Mummy Said Goodbye

Dear Craig.

She frowned at the salutation, changed “Craig” to “Mr. Lofgren,” then questioned the “Dear.” Finally she deleted the whole dang thing. It was too formal anyway.

In the end, she was left with a few bare sentences.

Just wanted you to know that soccer practice went really well today. Brett hasn’t lost any skill, and he seemed to have fun. He’s to try playing goalie tomorrow. Oh, and he got a 90% on a spelling quiz today!

She added and deleted comments on how nice Craig’s father was, how much Abby had grown, how she hoped his flight was turbulence free.

Honestly! They weren’t pen pals.

The next night, she had a return e-mail from him.

Thanks for the report. I was hoping Brett would e-mail, too—he has his own Hotmail account—but no. He’s probably not wanting to make too much of this. Thank you, Robin.

Nothing chatty. Although he had used her first name. She was glad she hadn’t said, “Dear Mr. Lofgren.”

She hit Reply and typed,

No more thanks, please. Another good day. Brett was dynamite as goalie! I suppose he felt he had to prove something, but he made some spectacular stops. Josh, who is the team’s regular goalie, seemed especially determined to crack him. But after Brett skidded ten feet across the turf, stopping a hard drive to the far corner, Josh ran over and congratulated him. Well, he whacked him on the back and then they exchanged high fives. Preteen male congrats.

After a moment, she signed “Robin” and hit Send.

The next night, he had replied again.

I wish I’d been there! I did get an e-mail from Brett today, who said, “Soccer is okay. I need new shoes. Mine are too tight.” I should have thought of that. We can stop somewhere on the way to practice Friday, or Saturday morning before the game. If not for your e-mails, I’d be trying to decide how okay “okay” is. It’s just okay? He’s not having fun but is determined to give it a chance? He’s having the time of his life? So, once again…no. You said no more gratitude. Can I at least thank you for helping me stay connected? Tokyo feels like a world away, not just a few time zones. Craig

Robin didn’t hit Reply this time, although she felt a pang of regret. She’d been rather enjoying their exchanges. Tomorrow, he’d be home to see his son play.

She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed if Brett didn’t see much action Saturday. Although as well as Brett was playing, the coach might put him in. Without a good backup goalie, Josh had been playing both halves in a mask and pads, but he was a heck of a forward, too.

Robin had no trouble picturing Craig on the sidelines at the game. She’d always noticed when he showed up for the occasional practice and every game when he wasn’t working. She’d tried to reconcile the husband Julie talked about so casually, and increasingly grumbled about that last year, with the handsome man who paced the sidelines yelling encouragement, who ruffled his son’s hair and said, “Don’t worry about it. That was a heck of a shot on goal you took earlier,” when Brett had made a mistake and was slumped despondently on the ice chest after being pulled from the game.

The two people—the tall, athletic man with unruly dark hair and the demanding but indifferent husband—never quite lined up and clicked into place in Robin’s mind, and she knew why. Face it, she’d thought. You think he’s sexy and can’t imagine what she’d been grumbling about.

But even then she had known that the exterior was often deceptive. Then, she’d reminded herself that beauty was only skin deep, etc., etc.

Now she reminded herself that some of the most famous serial killers were both handsome and charming, à la Ted Bundy. Some wife-killers looked like every woman’s dream husband.

Craig Lofgren could have murdered his wife and still be a caring father. In fact, he might have killed her for that very reason: he didn’t want to lose his children.

So don’t be an idiot, Robin told herself when her heart gave a faint flutter at the idea of seeing him. Concentrate on helping Brett.

THE NEXT DAY, the team had already begun running laps when Robin glanced idly over her shoulder—not that she was looking for anyone!—and saw Brett tearing across the grass from the parking lot, kicking his soccer ball before him.

When he reached the sideline, panting, he dropped his water bottle, spoke briefly to Coach and took off after the other boys.

Robin was careful not to look over her shoulder again. As a result, her start was genuine when a slow, deep voice said from just beside her, “Did you see the totally cool new soccer shoes?”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared me!” Then she laughed. “Yes, I did. You had to buy top of the line to make all the other boys jealous?”

It was the first time she’d seen him smile since before…well, before. This one was slightly abashed. “He begged. I succumbed.”

“You were glad he was excited about something.”

His gray eyes met hers. “Read minds, do you?”

“My stock in trade. How else do you think I maintain control of a classroom full of eleven- and twelve-year-olds? I have to scare ’em somehow.”

