Part 5 (2/2)
Chloe stepped into the room. ”Who's Steffie?” she repeated, her huge golden eyes darting from Karen to me.
There was no easy way to do this. Whatever I said and however I said it, I was screwed.
”Karen and I had a daughter, Chloe.” Full-on cop mode: crisp, clean, factually correct with the emotional resonance of a tax return. ”Her name was Steffie and she died two years ago.”
Everyone said time would lessen the pain but so far it hadn't happened. Saying it made the whole thing real again, brought Steffie to life in front of me: a whirling, laughing, silly kid who made me feel like I had been put on the planet for a reason.
Another woman would have burst into tears or exploded with anger but not Chloe. She didn't move, blink, or seem to breathe. Her intensity was white-hot and probably laced with more than a touch of her newfound magic. Karen must have sensed something strange in the air because she s.h.i.+vered and shrank deeper into the couch, as if to put some distance between herself and Chloe.
”Why didn't you tell me about your daughter before this?”
Karen didn't give me a chance to answer.
”Because it's his fault she died.” Her voice was taut as over-stretched cable and probably as dangerous.
”Is that true?” Chloe asked me.
The cop answered her. The father couldn't find his voice. ”Steffie grabbed her bike while I was changing the oil in the garage. I didn't hear her ride down the driveway. By the time I realized she'd left, it was too late.”
”I would have heard her,” Karen said. ”I would have known what she was doing every second.”
”What about the time she grabbed that book of matches and-”
”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I wish-”
A sharp clap of thunder outside brought us all up short. Chloe's expression still didn't change but I was sure she had a lot to do with the timing.
”It's late,” she said calmly. ”Why don't you pick up where you left off in the morning.” She turned to Karen. ”Motel 6 is a little south of here. It's spartan but you'll be comfortable. I'll drive you.”
Considering how much Chloe hated to drive, that spoke volumes.
Karen ignored her. ”You drive me,” she said to me. ”We have to talk.”
So do we, Chloe's look said as another rumble of thunder crashed overhead. Chloe's look said as another rumble of thunder crashed overhead.
”Chloe's right,” I said to my ex-wife. ”I'll swing by the motel in the morning and we can talk over breakfast.” I wanted to make a few phone calls to old friends back in Boston and see if I could get a handle on what had been going on.
Karen considered her options for a few seconds, then nodded.
She turned to Chloe. ”I've been on the road all day. I need to use the bathroom.”
”Fine,” Chloe said. ”Just ignore the litter boxes.”
”No problem,” she said as she followed Chloe down the hallway. ”I love cats.”
That should have been my first clue that it would be a long night.
6.
CHLOE.
The old wives were right. I never should have knitted him that sweater. My relations.h.i.+p was unraveling right before my eyes and heading straight for the frog pond.
Luke wanted me to sit down so he could explain why he hadn't told me about his daughter, but there was no way I was going to have that conversation while his ex-wife was in my bathroom.
First love. First marriage. First child.
Those memories all belonged to Luke and another woman, and even the strongest magick couldn't change that fact.
I know that humans marry and divorce the way I cast on new knitting projects. They move on to new spouses and new lives with an ease I don't really understand. But when humans have a child together, like it or not, they are bound together forever.
I made another pa.s.s through the cottage while Luke stood near the front window, lost in thought. We had dodged a bullet back there at the church. Luckily the first Mrs. MacKenzie had been preoccupied with her own problems and had accepted our exploding water heater excuse without question. We couldn't expect to get away with that a second time.
I was quenching another blue flame message from Lynette when I glanced over at the grandmother clock in the hallway. An uneasy feeling settled into the pit of my stomach, right next to the huge knot of apprehension at the prospect of driving the ex to the motel.
”She's been in there over ten minutes,” I said to Luke, practically my first words to him since we entered the cottage. ”Does she usually take that long?”
He looked like someone awakened from a deep sleep. ”I don't remember.”
”You were married to her.” I sounded exactly the way I felt: tense and angry. ”You must have some idea.”
”We didn't chart bathroom schedules.”
”Go in there and check on her.”
”Why don't you check on her?”
”She's your ex-wife.”
”It's your house.”
We sounded like quarreling children. One of us had to act the part of the adult in the equation. I walked down the hallway and tapped on the door. ”Are you okay in there?”
No response.
I looked over at Luke, who was standing next to me. ”Now what?”
He knocked twice, harder. ”Karen? What's going on?”
No response.
He grasped the doork.n.o.b and tried to turn it.
”She locked it,” he said.
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