Chapter 19: Bad Daughter

Like I was going to talk willingly to a reporter. I pushed past her, ignored her huff of indignation, rushing after my dad. Because he and I really had to talk.

I caught him halfway home, forced to run after him. But I must have shocked him because when I grabbed his arm and turned him around he stopped and stared down at me like he didn't know who I was for a second. So lost in thought, I guess, he gave me the upper hand for probably the first time in my whole life.

"Where were you the night Pete died?" I hissed that question at him, knowing we were out in the open, that anyone could overhear but wanting to take advantage of the situation.

Dad started like I'd slapped him before shutting down. "Fishing with the guys," he said.

At night. In the dark. Right.

"Mom doesn't know where you went." I hit him with that accusation.

Dad turned and started walking again. "Your mother doesn't care where I go," he grumbled, "because she trusts me." He threw that at me. "Unlike my daughter. But I go fishing at the cabin with the guys overnight a lot, Fee. You'd know that if you were here."

He did not just punish me with the fact I moved away after high school. Did not.

"Do you really think I killed someone?" Dad turned on me then, adding blow to hurt. "Really, Fee? You think I'm capable?"

"I do," I said. "Under the right circumstances." And I did. Because I knew Dad would do anything for Mom. Anything.

"But these circumstances?" At least he didn't argue.

I hesitated because no, I didn't believe it. Not on purpose. But an accident, manslaughter? In the heat of the moment, anything could happen.

We stared at each other a long moment while I struggled to say anything, while he sagged and absorbed my silence. How fun, hurting each other so deeply on a public street in probably the nosiest town in America. Dad turned at last and headed for home, head down, feet dragging a little while I stood watching him go with my heart in my shoes.

Bad daughter.

That didn't remove my need to find out the truth, though, as sad as that was. And now that Crew was on the warpath for a suspect again, I had to try to sort this out. Okay, no. I didn't. I could go home to the B&B, do as they all were telling me, mind my own business. But Petunia's was at risk, my freedom challenged. And no one was willing to tell me what was going on, not really. So taking matters into my own hands? Yeah, I could do that.

Was doing that. Dad should have known he didn't raise the kind of daughter who did what she was told. Not with his DNA hardwired into me. I stomped home to Petunia's, sorting out my game plan. I couldn't do much about the fight between Pete and Jared. But there was too much of a coincidence between Grandmother Iris's situation and that of Ranjeet Jacob for me to ignore.

They'd both been old, ill and in care. That pointed to the nursing home, didn't it? I'd been meaning to stop in and pick up the box of odds and ends my grandmother left behind. The perfect excuse to check the place out and see if there was a connection to Pete Wilkins. A long shot, okay. But I had to do something or lose my mind.

My car chugged its reluctance as I drove to my destination, but I refused to stop or turn around or go home and be a good girl. Not like going to the home was against the law or anything. Nor was looking into my own best interest.

I pulled into a spot out front of the low, long building, noting the tasteful landscaping and the fact the pale yellow building was probably overdue for a paint job. The tall sign at the gate said Reading Nursing Care, the logo likely designed in the eighties from the tacky colors and clipart appearance. I slipped out of the driver's seat, clutching my bag to my chest, wondering what I thought I was going to accomplish, really. After all, I couldn't barge in and demand to know if Pete Wilkins had been pressuring old people to sign away their property, could I? I snorted at my own ridiculousness and sighed as I swung the straps over my shoulders, the weight cutting in with a familiarity that brought me back to reality. Seriously, what was I thinking? Yes, I would retrieve Grandmother Iris's things, but I was no detective. Robert had that much right.

I was so focused on beating myself up over even considering I might find answers that I almost bumped into someone exiting the building. I looked up at the last second, the sight of scuffed sneakers skimming up over torn jeans and to the lean, five o'clock shadowed face of a young man who winked at me on the way by. He stank of weed in a cloud that followed him closely and looked a little too skinny for his own good, as if smoking up replaced groceries.

I glanced at him over my shoulder, caught him leering at my ass, and flipped him the bird. He waved jaunty cheer before mounting the motorcycle I'd parked next to and drove off without a helmet. Idiot kid.

Well, I wasn't his mother or anything. And I had my own problems. I jerked on the door, the whoosh of air conditioning and disinfectant making me gag, and entered the building.

The lobby hummed softly with the dull strains of music piped through speakers in the ceiling, rewritten classics made boringly tedious for mass consumption. My shoes squeaked on the old tiles polished to their best shine despite their age, and looked around, feeling a little lost in the dim gray of the industrial feeling space.

An office sign lured me toward it, but not before a perky voice called my name.

"Fiona!" I turned to find Peggy perched on a sofa long in need of new upholstery, Cookie in her lap with her cute, pink bow bobbing from her topknot. A clock ticked its ancient time over their heads, a doddering old man next to her, his thin, slumped body draped in a dressing gown two sizes too big for him, plaid slippers on his narrow feet. She wiped absently at the drool running down the man's chin with a crumpled tissue, Cookie wagging her tail at the sight of me.

"Hi, Peggy." I joined them, smiling down at the old man who looked through me with his watery eyes. He didn't move or speak, just sat there with his loose mouth hanging open while my heart ached for him. How much of him survived in there? Or was his mind off in a better place already?

"What brings you down here today?" Peggy's perky question just made things worse. She didn't even seem to notice her companion wasn't aware of her or the world around him.

"Just picking up my grandmother's things." I glanced at the office door. "Through there?"

She nodded enthusiastically, her faintly blue-tinted roller set dull in the florescent lights. One hand reached out and straighten the cane perched against her knee before it could fall over before returning to pat the old man's hand. I almost asked about it, had never seen her walk with one before, but she was already pointing to the door across the foyer.

"You go talk to Ruth," she said. "She'll fix you right up. There she is, now."

I turned and watched a tall, large woman in a white dress with a stethoscope around her neck exit the office, her giant feet squashed into big sneakers. There was something so familiar about her face, past the chin length bob that did nothing for the blockiness of her features, the faint gloss she wore on her lips as if convention called for it, the way her big hands seemed more suited to construction than nursing. But it was clear her role and I left Peggy to go talk to the grumpy looking woman who glared at me like I was interrupting her perfectly orderly day.

"I'm Fiona Fleming," I said, offering my hand which disappeared into the massive one she extended, the firmness of her shake so violent I was happy to have my fingers back in one piece.

"Ruth Wilkins," she said. And my entire world froze while she frowned down at me.

"Pete's sister?" Had to be.

"Better than being his murderer," she said.

***