Nowhere to Run. Nancy Bush
was the only thing Liv and Della totally agreed upon. “Can I get you a cup of tea?” Now she was accommodating with a capital A. “Have you had dinner? No, you’re just off work. I could make up some sandwiches. Tuna. Hague doesn’t really like meat, as you know. Or, grilled cheese?”
“I appreciate it, but I really should get going.”
“I’m sorry I was a bitch,” Della said suddenly. “But with Hague like that . . .” She glanced toward him where he sat with head lying back, his eyes now open and staring sightlessly toward the ceiling, “I don’t really know what I’ll say to Albert. We don’t have a lot in common except your brother.”
Liv didn’t have a lot in common with her father, either. “I’ve got groceries in the car,” she lied.
“Tell me more about this package. I can talk about it with Hague and it’ll be easier coming from me. I know him.”
“He already read the note and saw the photos. There’s not a lot more to tell.” Liv glanced at her brother. “He was a toddler when our mother committed suicide.”
“I want—”
But what she wanted was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, a deep dong, like a ship’s tolling bell.
“He’s here,” Della said. She lifted her chin as Liv girded her loins.
Della walked briskly to the door and threw it open. Liv followed after her, a few paces back, and when she looked past Della she saw her father and Lorinda appear inside the open freight elevator as it bumped to a stop on their floor. Albert slid back the metal bar, stepped into the hallway in front of his wife, then looked up to see them.
“Liv,” he said, stopping short in surprise.
Lorinda quickly moved out of the elevator and half stood in front of him, as if she were protecting him. “Olivia?”
“Hi,” Liv greeted them.
“What are you doing here?” Lorinda demanded and Liv inwardly sighed.
Lorinda Dugan hadn’t changed much in the almost twenty years since she’d married Liv’s father. Same dyed black hair that looked even more unnatural than it had then, same line between her brows, same flat mouth and lack of expression. If Albert had been in the market for a shrew, well, he’d hit the jackpot. Liv didn’t like her then, and she didn’t like her now, and the feeling was mutual. Della might be a pain, but she was good for Hague. What part Lorinda played for Liv’s father was a mystery that had no reasonable answer, but then, since the terrible night of Deborah’s death, Liv hadn’t been all that comfortable with her father either.
“I was just visiting Hague,” Liv answered.
Lorinda sniffed. “Yes,” she said, as if Liv merely stating the obvious were one more horrendous fault.
“How is he?” Albert asked, his jaw tight.
Della said, “He’s in one of his states. Come in.”
“He was last time, too,” Lorinda answered with a sniff, her dark gaze snapping between Della and Liv.
“Stress brings them on,” Della responded as she and Liv both stepped back, making way for Lorinda and Albert to enter the small apartment. Having them crowd into the room as well only made the place seem darker, the air denser. Liv felt anxiety crawl around under her skin and surreptitiously glanced toward the grandfather’s clock, wondering how many minutes of them she would be able to stand before she needed to bolt.
“What’s that?” Albert asked, his gaze on the envelope in Liv’s hands.
Liv couldn’t think of how to respond, but Della had no such qualms. “Pictures of Deborah and some documents,” she said. “A note from her.”
Albert blinked. “What?”
“Oh, my God,” Lorinda murmured, recoiling as if the package could somehow jump up and bite her.
“It’s nothing bad,” Liv assured them. “Just some snapshots of my mother with some friends.”
“Show him,” Della said.
“Her friends?” Albert asked.
Lorinda turned her face away and stared over their heads, lips pressed together as if she had a lot to say but was taking herself out of the situation.
Feeling like she was leaving herself bare, Liv reluctantly reopened the package and handed the envelope to Albert. “The package came to me at work,” she said, then explained about Crenshaw and Crenshaw and how they’d found her and sent the package to her.
Albert’s fingers were faintly shaking as he pulled out the pictures and examined them carefully. “Who are these people?” he asked.
“I thought maybe you’d know,” Liv said.
He shook his head. “She . . . your mother . . . had a secret life.”
Lorinda had deigned to look back and was now gazing raptly at the photos. She seemed to keep her own counsel with an effort. “There’s one of you with her,” she finally said tightly to her husband, but Albert merely grunted at that.
Liv glanced toward Hague, whose eyes were still open. He remained utterly still and she didn’t know if he was aware of them or not. To her father, she said, “Do you think . . . is it possible . . . that she didn’t commit suicide? That maybe these people know something about what happened, and they—”
“We’ve been over this,” he cut her off. “Deborah was sick and unhappy.”
“Who told the lawyers to send you the package?” Lorinda demanded.
“Well, my mother, of course. . . .” Liv had thought the answer was self-evident, but now saw both her father and Lorinda react with shock. “She set it up before she died.”
“It’s upsetting,” Della said, shooting a worried glance toward Hague. They all followed her gaze, but Hague didn’t respond in any way.
“You brought this to Hague?” Lorinda asked, as if Liv had lost the little bit of mind she still possessed.
“Goddammit, Liv,” Albert muttered, his face red.
“I thought Hague might remember something,” Liv defended herself. “Remember what he said about the zombie man?”
“No,” her father stated flatly.
“How old was he at the time of Deborah’s death?” Lorinda reminded them. “One? Two?”
“You shouldn’t have brought this to him,” Albert chastised her.
“Should I have brought it to you first?” Liv asked tightly. “There were other women killed about the same time that Mom died, remember? Strangled. One of them in the field practically behind our old house. That’s a fact.”
“That woman was a prostitute,” Albert bit out.
“So?”
Lorinda said, as if Liv were dense, “Your mother committed suicide. That’s a fact. You shouldn’t be digging into this!”
“This came to me for a reason,” Liv said, holding onto her temper with an effort. “I’m sorry that I want to look into it. I’m sorry that I still want answers. I see her, you know. In my nightmares. Hanging there. Sometimes she even talks to me.” They both looked at her sharply. “I’ve always found it hard to believe that she would kill herself. Especially that way, with me in the other room. She wrote me a note and put it inside.”
“A note.” Albert, holding the photos, reached inside the package again to pull it out, but his wife snatched the package from his hands before he could. She would have grabbed the photos back too but he jerked them out of her reach.
“Stop all this,” Lorinda snapped, shoving the package back into Liv’s hands. Upset, she told her husband,