Chapter 4
Tessa
“First thing Monday morning.”
I let out a deep sigh.
More waiting, even if it’s only a day. Granted, I could probably use today to get some stuff done around the house, pick up groceries for the week—which I do every other Sunday—but I’m chomping at the bit to get going on this case.
“I’ll be there. Thanks, Buck. Appreciate the call.”
“You bet. See you tomorrow.”
I end the call and shove my phone in my pocket to continue sorting the laundry that has piled up in a mountain in front of the washing machine.
Those damn kids just open the door to the laundry room and toss their dirty shit inside, like the room itself is a giant laundry basket.
Every week I have to dig through piles of smelly clothes before I can even run the washer.
I probably should be grateful they at least bring their own laundry downstairs, but it annoys me every week all the same.
Maybe a little more so this week, as I grumpily mutter expletives under my breath.
Haynes, the officer from Spokane County, already called me earlier to let me know he’ll have to wait for the dentist’s office to open tomorrow morning before he can get his hands on those dental records.
He did send me through copies of the notes he took on Ryan Wells’s missing person case along with the file.
It holds general information like Ryan’s physical description and notable markings, his interests, frequent hangouts, his high school, names of teachers and friends.
It also contains a few comments and observations he seems to have jotted down while talking to a few of the names on his list.
All interesting stuff, but I can’t really do much until I know for sure the body I found is Ryan Wells.
Of course, once we have his identity confirmed, I’ll hit the ground running, and who knows when I’ll next have a chance to make sure my kids have clean clothes to wear and food to eat in the house?
So I’m holding off on digging into that file until I have my family taken care of.
Maybe when I’m out for groceries, I can stop by the office to grab those files and do a bit of background snooping on social media with that list of names tonight.
But first there is also this thing with Remi I need to address.
Clem Tanek doesn’t strike me as the type to prey on kids, but the cop in me still went on high alert when I saw my boy getting out of his truck.
I know it was raining cats and dogs, and logic dictates he just gave him a ride home, but Remi was moody and evasive when I caught him outside, so I confronted Clem for an explanation.
It was a good one, and as much as I wanted to see the man as a villain, what he said showed him to be a decent guy.
Of course, still stung from his public and abrupt rejection at my boss’s wedding, I couldn’t leave well enough alone and added insult to injury by being an ungrateful bitch.
If he didn’t hate me already, he sure as hell will now.
Serves me right for letting my hair down a little and drinking a few too many at the wedding, making me bold enough to act on an impulse.
I’d noticed him all day, not bad on the eyes, and he seemed a quiet, well-liked guy with a great smile I wanted to see aimed at me.
I thought I’d caught him checking me out a few times, but clearly that had been the alcohol talking, because he reacted to me like I had the plague.
Sure, I was a bit forward in my approach, but he didn’t have to embarrass me like that.
Anyway, I need to have a talk with my son today as well, because by the time I’d put his bike in the garage and went inside last night, he’d already disappeared to his room with one of the pizzas, and I didn’t have the energy to confront him then.
“I need my new jeans for tonight.”
I turn around to find my eldest poking his head in the door.
“Is that a fact?” I ask sarcastically.
His response is to flash me a grin. That handsome, easy charm of his is a persuasive tool on most, but I’d like to think I’m immune.
“Remember? I’m going over to Naomi’s house for dinner, I need to look presentable.”
His grin spreads wider.
“You can smile all you like, but that won’t make the laundry go any faster than it does. It also doesn’t change the fact you’ve known you were going for days and could’ve easily thrown your jeans in the washer yourself. It’s not rocket science.”
“Aww, Mom, pretty please?”
I ignore the dramatic batting of a set of eyelashes that are way too long to be legal on a man-child. That too has long since stopped working on me.
“It’ll get done when it gets done,” I firmly announce, turning my back.
Still, when he disappears from the door, I quickly shove the whites load I’d planned to do first to the side and load the darks in the washer.
What can I say, I’m a sucker.
Now that I have laundry going, I focus my attention on the state of the fridge and the pantry.
