A Better Man. Emilie Rose
He’d spoken to his father only twice in the past seventeen years, most recently when his father had announced that he and Roth’s mother were going to move into their old house in Quincey.
Roth’s father had filled his ears with a load of rehabilitated, remorseful, I’ve-been-saved crap, and Roth hadn’t believed one word of it. The old man still had an evil glint in his eyes—the same glint Roth had often seen as a kid right before dear ole dad knocked him senseless. But Roth’s pleas to the parole board to keep his father behind bars had fallen on deaf ears, and he’d had to change tactics.
His parents’ return to Quincey was forcing Roth to do the same. Temporarily. Quincey’s advertisement for a police chief had provided a perfect cover. As the newly appointed chief, Roth would be in a position to insure that if his father laid a hand on Roth’s mother—or anyone else—he’d pay. Roth hadn’t been able to protect her when he’d been a kid, but he could now. He rested his right hand on the butt of his Glock. With lethal force, if necessary.
History wasn’t going to repeat itself. Not on his watch.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease out the stiffness, then strolled through the den, kitchen and each of the two bedrooms, noting the age and wear of Quincey’s only apartment building.
A fresh coat of off-white paint on the walls couldn’t compensate for the scarred hardwood floors, worn linoleum and old cabinetry. The place was clean, but it was a far cry from his condominium in the gated complex in Charlotte, with its clubhouse, gym, pool and hot tub, but these digs would suffice.
He wasn’t crazy about being on the ground floor. It made unlawful entry too easy. The sliding glass door onto the small patio could be a problem. He registered the inadequate locks on the doors and windows and the nooks and crannies where a perp could hide. He’d have to hit the hardware store before it closed if he wanted to beef up his security. Quincey used to roll up the sidewalks at dark. Did they still?
He returned to the living room and glanced out at his loaded-down Chevy truck and the rented U-Haul trailer parked by the curb. In the olden days his buddies would have shown up before his tires cooled to help him unload, but he’d seen no sign of Chuck, Joe or Billy since arriving an hour ago. At three on a Thursday afternoon they might be at work. He hadn’t notified them of his arrival. He’d counted on the Quincey rumor mill doing the job for him. No doubt the phone lines had started humming the minute he’d signed his contract last month.
He was looking forward to seeing the guys and catching up—if they still lived here. The letters between him, Joe and Billy had been sporadic, first because none of them had been the letter-writing type, and second, because Roth’s unit had often been deployed to places where mail delivery wasn’t high on the list of survival needs. By the time he’d settled in Charlotte the correspondence had ceased altogether. Maybe the guys had finally escaped. Twelve years ago that’s all any of them had wanted.
Any of them, except Piper Hamilton.
A hint of regret weighted his shoulders. Piper’s roots had run deep in the community, and she’d never planned to leave. He raked a palm over his freshly trimmed hair and tried to push away the memories, but he couldn’t force the image of her trusting blue eyes and long, sunlit hair from his head. He’d loved her. More than he’d ever loved anyone. And he’d hurt her. Deliberately. Not with his fists—his father’s modus operandi—but with his actions, his words.
They’d been little more than kids, too young to take on the commitment they’d been racing toward. The split couldn’t have been anything but good for them. But it hadn’t been easy. And he’d handled it badly. It had worked out for him. The Marines had given him his first taste of freedom from living in his father’s dark shadow and success and a career he loved. Had it worked out as well for Piper? Had she married and raised a family the way she’d wanted?
He had a few ghosts to lay to rest and apologizing to Piper was at the top of the list.
In a town this size, he’d bump into her sooner or later, but he preferred to set his own timetable instead of waiting. He’d make it happen. The sooner the better.
A knock on the door preceded Doyle, the apartment manager. “Suit ya?”
“It’ll do.”
“Sure you want to pay month to month? Save ya fifty bucks a month if you sign a year’s lease.”
Roth had no intention of being here that long. “Month to month is fine.”
“Alrighty then. Y’all have a good day.” Doyle waddled down the cracked sidewalk toward his office.
Roth stepped outside. His furniture wasn’t going to unload itself. He headed toward his truck, aware as his boots pounded the concrete of the watchful eyes and shadows shifting at windows. But no doors opened, and no one came out to say hello or offer assistance as he rolled up the trailer’s door and lowered the ramp.
He’d expected more of a welcome, for curiosity’s sake if nothing else. After all, it wasn’t every day one of the town’s delinquents returned to head up the local law enforcement team.
He scanned the empty streets. An invisible noose tightened around his neck and claustrophobia closed in, slowly crushing out a lungful of the smog-free air.
Temporary.
Folks in a tight-knit community liked to stick their noses in your business, often acting as judge and jury, their opinions shaped by hearsay rather than fact. They usually helped out when you needed ’em—if for no other reason than to root for tidbits to tattle.
But apparently not today.
He checked to make sure his leather jacket concealed his weapon. The pistol could be scaring off people. He wouldn’t officially pick up his badge until Monday morning, but surely the citizens expected the new chief of police to carry a weapon in or out of uniform?
The temperature was mild for the end of March, but he’d work up a sweat. Regardless, he’d keep on the jacket. He unstrapped the hand truck and muscled his gun safe onto the two-wheeled unit. Getting the hazards out of the way and securing them was his first order of business. He manhandled the heavy piece up the walk. After he situated the steel box in the spare bedroom closet, he returned to the trailer and lugged boxes inside, stacking them in the rooms labeled on each box.
A couple of teenagers whizzed past on skateboards, staring hard but not slowing. Ditto the beige station wagon, navy sedan and silver pickup with a dented rear quarter panel and low rear tire.
Hell, he was starting to think folks didn’t want him here. You’d think they’d be pleased that he’d finally gotten his act together.
An hour later he had emptied the truck bed and had everything out of the trailer except the sofa, dresser and his king-size mattress, and still no one had offered assistance. That wasn’t like the town he remembered. Screw it. He’d hit the hardware store, buy better locks and try to round up a strong back to help him finish the job.
He locked up, hoofed it across the asphalt and turned down Main Street. This morning when he’d driven in he’d been surprised to find that little had changed in the past twelve years. There were a few more shops—he’d investigate another day.
He pushed open the door and automatically noted two customers, white males, sixties, and Hal Smith behind the cash register in what looked like the same blue apron he’d always worn. The store owner, with his wispy white hair in a bad comb-over that couldn’t hide his pale, spotted scalp, had to be eighty by now.
“Mr. Smith, good to see you again.”
The owner sized him up. Roth offered his hand and the man hesitated before returning the gesture. The shake was brief. “Sterling. Heard you was coming back. What can I do for you?”
The cool tone was hard to miss. Damn strange, considering Quincey needed a chief, and Roth was, if anything, overqualified, and he’d taken one hell of a pay cut for this job. What was the problem? “I need window and door locks.”
“Doyle’s