He laughed, showing a flash of teeth, his dark face heart-stoppingly handsome. A lock of hair flopped over his forehead, and his throat was tanned and bare with his sports shirt unbuttoned at the top. When her heart gave an uncomfortable squeeze, Robin lowered her gaze.

Which didn’t help, as he had his shirtsleeves rolled up and she’d always been susceptible to strong brown forearms and big, capable-looking hands.

Sounding only a little breathless, she asked, “How was Tokyo?”

“It was my third visit this month.” His gaze following his son, Craig said, “Prices there make Seattle look cheap. I mostly read in my hotel room. Went out for dinner and drinks with my crew.” He yawned. “But they’re a hard-drinking bunch. I’m not.”

“I thought pilots couldn’t drink the night before a flight.”

“Our layover lasted two nights.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that other mothers were watching them. Two whispered to each other. Most of them had known Julie, too, and had seen Craig at games. This team had been together for several years. Once they’d seen Brett, they had begun buzzing about whether his father would show up, but conversations had tended to die when Robin drew near. Everyone knew she was instrumental in bringing Brett back, and that he was in her class this year.

Craig ignored the others. Robin tried to think what to do, but couldn’t decide. Introduce him as though none of them had ever met him? Say cheerily, “Remember Brett’s dad?” The one who is under suspicion for murdering Brett’s mom?

She didn’t think the other women would snub him, but she couldn’t be sure. In the end, she let him handle meeting other parents—or not—as he chose. She not only wasn’t his pen pal, she wasn’t the team social director.

After drills, Brett suited up to play goalie. He flubbed a couple of attempts to stop balls and looked dark as a thundercloud. Robin saw him steal a glance at his father on the sideline. Craig gave him a thumbs-up.

Jaw setting, Brett turned his attention back to the action heading his way. Josh passed to Malcolm, who thundered a kick at goal. Brett threw himself horizontally through the air and came down clutching the ball.

Applause erupted from parents on the sideline and his teammates. Robin heard a quiet, “Yes!” from the boy’s father.

When the practice ended, Brett and Malcolm, dirty, sweating, dark hair plastered to their heads, walked together toward their parents as if their friendship had never been interrupted.

Robin said, “Craig, you probably don’t remember Malcolm.”

Craig held out his hand. “Well, you’ve changed.”

Mal shook the hand of Brett’s father with no more self-consciousness than he would have shown with any adult.

“Great save!” one of the other mothers said as she passed.

“Thanks.” Brett blushed as several others echoed her.

The two boys headed for the cars, leaving Craig, Robin and Abby, who parted from her new friends and ran to her father, to follow.

“Good practice,” Robin said, to fill the silence.

“Yeah.” Gazing at his son, Craig said in a low voice, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this. Didn’t see how much he missed it.”

“It hasn’t been that long…”

“A year and a half? That’s forever to a kid this age.” He made a sound in the back of his throat. “I’ve been trying to protect them. Believe it or not.”

“I believe you.” But when he turned his head, she evaded his gaze, because she wasn’t sure exactly how far he had gone to “protect” his kids and she didn’t want him to see that doubt in her eyes.

“Thank you for that.” He waited until she did look at him. “And for everything else.”

“I said no more…”

He grinned. “Tough. Right, Punkin?” He swung his daughter in an arc above the ground.

She giggled in delight.

Robin laughed, said, “See you tomorrow,” and dug in her purse for her car keys.

“Mom?” Malcolm stopped with his door open, looking over the roof of the car at her. “Can Brett come home with us tomorrow? Spend the night?”

She didn’t hesitate. She’d hoped—hadn’t she?—that Malcolm and Brett would become friends again.

“Sure, I don’t have any problem with it.”

“Hey, Brett!” Mal hollered. “You want to come home with me after the game tomorrow? Mom says you can spend the night.”

The stunned expression on Brett’s face quashed Robin’s doubts. He turned to his father, who nodded. Brett sounded hoarse when he said, “Yeah. Sure. Uh…see you.” He hopped quickly into the van.

Robin didn’t let herself look at Craig. Brett was the one who mattered. She could not let herself feel even sympathy for the boy’s father. The police must have good reason for believing he was responsible for his wife’s disappearance. Mustn’t they?

She backed out, raising the usual cloud of dust, and drove away without a glance in the rearview mirror.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE FIRST HALF of Saturday’s game, Brett got in for maybe five minutes. Craig hoped Brett meant it when he said he was cool with not playing much.

“I mean, I missed a season.” He’d shrugged.

