Chapter 23 Cosi
Cosi
The phone rang as I waited for my morning coffee to brew. I hurried to answer before the second ring, not wanting it to wake up Spencer or Ilsa this early on a Saturday. “Hello?”
“Hiya, Cosi. It’s Marty. Just wanted to let you know Bluebird’s truck is ready. Finished it up last night.”
“Thanks. We’ll swing by later to pick it up.”
For Ilsa’s sake, I was glad. For mine? This was a call I’d been dreading for days.
How long would it take her to get in that Ford Ranger and leave Dalton? Leave me?
“Good deal,” he said. “I’ll be here until about four. Hey, did you ever find out who did it?”
“Marty, I can’t tell you anything about the case.”
“Sure sure sure. Understood. Sorry, was just being nosy.”
Marty, and everyone else in Dalton.
It hadn’t taken long for word to spread about the vandalism or the questioning I’d done at the school this week. People were already speculating and pointing fingers.
Maybe someone could point me in the right direction, because I was stuck.
“We’ll see you in a bit,” I said and hung up the phone as the coffee pot began to gurgle.
Beyond the window overlooking the sink, the yard was blanketed in fresh snow. We’d added another three inches over the last few days, and every morning, I’d woken up early to shovel the driveway and sidewalks.
It had been a long, shitty week, and I was blaming it on Troy.
His visit had fucked everything up, namely my headspace.
I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. When Ilsa left my room to go and talk to him, I’d forced myself to leave them alone. I’d lain on my bed, eyes glued to the ceiling, teeth grinding so hard I’d given myself a headache.
It was when Troy had gotten loud, when Ilsa had told him to stop, that I’d gotten off the bed. And when I’d made it to the hallway, I’d overheard her tell him she was leaving Dalton.
She might as well have taken me out at the knees.
All this time, I’d assumed she was staying. That she’d cleaned up Ike’s cabin to live there. But no, she was leaving.
And I didn’t have it in me to be left by another woman.
I didn’t want Spencer to watch someone he cared about walk away. My heart couldn’t handle the heartbreak of falling for a woman who was not long for this town.
Too bad it was too late.
So now what? Where did we go from here?
Ilsa and I needed to have a long talk. Except she’d been avoiding me, sticking to that guest bedroom like the floor outside the door was made of lava.
On Wednesday, we’d come home from Spencer’s game and she’d already been asleep.
Thursday, I’d planned to leave the station early but then Dean Johnson had marched into my office and told me that the woman I was fucking was fucking up his kid’s life.
We’d gotten into it, and when I’d finally had enough of his bullshit and told him to get the hell out of my office, I’d hit the gym to take out my fury on a punching bag.
Spencer had been at Mom’s for dinner after practice, so I’d swung by to pick him up. When we’d finally made it home, Ilsa had been asleep early. Again.
Last night, I’d made it home by five. She and Spencer had already been home, walking home together after school since he hadn’t had basketball. She’d been locked in that fucking guest bedroom with a headache—according to Spencer.
She was avoiding me. And I was avoiding her. But today, it had to stop. Today, we were going to talk.
“Morning,” Ilsa said as she walked into the kitchen. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and that Nebraska State Fair tee I liked so much.
The world outside the kitchen faded to a blur. I saw nothing else when she was in the room. She plagued my thoughts, day and night. It took everything I had not to take her hand as she passed me for the coffee pot. Not to pull her into my arms and bury my nose in that soft hair.
Fuck, I missed her. And it had only been days. What was I going to do when she left for good?
“Want some?” she asked, taking out a cup from the cabinet.
“Sure.”
She lifted out another mug—blue with World’s Greatest Dad on the front—and filled it nearly to the brim. She set it aside while she poured her own, then carried it to the table, sinking down into a seat. Then she twisted to stare at the wall.
Anywhere, but at me.
It was a gut punch. A punch I deserved for not breaking down my own guest bedroom’s door. For being a coward.
“Ilsa, I’m so—”
“Did the garage call? I thought I heard the phone ring. When I talked to them on Wednesday, the guy said Dad’s truck would be fixed by this morning.”
“Yeah, it was Marty. The truck is done.”
“Great.” She stood, taking her cup with her. “I’m going to walk over and pick it up.”
“No need to walk. I’ll take you.”
“That’s okay. I’d like to get some air. Maybe run a few errands.”
No, she wanted to get out of this house. Away from me. Also my fault. “Ilsa—”
“Did you finish questioning everyone at school?”
Clearly, she knew I wanted to talk. And clearly, she didn’t.
