Blood Ties by Lori G. Armstrong Page A

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    her pain.

    I wanted to tell her that living in a constant state of fury only postponed the inevitable breakdown. It would happen to her. If she weren’t strong enough to deal with the emotional backlash, it would destroy her, as it nearly had me.

    I couldn’t let that happen. As much as Kevin knows his job, he knows little about the gut-wrenching grief that leaves you breathless. Meredith needed someone who knew it, who’d survived it, most days anyway. Grief 101, I knew it well. I’d come back. Another day. Regardless of the consequences to my mental well being.

    “I don’t know anything else. I’ve got to pick up my little brother in a few minutes, so could you please leave?”
    Kevin reached to squeeze her shoulder; she deftly dodged his touch without moving her feet.

    “Anytime you want to talk,” I said lamely, completely out of touch.

    She turned and fl ed into the kitchen.

    We let ourselves out.

    My sense of futility lingered. Inside Kevin’s car, I drifted into the deep pit where I stored the agony of living through Ben’s death. Also in that murky hole, I stumbled across the sharp pain of losing my mother. Somehow, I clawed my way back to the surface, but found myself still in the dark, staring at the orange glow of Kevin’s dash-board. Night had fallen, pitch black and moonless.

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    But Kevin hadn’t been driving aimlessly while I’d been brooding; we slowed to pull into Fat Bob’s parking lot.

    Th
    e metal building looked innocuous at night; tempo-rary banners boasted good times, cold beer and hot video games. Pick-ups, older sedans, SUV’s, and bikes, Harleys mostly, circled the perimeter, but the neon motorcycle perched on the roof drew my attention.

    Kevin slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “Shit.”

    “What? Forget your ID?”

    “Ha. Ha.” He scowled. “Can we just forget this? It doesn’t feel right.”
    “Why?”

    “We haven’t exactly had an auspicious beginning to the night, Jules. First, Charles LaChance drops in, and then Meredith Friel freaks out. I’m thinking . . .”

    “I know what you’re thinking, but forget it.”

    “What monumental revelations do you think we’re going to glean from Dick Friel tonight?” Spooky, how his white teeth shone yellow against the orange lights. “A tearful confession?”

    “He is guilty as hell.” I scooted sideways, pressing my back into the cool glass, kicking my Caterpillar boots up on the armrest dividing the bucket seats. “Okay, Ace Ventura, who’s on your short list?”

    “We’re not looking for the killer. We’re only supposed to fi gure out where Sam spent the last two weeks.”

    I rolled my eyes. “If you tell yourself that enough, 111
    Kev, maybe you’ll believe it. Come on. If we fi nd out where Sam was and why, we both know we’ll have a better shot at fi guring out who killed her and why. So give it up.
    Using your best educated guess, who do you think killed Samantha Friel?”
    “Charles
    LaChance.”
    “Seriously?”

    His lips parted on a short, frustrated puff of air. “I don’t know. Nothing has changed. We still don’t have squat.”

    “Wrong.” I faced forward again, fl ipping open the lighted visor to apply a fresh coat of lipstick. “Charles LaChance may be a prick, but I don’t think he was lying.
    Or he’d stoop to murder. What we need to fi nd out, is exactly who else was at the fair that night.”

    In the mirror, I smoothed my top lip with the bottom.
    “Maybe I’ll talk to Nancy Rogers since you think she’s a dead-end. She’s gotta remember something.”

    Kevin gave me his “Barney Fife” look. “You expect people to remember details from one night more than seventeen years ago?”

    Th
    en it clicked. Details. If Shelley had been passed out, how could she have discerned any voices? Not to mention six or seven separate voices? When riding in the back of a pick-up? With a coat thrown over her head? She couldn’t have, especially if she’d been in