Julie had disappeared in April. The kids had needed to go to school. But sports hadn’t seemed important. And, with every damn thing he did, Craig’d had to consider how it would look. Would an innocent man hurry to put his kids back in regular activities? Supposing he’d killed Julie, what choices would he make? Craig had to try to make the opposite ones. He’d second-guessed himself so often, he’d been like a dog chasing its tail. What was right for his kids or himself got lost in worries about what everyone else would think.

From the sidelines, Brett called a few words of encouragement, groaning when the other team scored and did a high five with another benchwarmer when Robin’s son kicked a bullet into the goal. When the coach did send him in, Brett played defense just long enough to give the starter a rest. He did fine, but didn’t have a chance to shine. When he was tagged to come out, he trotted back to the sideline without apparent disappointment.

At halftime Brett drank from his water bottle and sucked on orange halves like the other boys, part of the crowd. Craig, standing apart from the clot of parents, felt an uncomfortable squeezing in his chest. Brett had lost so much.

Robin McKinnon had been the one handing out oranges. Craig had done his damndest not to look toward her after the friendly nod they’d exchanged earlier. He couldn’t help himself now. She had her head cocked as she listened to another mother talk, but as if she felt his gaze, her eyes met his in a silent moment of communication. She was reading his mind again. Pain gripped his chest tighter.

He couldn’t afford to become aware of her as a woman. God help him, he was a murder suspect.

He was also married.

Craig suspected he and Julie would have been divorced by now if she hadn’t disappeared. But she had. As Brett had said, what if she’d been abducted and held for a year and a half? What if she escaped to find he’d divorced her? What if her body was found, and he’d divorced his murdered wife for desertion?

He couldn’t go on with his life in any meaningful way until the mystery of Julie’s disappearance was solved.

Swallowing, Craig looked again at his son. What he would and could do was be sure his kids moved on.

It was time.

Brett was to start seeing a counselor Tuesday evening. That should have happened a year ago. The school psychologist’s evaluation hadn’t been as dire as Craig had feared, but Brett obviously needed help working through his anger.

Water bottles set aside, the team huddled with the coach, separating after a cheer. With mixed feelings, Craig saw Brett putting on goalie equipment. Was he ready when he’d only started practice this week?

But Brett was grinning and joking with teammates as he ran onto the field, enveloped in an oversize neon green shirt, his hands in gloves.

“He’ll do fine.”

Craig started.

Robin smiled at him. “Sorry. Did I scare you?”

Yeah. She scared him. But not for the reason she was asking.

“I was worrying,” he admitted. “What if he doesn’t play well? Will he want to quit?”

She watched his son take up position in front of the goal. “I bet his self-esteem is higher than you think. He knows he’s rusty. So do the other boys. But he really has a knack for playing goalie, you know.”

“I remember.” Brett was fearless. Skinned elbows, scraped knees, bruises mottling his cheek…none of that worried him. He had a good eye for the line the ball would take and instincts that helped him intercept it. Craig let out a ragged breath. “It’s just that…”

“He looks happy, and you want him to stay that way.”

Craig shook his head. “How do you do it?”

She turned a surprised face to him. “Do what?”

“Know what I’m thinking.”

She was the one to sigh this time. “Because I’m worried, too. I got him into this.”

Craig didn’t say anything. He’s not your responsibility didn’t seem appropriate. Sure, she’d gone above and beyond to help Brett. But in doing so, she’d accepted a level of responsibility. She must realize that.

The two teams lined up. One of the Puyallup boys made a powerful kick and the action was on. When it came close to Brett’s goal, Craig watched intensely. The rest of the time, he watched Robin.

She wore a loose-fitting royal blue T-shirt tucked into the waist of jean shorts that showed off long, tanned legs. Her glossy hair was trying to slip out of her usual ponytail. Craig had to shove his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts to resist the urge to tuck a strand behind her ear.

Her face was so animated, he could tell how the game was going without looking at the field. It brightened, fell dramatically or became taut with suspense. Her mouth formed an O as she gasped in disappointment. A moment later, she would laugh in relief or delight at a great steal or stop. Craig wondered if her students appreciated how easy she was to read.

When her head swung toward the Salmon Creek goal, he focused on the game again. The Puyallup boys had a fast break going. Running with them, the ref was watching for an offside violation, his whistle in his mouth. Defenders scrambled to get into position, but they weren’t going to make it. Brett advanced out of the goal.

“Too far,” Craig muttered.

“Maybe not.”

The coach was yelling, “Get back!”

Brett never turned his head, never wavered. Light on his feet, he crouched waiting for the shot.