Maybe she didn’t know what to say either.
“Yes, I finished at the school. I was going to give you an update last night but Spencer said you weren’t feeling well and went to bed early.”
“Headache.” She tapped her temple.
That was a damn lie, but I let it slide. “All but one of the kids had an alibi for the time of the fire. They were each at home. And all but one was at school on the day your place was ransacked.”
“Let me guess. The one outlier here is Paul.”
I nodded. “Melody swears he was home sick that day. But she was at work from nine to five, so she can’t be sure. Dean was working too. Since they refused to let me take Paul’s fingerprints, I’m working with the county attorney to get a warrant from the municipal judge.”
“And how long will that take?”
“It’s not a fast process. Especially where minors are concerned.”
She dropped her gaze to her cup. “We’re never going to know who did this, are we?”
“Don’t give up. I promised you I’d find out.” And I’d keep that promise, even if it took a lifetime. “Chuck and Larry are still sorting through prints.”
“Have they found any that aren’t mine or Dad’s?”
“Three partials. One full.” It wasn’t much. But it was enough to keep my hope alive.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Then she turned and disappeared to her room.
I took a step to follow, to say to hell with it all and just take whatever time I could get with Ilsa, no matter how short. But before I could chase her down the hall, Spencer shuffled into the kitchen, his hair a mess and his eyes heavy with sleep.
“Hey, pal.”
He walked right to me, right into my chest for a hug, like he used to when he was little. Half asleep and cuddly.
I wrapped an arm around him, letting him sag against my shoulder.
When was the last time he’d done this? It was getting harder and harder to remember the lasts.
The last time I’d tucked him into bed. The last time I’d picked him up and carried him on my hip. The last night I’d rocked him to sleep.
If this was a last Saturday morning hug, I wanted to savor it.
When Ilsa returned, wearing a coat, hat and gloves, she took one look at us and the softness in her eyes, a sweet smile, was enough to take my breath away.
Was that my last Ilsa smile?
The twist in my chest was so fierce I couldn’t fill my lungs.
She mouthed, “Bye.”
Then she was gone, quietly leaving the house while I hugged my son.
With a sweeping arch, I brought my axe down on a round of wood. The sound of the log splitting echoed through the backyard. It was followed by a thump as the smaller piece dropped to the ground.
Sweat beaded at my temples. The cold air was crisp in my lungs. The coat I’d pulled on earlier was draped over our chain-link fence, leaving me in only a flannel and jeans, but I was plenty warm.
This past spring, Spencer and I had gone up to the mountains to cut a cord of wood.
The pieces had been stacked against the backside of the garage for months, waiting to be split.
After Ilsa had left for the garage, after Spencer had fully woken up and gone to take a shower, I’d eaten a quick breakfast and decided chopping wood would help clear my head.
Except it wasn’t working. As the pile next to the chopping block kept growing, the knot in my gut only twisted tighter. At this point, I was afraid I’d puke up my coffee and toast.
I positioned a new log and split the piece in half. Ironic I was splitting things today when I felt torn in two.
“Uh-oh.” The crunch of boots came with Mom’s voice. She walked into the yard, bundled in a coat and knitted stocking hat. “What’s wrong?”
I set the axe down, leaning the handle against my thigh as I wiped the sweat from my brow with a sleeve. “Nothing.”
She scoffed. “You chop wood when something’s wrong. Your father was the same way. And when I asked him what was wrong, he’d say nothing. So many nothings that I had five years’ worth of firewood by the time he died.”
Mom knew exactly how to use my father against me. Because in every way, he was the last man I wanted to become.
Detached. Obstinate. Difficult.
My memories of him had faded with time, but I remembered the feeling of our house from the years before he died. It had always been tense and sullen and angry.
Dad hadn’t been a bad man. But he hadn’t been a happy man either. The war had left many scars on Harvey Raynes. The emotions he’d kept inside, the suffering he’d endured alone, had taken their toll on all of us, but especially Mom.
When he’d died in that hunting accident, she’d been devastated. Not only because she’d lost her husband and I’d lost my father, but because she’d wanted so, so badly to be there when he found his smile again.
“Talk to me,” she said. “Is it Ilsa?”
That pleading look was one I didn’t see on her face often, but it conjured memories that hadn’t faded. Times when Mom would beg Dad to share the load, and instead, he’d shut her out.
I didn’t really feel like talking, but it would hurt her more if I kept quiet than it would for me to get this shit off my chest. “Yeah, it’s Ilsa.”