The first holds little more than a cheese wrapper and an empty milk carton, and the last boasts a collection of empty boxes.
I grind my teeth, and rather than yelling at the kids—again—for not clearing away the empties, I swallow my frustration and toss them in the recycling bin in the garage myself.
It takes less energy than trying to lecture my boys into doing it.
I know I’m not teaching them anything, and that I’m probably giving myself an ulcer in the process, but there are many battles to pick from, and today this is not top on my list.
That would be Remi.
Armed with a half-finished grocery list, I head upstairs ten minutes later and knock on his door.
“What?”
Obviously, sleeping half the day away hasn’t done his attitude one bit of good. Not waiting for an invitation I won’t be getting anyway, I push open the door. Remi is sitting up in bed, on his phone, and scowls in my direction.
“I’m heading out to get groceries. Did you need anything specific?”
I don’t really need his input, I know what my kids like, but it was a good ruse to get into his room.
“Blueberry Pop-Tarts,” he mumbles predictably.
It’s an addiction he’s had since he was barely three, when his father introduced him to the sugary pastries. I remember being so pissed at him; I’d tried really hard to keep the boys away from unhealthy, processed foods for as long as I could, but those damn Pop-Tarts derailed that plan.
“And those extra spicy Doritos,” he adds. “Get a couple of bags.”
“Nice try,” I counter. “The reason I let the Pop-Tarts slide is because it’s the only way I can be sure you eat at least something before you head out the door, but you know I don’t like filling the fridge and the pantry with junk or that’s all you guys will eat.”
“One bag?”
This time he actually darts me a cheeky glance, offering me an opportunity I grab with two hands. I sit down on the edge of his bed.
“I’ll tell you what; I’ll get you your bag of extra spicy Doritos if you tell me what is up with suddenly getting a job?” I offer. “I wish you had discussed it with me first.”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters because I’m your parent and am responsible for you. It also matters because you mentioned a few weeks ago your teacher was giving you too much homework and you were having a hard time keeping up. It matters because I need to know where you are. What if something happened to you?”
He snorts. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, I’m not five.”
“Trust me, I’m well aware, but do you know how many teenagers disappear in the U.S.
every year? How many parents are devastated, waiting to hear something, anything, for years and in some cases never do?
I’ve had to deliver bad news to parents too many times; I don’t want to be that parent.
Something happening to you or your brother is what keeps me awake at night. ”
“Mo-om, nothing is going to happen,” he repeats, but his tone has softened.
“Not if I can help it, which is why it is important I know where you are. Give me that. At least while you live under my roof.”
“Fine,” he concedes, but not without rolling his eyes.
Then he ducks his head when I lean over, but I manage to press a kiss in his messy hair, before getting off the bed.
“Get dressed. It’s your turn to unload the groceries when I get home.”
“Whatever.”
Clem
The only thing I miss about my old house is outdoor space.
The backyard was no bigger than a postage stamp and rather sad-looking and overgrown, but I could sit outside on a nice day with my feet up on the railing of my ramshackle deck, and enjoy a cold one.
My only option at the firehouse on a nice fall day like today—a little crisp, but the sun is out—is open the large bay door and let the outside in.
The tires I have stacked right by the entrance make for a fairly decent seat, while I enjoy my beer and what could be some of the last warm rays of sunshine before temperatures drop as we head into winter.
I spent the day doing my normal household chores, stuff I don’t really have time for when the garage is open for business.
It doesn’t take me that long to throw in a load of laundry, give the upstairs a quick clean, and go out to grab supplies for the week, but I ran into Roy Battaglia.
He owns a security company and I wanted to pick his brain about installing some security.
That little incident with the kid Friday night got me thinking, maybe it’s time to invest in a couple of flood lights, cameras, that kind of thing. It’s sad that like everywhere else, our small town is not immune to crime anymore.
Roy came over, had a look around to see what I would need, and said he’d work out the numbers and let me know what the bottom line would be.
He just left, and I decided to come out here with a beer to enjoy what’s left of my Sunday.