Sandra Brown: Lethal

“Me?”

“I’m not leaving you down here alone with your daughter.”

“I’m not going to run away.”

“That’s right. I’m going to see that you don’t.”

To protest his logic would be futile, so she started up the ladder, acutely aware of her exposed legs and the view he was getting of her backside. She climbed as quickly as possible and was actually glad to be stepping up into the attic, when it had always been a place she would rather avoid. She associated attics with cobwebs and rodents. And attics were sad places, dark depositories where the cast-off articles of one’s life were sent to molder.

She yanked the string on the bare bulb in the ceiling. The file storage boxes were right where she knew they would be. She picked up the first one by the open slots in its sides. Coburn waited in the narrow opening to take it from her and carry it down. They repeated the procedure until all had been removed from the attic.

“This is pointless,” she said as she dusted her hands and reached for the string to turn off the light.

“Wait a minute. What about those?” He’d poked his head up through the opening and had taken a look around, spying the boxes that Honor had hoped would escape his notice. They were standard packing boxes sealed with tape. “What’s in those?”

“Christmas decorations.”

“Ho-ho-ho.”

“There’s nothing in them that you’ve asked to see.”

“Hand them down.”

She didn’t immediately obey. Looking down at him, she wondered if she could jam her foot into his face hard enough to break his nose. Possibly. But if she missed, he might trap her up here in the attic, leaving him alone with Emily. As galling as it was to take the coward’s way, Emily’s safety demanded it.

One by one, she handed the other three boxes down to him.

By the time she had descended the ladder and raised the trapdoor back flush with the ceiling, he was stripping the sealing tape off one of the boxes. When he pulled back the flaps, it wasn’t tinsel that blossomed out, but a man’s shirt.

He looked up at her, the obvious question in his eyes.

She remained stubbornly silent.

Finally he said, “He’s been dead how long?”

His implication smarted because she’d asked herself many times how long she was going to keep perfectly good clothing boxed in her attic when needy people could use it.

“I gave away most of his clothes,” she said defensively. “Stan asked if he could have Eddie’s police uniforms, and I let him keep those. Some things I just couldn’t…”

She left the statement unfinished, refusing to explain to a criminal that some articles of Eddie’s clothing brought back distinctively happy memories. Giving away those items would be tantamount to letting go of the memories themselves. As it was, they were inexorably dimming without any help from her.

Time marched on, and recollections, no matter how dear, faded with its passage. She could now spend an entire day, or even several, without thinking about Eddie within the context of a specific memory.

His death had left a hole in her life that had seemed bottomless. Gradually that void had been filled with the busyness of rearing a child, with the busyness of life itself, until, over time, she had learned how to enjoy life without him.

But the enjoyment of living came with a large dose of guilt. She couldn’t escape feeling that even the smallest grain of happiness was a monumental betrayal. How dare she relish anything ever again, when Eddie was dead and buried?

So she had saved articles of his clothing that held special memories for her, and by keeping them, kept her survivor’s guilt at bay.

But she wasn’t about to discuss any of this psychology with Coburn. She was spared from having to say anything when Emily appeared.

“Dora’s over and so’s Barney, and I’m hungry. Can we have lunch?”

The kid’s question reminded Coburn that he hadn’t eaten anything in twenty-four hours except the two rich cupcakes. A search through the boxes from the attic would take time. He would eat before tackling them. He motioned the widow into the kitchen.

After clearing the cupcakes and bowl of frosting off the table, she fixed the kid a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He asked for one for himself and watched as she made it, afraid she might slip something into his. Ground-up sleeping pills, rat poison. He was short on trust.

“You gotta wash your hands this time.” The kid placed a step stool with her name painted on it in front of the kitchen sink. She climbed onto it. Even standing on tiptoe, she was barely able to reach the taps, but somehow she managed to turn them on. “You can use my Elmo soap.”

She picked up a plastic bottle with a bug-eyed red character grinning from the label. She squirted some liquid soap into her palm, then handed the bottle to him. He glanced at Honor and saw that she was watching them with apprehension. He figured that as long as she was nervous about his being close to the kid, she wasn’t going to try anything stupid.

He and the kid washed their hands, then held them beneath the faucet to rinse.

She tilted her head back and looked up at him. “Do you have an Elmo?”

He shook the water off his hands and took the towel she passed him. “No, I don’t have a… an Elmo.”

“Who do you sleep with?”

Involuntarily, his gaze darted to Honor and made a connection that was almost audible, like the clack of two magnets. “Nobody.”

“You don’t sleep with a friend?”

“Not lately.”

“How come?”

“Just don’t.”

“Where’s your bed? Does your mommy read you stories before you go to sleep?”

He dragged his attention off Honor and back to the kid. “Stories? No, my mom, she’s… gone.”

“So’s my daddy. He lives in heaven.” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe he knows your mommy in heaven!”

Coburn snorted a laugh. “I doubt it.”

“Are you scared of the dark?”

“Emily,” Honor interrupted. “Stop asking so many questions. It’s rude. Come sit down and have your lunch.”

They gathered around the table. The widow looked ready to jump out of her skin if he so much as said boo . She didn’t eat. Truth be told, he was as discomfited by this domestic scene as she was. Since being a kid, he’d never talked to one. It was weird, carrying on a conversation with such a little person.

He scarfed the sandwich, then took an apple from the basket of fruit on the table. The kid dawdled over her food.

“Emily, you said you were hungry,” her mother admonished. “Eat your lunch.”

But he was a distraction. The kid never took her eyes off him. She studied everything he did. When he took the first crunching bite of the apple, she said, “I don’t like the peel.”

He shrugged and said through a mouthful, “I don’t mind it.”

“I don’t like green apples, either. Only red.”

“Green’s okay.”

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“My grandpa can peel an apple from the top to the bottom without it breaking. He says he likes to make a long curl of the peel, just like my hair. And guess what else.”

“What?”

“Mommy can’t do it because she’s a girl, and Grandpa says boys do it best. And Mommy doesn’t have a special magic knife like Grandpa’s.”

“You don’t say.” He glanced across at Honor, who’d rolled her lips inward. “What kind of special magic knife does your grandpa have?”

“Big. He carries it in a belt around his ankle, but I can’t ever touch it ’cause it’s sharp and I could get hurt.”

“Huh.”

Honor scraped back her chair and shot to her feet. “Time for your nap, Em.”

Her face puckered into a frown of rebellion. “I’m not sleepy.”