Page 23 of Javier

And then it was just the three of them. Or her and Eben. Or Pops with one of them.

There were fewer photos of Pops and Eben than of her with Pops, and she noticed how her father and brother looked more uncomfortable in each other’s presence as the years passed.

Long ago—the summer she was fourteen and Eben was thirteen—they jimmied the lock on the liquor cabinet, snuck it to Shards Creek, and passed the bottle back and forth while they sat in their swimsuits in the cool eddies under the shade of the piney trees. It was there that her brother shared his shadow with her: the guilt that he, by being born, was responsible for their mother’s death.

Memphis’s response had been lacking. Instead of consoling him, she sipped more from the bottle, and slurred her words. “That’s stupid. No one blames you.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Pops does. I feel it.”

“Have you asked him, Eben?”

“Why reopen the wound?”

“Maybe you should. You just asked me. Ask him.”

Both of them drunk, the conversation ceased, and they crawled into the deeper shade and slept until Pops found them. They were grounded for a month each and the liquor cabinet was secured from thereout.

She assumed Eben never talked about his guilt with their father because he withdrew from her and Pops and began to hang with a rough group of boys, getting into all sorts of trouble. Pops came down on him hard. The anger was a side of their father she had never seen. She sensed a fear in him after he blew. Had it been because he lost it, or was it something else?

She organized the photos, but having so much to do and grieving, she hadn’t given them much thought other than to slide them into a manilla envelope,which is in my suitcase. Her pen poised in midair.

Memphis dashed over to the closet and unzipped the suitcase and withdrew the envelope. She laid the fifteen photos on the desk and studied them and looked at the back of each. Her father’s name and age were noted on all of them. She reorganized them chronologically and studied them. StudiedPops.

As an eight- to twelve-year-old towheaded boy, the first picture was of a petite dark-headed woman. Was it Daphne?

Two as a teen—one standing next to a dilapidated GTO and another with an older Harley Davidson.

A handful as a young man—with shaggy blond hair, a full-but-trimmed beard, and tattoos on his arms—with others, all grinning, some with bottles of beer. Was that Javier’s face turned away in one, wearing a broad smile while he seemed to be talking to a pretty brunette? Was it Sammi?

Several photos of her parents as a newly married clean-shaven groom with his radiant bride.

The photos told the story of hope, joy, and growth, but not the estrangement from family. They captured some of the man she knew: Ransom Creed, who took Lindy Fuller as his wife “till death do us part” and became her and Eben’s father.

She grabbed her device and made a bulleted list with observations and questions Did Javier or Daphne know of the “things,” of times not depicted in photos? Memphis was certain that one, if not both of them, did.

Sleep wasn’t going to happen. Come hell or high water, she was going to talk to Javier. Now.

CHAPTERTEN

Javier woke with a start—his ears and eyes straining to hear and see what had ripped him from a deep sleep. A glance at the bedside clock told him it was a few minutes after one o’clock.

Someone was in the house. He was reaching for his gun when he heard soft footfalls. The long table in the hall scraped against the wall, followed by the sound of air being sucked in and a louder, pained grumbling. “Owwww … Dammit to hell!”

Memphis.How the fuck did she get in?

He had expected she would show—the sex was off the charts, and they had the beginnings of something real. But he gave up before midnight, locked the doors, and finally succumbed to sleep. An hour of shut-eye didn’t nearly qualify as rested. Javier placed his gun back in the nightstand drawer and slid out of bed wearing athletic shorts and padded silently to the hall where he leaned against the doorjamb, watching as she inched her way down the hall. It would have been amusing had he gotten more sleep and knew where they stood.

Shoeless and tiptoeing, she crept toward his room. Memphis was brave entering his home at this hour. He had said he’d see her soon.Four hours later isn’t soon.She didn’t notice or sense him.Not good, baby. You should always be aware.Closer now, the light combination of sandalwood, jasmine, and rose wafted around him. He loved how she smelled.Should I scare the living fuck out of her? Yes.

He jumped out when she was a body length away.

She flinched, screamed, and raised her hand high.Snikt.

He acted without thought, dodging the strike, then disarming and tackling her to the floor face down. The open switchblade skittered a distance on the hardwood floor, toward the kitchen. “Memphis!”

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