Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

“Anyplace but here.”

He parked on the street that she’d directed him to and turned off the ignition. He took off his shoes and socks while she did the same, then together they set off on foot, taking care to keep to the narrow boardwalk that led over the unlit dunes.

In silence they followed the sound of the ocean across the dark beach to the waterline, then walked a half mile up the beach, the tide swirling at their feet. Cass paused at the foot of the jetty.

“This might be a little tough to maneuver in the dark.”

“I have a flashlight in the car.”

“That’s the easy way.”

It was too dark to see her face, but he could almost feel her smile.

“Go on, then.” He took her hand.

They picked their way slowly through the smooth rocks until they reached the end. Cass lowered herself carefully to perch on the end of the jetty, and Rick did the same. He put both arms around her and pulled her close.

“I want you to know I would have ripped him apart with my bare hands if he’d hurt you,” he told her.

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”

He wanted to say that he thought it was best that she had been the one to kill Wainwright, but it was stating the obvious. Instead, he tightened his hold on her and just held on. When she turned to him, he leaned down and kissed her mouth. She tasted of tears, and she kissed him back, so he kissed her again. And again.

“I meant it when I said I felt as if I’ve known you for a long time,” he whispered.

“I thought that was just a line.”

“A line?” He frowned. “You thought that was a line? I don’t do lines.”

She laughed softly, and he tried to remember when he’d last heard her laugh.

“I swear-”

“Shhh. I was just teasing you. You looked so serious, so earnest for a moment.”

The clouds that had covered the face of the moon drifted aside, and light spread in rivers across the water. The tide lapped against the rocks, and she stuck out her foot to catch it.

“It’s really over, isn’t it, Rick?”

“It’s really over.”

She leaned against him and sighed.

“Do you want to go back to the Inn?” he asked.

“In a little while.”

“How do you feel, Cass?”

“I feel at peace, Rick. For the first time I can remember, I feel at peace.”

He couldn’t have asked for more than that.

Cass came out of the kitchen carrying a large spray bottle of water and a scraper, when she heard a car pull into the drive. She went to the dining room window and watched the driver of the Camaro get out. She tapped on the glass and pointed to the front door.

“Hey,” she said as she opened it.

“Hey, yourself.” He kissed her, then stepped inside and looked around. “What are you up to?”

“A lot can happen in three weeks.”

“I’m sorry. I was out of the country. I couldn’t get in touch. I figured rather than call and try to make excuses on the phone, I’d drive up here and make excuses in person.”

“Apology accepted.” She closed the door behind him. “You know, I never thought I’d step back inside this house, let alone ever consider living here. But it was the strangest thing, after that night… I don’t know, I just wanted to be here. I thought if I got rid of the…”

She motioned in the general direction of the second floor and the kitchen.

“You know, the telltale signs. If the walls and the floors were cleaned up, maybe it could be all right. I had someone come and clean out the bad stuff-take out the old carpets and clean the walls and the kitchen, and it’s as if all the bad karma is gone now.”

“I have to admit I was surprised when I stopped at the police station and Denver told me you were thinking about living here again.”

“Lucy wants to live in Gramma’s house, which she is totally entitled to do. She wants to move down here with her boys for the rest of the summer, once they finish up at camp. She isn’t going back to David. I could certainly stay there with them, but it’s going to be a bit crowded. I got to thinking that I have another place to live. I wasn’t sure I could do it, but once I came back, it seemed the ghosts were gone. The bad ones, anyway. I can live with the others. I’m not one hundred percent certain, but I want to try. I thought giving the rooms a new coat of paint would be a good place to start.”

“Well,” he said, looking around, “you have your work cut out for you. Fortunately for you, I’m an expert at home repairs-and a whiz at painting. Did I ever tell you that I paid for a summer in Vienna by painting houses? No? Well, remind me to tell you about that sometime. For now, I’m all yours. You just tell me where to start.”

“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish, Agent Cisco.” She poked at him with the wallpaper scraper, then started up the steps to the second floor.

“Don’t you worry, Detective Burke.” He grinned and followed her up the stairs. “I’ve got two weeks’ vacation saved up. More than enough time to finish whatever it is you’ve got in mind.”

Regan lifted the last box and hoisted it against her chest before starting down the basement steps. She figured her father’s old papers had rested quite comfortably in the basement for all these years, they could remain there for a few more. She’d hoped to get more sorted out, but she was running out of time. She had promised her editor a first draft of the book about the Bayside Strangler in ten weeks. She’d have to go through the remaining boxes another time-right now, they were proving to be a distraction.

She slid the box onto the storage shelf and turned to go back up the steps, when her foot caught on the edge of a smaller box that must have fallen from a nearby shelf. She tripped over it and landed on her hands and knees.

“Damn.”

She picked herself up and leaned over to lift the box. The bottom, having apparently spent too much time on the damp basement floor, fell out, spilling its contents.

“Shit,” she muttered, and knelt down to gather the papers that littered the floor.

She scooped them together, stuffing them back into the file they’d slid from, then she realized what she was looking at.

She took the file to the light, and read the name. Puzzled, she gathered the rest of the papers and carried them upstairs, where she deposited them on the top of her desk.

Old elementary school report cards, all bearing the name of Edward Kroll.

Odd…

The doorbell rang and she left the file on the desk while she went to the front hall. She opened the door, to find Mitch Peyton on the other side.

“You’re late,” she said. “I thought you’d be here a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh, sorry. I got caught in traffic on I-95. Is now a bad time?”

“No, it’s not a bad time. Come in.” She stepped aside to permit him to enter. “I have the items you were looking for, they’re all ready for you.”

“I can’t believe I left all those reports here. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

They went into the office and she handed him a fat brown envelope. “Everything’s in here.”

“Thanks, Regan. I appreciate it.”

His gaze fell onto the papers that were stacked upon the desk. “You started the book already?”

She nodded. “I did, but that file isn’t part of it. I don’t know what that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found a box downstairs that held some old report cards. Look, they’re all for someone named Edward Kroll, who, back in the forties, attended St. John the Baptist Elementary School in Sayreville, Illinois.”

“Who’s Edward Kroll?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never heard the name before.” With a finger, she drew out first one, then another of the report cards. “I can’t imagine why my father would have had them.”