Parents on the other sideline screamed encouragement. Craig’s heart drummed. This wasn’t just a game. For Brett, more rode on it. Way more.

The player pulled back his foot as if he were going to boot the ball, then deftly tapped it to a teammate who had come up at a run. A huge, booming kick rocketed toward the corner of the goal.

Brett flung himself sideways. The ball deflected off his fingertips and fell to the ground in front of the goal. Players from both sides scrambled for it. Brett, in another headlong dive, came up with it.

Groans from the other side mingled with exultant cheers from the Salmon Creek rooting section.

“Yes!” Craig said, under his breath.

Robin laughed up at him, her face alight. “He was brilliant!”

Bemused, Craig saw his son nonchalantly kick the ball, which soared over the heads of the other boys and rolled nearly to the other goal. “He was, wasn’t he?”

Salmon Creek won, 2–1. The boys lined up to slap hands with the opposing players, then ran off, grimy and triumphant. Brett paused by his dad to exchange high fives, then joined the others to grab juice and brownies.

Robin had melted away, Craig realized. He saw her helping distribute brownies, congratulating boys and talking to other parents.

Nobody spoke to Craig as small family groups broke away and headed for the parking lot, but almost every parent called, “Great stop!” or “You did a heck of a job,” to Brett. Craig was satisfied.

Brett joined him, water bottle in his hand and soccer ball at his feet. “Wow, I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop that one!”

“I never had a doubt,” Craig lied, then grinned when Brett made a rude face. “Yeah, okay. Maybe one or two.”

“I mean, they had me. It was just luck.”

Craig stopped walking. “Not luck,” he said seriously. “You were good. I saw your focus.”

“I really like playing goal.” Brett’s expression and voice were both eager in a way Craig hadn’t seen in a long while. “I mean, it’s cool to score goals, but I like the pressure of it all coming down to you. The ball’s coming at you, and you’ve got, like, this tunnel vision. What a trip!”

Craig had felt that way about flying when he discovered it. He remembered his early flights, that sense of being in a bubble, in which nothing existed but him, the controls, the clouds streaming past, the checkerboard landscape below. It all came down to him. There was an adrenaline rush you didn’t get in everyday life.

He slapped his son on the back. “I know what you mean.”

When they reached the car, Craig asked, “Are you still planning to go home with Malcolm?”

“Yeah.” Brett tried to sound as if it was no big deal, but he failed to hide his pleasure. “I’m just going to grab my stuff.”

“Do I need to pick you up tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.” Brett tossed his soccer ball and the bottle on the floor and reached for his duffel bag. “I guess I’ll call you. Okay?”

“Sure.”

A horn beeped, and Craig turned to see Robin’s car stopped behind his. Malcolm jumped out and jogged over to thrust a scrap of paper at Craig. “Mom says to give you our phone number.”

“Thanks.” Craig smiled at the boy, then waved toward Robin.

A hand waved back from inside the car.

“See ya, Dad.” Brett loped off next to his new buddy.

Craig got in his car, but didn’t reach immediately to put the key in the ignition. He was alone. It was the strangest feeling. Both kids were off with friends, both spending the night. He hadn’t spent a night alone at home since the early days after Julie’s disappearance, when the cops were putting intense heat on him and his father had taken the kids a few times to spare them.

Here was the chance single parents rarely had, and he was going to let it go to waste. Well, not entirely—maybe he’d rent a DVD on the way home, something he wouldn’t let the kids watch. After all, the TV would be all his for a change.

He grunted in wry amusement. That was sad.

Craig stopped at the grocery store in Salmon Creek and picked up the makings for a meal neither Brett nor Abby liked. Another small pleasure, which was the best life had to offer these days. The bigger pleasures—here, he tried hard not to picture Robin McKinnon—were not for him.

His decent mood suffered a jolt when he was half a block from home. A blue sedan sat at the curb in front of his house. No rack of lights or insignia on the door, but he knew a police car when he saw one. Two people sat in this one.

Waiting.

Craig drove past them without turning his head. He went straight into the garage and closed the door behind him, popped the trunk and unloaded his groceries. He was grimly putting them away when the doorbell rang.

He knew better than to ignore it. An innocent man cooperated. Welcomed an investigation.

On the doorstep were a man and a woman he didn’t know. The man looked Hispanic, with dark hair and the age-old eyes cops sometimes had. Craig’s fleeting impression of the woman was that she had to be a good deal younger. Short and big-breasted, she wore dark hair in a bun so severe she’d never need Botox. Not flattering. Neither was a mannish outfit of blazer, slacks and white button-down shirt that made her look stocky.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.