Page 122 of Surly Sheriff
She crouched before him, her hands on his knees. “You’re overwrought, honey, after a real crappy day. Go and wash, and by the time you’re done, your food will be waiting.”
And then she was gone, walking away.
Leaving him.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase.
Yet he remained sitting, staring out the doorway.
Something wet nudged his hand. Xena. He rubbed a hand over the dog’s neck and across her shoulders, then she, too, moved away, padding back to her pillow at the bottom of Jack’s bed. She circled her bedding once before she lay her bulky form down with a hefty sigh.
He got to his feet and adjusted the covers over the child lying on the bed. He bent, placed a kiss on his boy’s cheek, the warm puff of air from Jack’s nose a reminder of life. “Love you, son,” he whispered.
He pulled the door half-closed, the way it was before he entered, and walked down the hallway to his space. It only took eight paces until he crossed the threshold, yet it felt like eight miles. He flicked on the light and glanced at Kismet’s basket. Empty. He frowned, looking back down the hallway he had just traversed, knowing exactly where Kismet was.
Curled up on the bed he and Rae once shared.
“Which is where you should be, Stirling,”he told his reflection in the mirror above the bureau, “instead of wallowing in your self-imposed exile.”
By rote he unclipped his tactical belt, removed his cellphone and weapon, storing the latter in the lockbox. His badge and radio followed. It was then he noticed the dark stain on his shirt.
Blood.
Beau ripped the shirt from his body, uncaring about the buttons scattering about the room, wanting the offensive clothing off. Fuck. Even his white tee was stained. He pulled the undershirt over his head and flung it aside. His fingers fumbled with his boots, not quite as deft as usual, and he left his pants, underpants, and socks in a heap atop the footwear.
Naked, he strode to the bathroom and into the shower, the water an initial icy blast. It soon warmed, steam filling the enclosure. He squirted extra soap on the sponge and scrubbed his body free of any residual sign and smell of death.
The vision of the mother slumped in a pool of blood beside the bath with her two babies in the water filled his mind.
He swallowed back the bile and scrubbed harder. He scrubbed and scrubbed until a hand closed over his and removed the sponge from him.
The water shut off. “Enough,” Rae said, pulling him from the shower stall. “The water’s run cold.” She placed a towel around his shoulders and started patting him dry.
“I can do it,” he protested, stilling her movements.
She held his stare for a beat, compassion in her eyes. “Let me help you.”
He nodded. And stood on the small bathroom mat while she rubbed the soft cotton over his wet, naked body. But instead of the deed arousing him, his mind was in a dark space. “What makes a mother kill her babies? Hold them under the water until their lungs burn and they can no longer breathe?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Why not just walk away when motherhood became too much? Likemymother did.”
“Considering the age of the children, my guess is she was suffering from postpartum depression, and in her despair, her mind simply snapped.”
Postpartum depression.
That’s what the medical examiner surmised at the scene.
“Rae … were you … okay after Jack?”
He hated not knowing.
Hated having to ask.
It was a stark reminder that he hadn’t been by her side.
All he had was the photo album Rae gave him a while ago.
Fuckingphotos.
She cupped his jaw, her thumb rasping over his day-old stubble. “I was fine.”
