years or more. Ever since she’d hung up, she’d prayed that the medical examiner would find evidence of some sudden condition that had sent him careening off the road or that the police would find dents in the car to indicate he’d swerved after being hit by another driver. At the very least, she wanted the ME to find absolutely nothing to disprove the idea that her father’s death had been an accident.

But remembering Andy’s call only two days earlier made her think otherwise. She didn’t want to believe that the weird behavior her brother had described had anything at all to do with her father’s death, but she couldn’t dismiss the possibility, not as easily as she would have liked to.

So far, she hadn’t mentioned anything to the police about her concerns. She excused her silence by telling herself it wasn’t as if she actually knew anything. Besides, it would be better if they formed an unbiased opinion based on the evidence.

If only she’d been able to talk to her mother, but Rosa had been too distraught to take her calls. It was hours later and Emma still hadn’t spoken to her. Rosa had been sedated and Jeff and Andy were nowhere to be found when Emma had called to let her family know when she would be arriving. She’d been assured by Helen Lindsay, her mother’s best friend, that someone would be at the Orlando airport to pick her up and drive her to Winter Cove, but she had no idea who it might be.

The flight had been endless, giving her far too much time to sort through the scant information she had, too much time to twist the facts inside out and come up with theories about how and why her father had died.

An accident, she repeated firmly. It had to be. She was still telling herself that when she walked into the luggage claim area. With her gaze intent on the luggage carousel, she almost missed the tall, lanky man in faded jeans and a snug-fitting, white T-shirt who pushed away from a railing, but something about the lazy, sexy way he moved caught her eye. In fact, on any other occasion, she would have given his muscular body an appreciative once-over, noting the details to share with Kim the next time they talked. Now they barely registered and she tried to make sense of the fact that he was moving directly toward her.

“Emma?”

She took off the sunglasses she’d been wearing to hide her red-rimmed eyes to get a better look. Finally recognition dawned and with it came a vague sense of relief at finding a familiar face amid the crowd of strangers. “Matt Atkins? What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were working in Tampa.”

“I’m back in Winter Cove now, as the police chief, no less. I’m surprised your family hadn’t told you.”

“Who would have thought…” she began. A grin almost formed then faded as it dawned on her that he knew, had to know, about her father, that in fact that was what had brought him here. This wasn’t an accidental meeting, after all. Tears, never far away over the last few hours, welled up again. “You’re here because…” She couldn’t finish the thought.

“I came to take you home,” he confirmed quietly, clearly as uncomfortable with mentioning her father’s death as she was.

Before she knew it, Emma was in his arms, gathered close against all that solid, reassuring strength. After feeling cold and empty since the call had come, it felt good to feel so much heat and energy, to feel alive.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he held her tight. “You can’t imagine how sorry.”

Emma couldn’t answer. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, the tears just continued to fall, soaking his shirt, ruining what little was probably left of her makeup, and not doing a damn thing to wash away the hurt.

Matt didn’t seem to mind. He let her cry herself out, until she finally gave him a watery half smile and apologized.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he said, his own voice thick with emotion. “Your dad is…was like a father to me. I owed him more than you’ll ever know. I’m sick about this.”

Emma pulled a wad of tissues from her pocket and blotted ineffectively at her face. “What happened? Do you know? Has the medical examiner made any sort of ruling?” she asked. “Did Dad have a heart attack?”

Matt’s mouth formed a grim line. “Let’s get your bags and get out of here. We can talk on the drive home.”

Emma wanted to argue, but what was the point? The answers wouldn’t be one bit different ten minutes from now, an hour from now…a lifetime from now. And in the end, what difference would they make, really? Her father—the man who had made up stories to chase the monsters from a little girl’s bedroom—would still be dead.

They were twenty minutes into the ride when she decided she was ready to know everything Matt knew. “Matt, tell me what happened.”

“I wish I could. The ME doesn’t have anything conclusive yet. Maybe by the end of the day, maybe not for a few days till all the toxicology reports come in.”

“Toxicology reports?”

“To see if there were any drugs or even alcohol in his blood.”

“Don’t be absurd. Dad rarely drank and he certainly never took drugs.”

“Not even medications?” Matt asked.

Emma realized she didn’t know. He could have been on a dozen different prescriptions and no one would have thought to tell her. She sighed. “I don’t know.” She regarded him evenly. “What do you think happened? Did he miss the curve?”

“That’s what I want to believe,” he said tightly, but he wouldn’t look at her.

She heard the same doubts in his voice that had echoed in her head for hours now. “Matt, there’s something else, something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

“Not now, Em. Let’s wait for the reports.”

“I need to know, dammit!”

He gave her a look filled with sympathy. “I know you do. We all do, but what good is it to have speculation? You need facts, not theories.”

She drew in a deep breath and asked the question that had plagued her all the way home. “Could he have driven into the lake on purpose?”

“Don’t go there, Emma.”

“Is it possible?” she asked again.

“Anything’s possible, but he didn’t leave a note, at least not that we’ve found so far. There wasn’t one in the car, at the diner or at the house.”

“Then you did search for one?” To her that was damning proof that Matt thought there was something odd about the way her father had died.

“Of course.”

“So you believe suicide’s a possibility, don’t you?” she asked, pushing the point because she had to.

“It’s one of them,” he admitted with obvious reluctance. “Why would you think that, though?”

“Andy called me a couple of days ago. He was really worried about Dad. He said he’d been acting weird for a while. He wanted me to come home.” She blinked back tears. “I told him no.”

Matt reached for her hand. “And now you’re blaming yourself,” he concluded. “Don’t. What good will that do? We don’t know what happened last night, Emma. Until we do, cut yourself some slack.”

“Have you talked to Mom yet?”

“Not really. She…” He sighed. “She was in no shape to be questioned last night.”

“Andy or Jeff?”

“Andy’s scared. He’s not making much sense right now. He’s blaming himself.”

“And me,” she said, half to herself. “He must be blaming me.”

Matt shook his head. “Not aloud, anyway. He’s too caught up in his own guilt. He thinks if he and your father hadn’t fought at the diner yesterday, everything would have been okay. He’s sure your father was still upset, too upset to be behind the wheel of the car.”