Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,31

photo yet? Nope. Total disinterest in the situation.

That had to end. She’d had twenty-four hours to recover from the shock, wallow in self-pity and clear her head. Time to start helping herself.

A key turned in the door lock. Robyn went still. Hope rolled onto her back and pushed up onto her elbows. The second bed was empty. Robyn shut her eyes as the door creaked open.

“Is everything okay?” Hope whispered.

“It took a while to find an open drugstore,” Karl said.

A rattle, like pills in a bottle.

“Ah, thank you,” Hope said. “You’re a saint.”

“Credits. Rack in’ ’em up.”

Hope’s soft laugh. Pills clicked again, Karl shaking them into Hope’s hand. A gulp of water. The mattress moved as Hope lay down again. A soft voice, too low to make out. Robyn cracked open her eyes to see Karl bending over Hope, whispering. She nodded and murmured, “Good,” then pulled the covers up.

Karl stood there, watching Hope. His expression made Robyn ache. She knew they were being careful around her. No embraces or kisses. No words of affection. Sleeping in separate beds. It didn’t matter. What hurt most were the little things that she’d always taken for granted with Damon, the touches, the looks that said “I love you” better than any words.

At Damon’s memorial, her sister, Joy, had sat with her, holding her hand, saying, “He loved you, Rob. He really loved you.” Now, as she watched Karl looking down at Hope, the envy and the yearning cut deep, and she understood what her sister had felt all those years, watching her and Damon, yearning for something Joy had never found.

Robyn should call her sister. It had been weeks since they’d spoken. Her family respected her need for privacy and trusted Robyn to climb back onto her feet, because that’s the kind of person she was. She’d failed them, retreating deeper into her hole, no longer even looking for a way out. If they ever found out, they’d blame themselves for giving her that space.

Well, no more. It was time to fight.

FINN

* * *

FINN’S PHONE RANG at 3:45 a.m. He answered on the second ring.

It was Luis Madoz, one of the detectives helping on the Kane murder. Another officer had picked up a guy trying to fence a diamond bracelet to an undercover officer. The officer ran it and discovered it was registered. The owner? Portia Kane.

When they’d brought the guy in, Madoz had noticed he was wearing shoes with a distinctive tread that seemed to match a partial print found in Kane’s blood.

“I’ve sent it to the lab for a definite answer, but it sure as hell looked like it to me. And the guy still has a stamp on his hand from Bane Thursday night. Thought you might want to come down.”

WHEN FINN ARRIVED, he found himself looking for Trent. He wasn’t really hoping to see him, but he wouldn’t have been disappointed if he did.

Madoz updated him as they walked through the station. They’d lifted a single set of prints from the gun, but until they had Robyn Peltier, they couldn’t test for a match. Her record was spotless—not so much as a traffic ticket.

The dress they’d found at Judd Archer’s—matching the one Peltier had been seen wearing—was being tested for gunshot residue. If it came back positive, great. Otherwise, it didn’t prove anything. The residue wouldn’t necessarily transfer onto a dress with short sleeves.

As for the gun itself, the serial number had been filed off, but poorly, and the techs still hoped to lift something. The missing serial number suggested premeditated murder or, at the very least, someone who carried a gun presuming he might need to use it.

NEIL EARLEY WAS A JUNKIE college kid, a type that, in Finn’s opinion, wasn’t nearly uncommon enough.

Finn had gone to college himself—Oklahoma State—and it had been a struggle. Not the work itself. He was no genius, but he showed up and did the work, and most times that was all it took to succeed at anything in life. The tough part had been paying for it. His family couldn’t afford college, and where he came from, credit wasn’t an option. You paid your way up front. Paying for tuition himself meant he sure as hell showed up for every class and got his last nickel’s worth. Drinking and shooting up and clubbing your way through college? Made no sense to him.

Maybe in ten years, these kids would look back and regret it. Or maybe they’d look back and yearn for