CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THERE WAS NOTHING quite like this.
Charleen was right. The thought circled in Dexter’s brain. Had been since he’d woken up on the couch inside Knight House, panic surging through his veins. The ring Charleen had given him inside the hospital was in one hand, the business card she’d found inside Dr. Hicks’ wallet in the other. He stood near the couch holding both. Recounting their steps. Replaying the expression of complete openness on Charleen’s face inside Amanda and Robinson’s house.
Hope. Fear. Longing.
Somewhere safe.
Of course that would be Knight House for Charleen—for the woman who’d bounced from sixteen foster homes in eighteen years. She’d come here because this was her haven, promise to Eileen or not.
Dexter tapped the card against his opposite palm, the logo of a giant diamond on a silver band sparking a flicker of memory each time the light hit the surface.
They’d disappeared from that moment inside the hospital—from inside Robinson and Amanda’s old house—but the ring and card hadn’t. If Charleen hadn’t been curled up beside him on the plush leather couch, her head resting in his lap, he might have buried the ring. Trashed the card. Chalked everything up to a bad nightmare after too much traveling and too little sleep.
But she was here, her hair fanned out around her head as she lay on her side, her breaths coming in even waves. Her hands were fisted and tucked to her chest as if she were protecting herself.
She was. Of course she was. Everything she did had self-preservation written all over it. Right down to her job within CMPD.
Behind the scenes. On par. Saving the day. Out of sight. Recognition and discussion unwelcome.
The truth hit him in the gut. He couldn’t combat twenty-seven years of that. Not in one day. Maybe never.
No more no thank yous.
He pocketed the business card, grabbed the throw blanket from the end of the couch, and draped it over her. Then squatted near her sleeping form. She didn’t move. Not even a flicker of her eyelids. The edge of the black tattoo Simone had revealed last night peeked from beneath where Charleen’s pink long-sleeved shirt had bunched mid-forearm.
He moved the appendage downward a fraction. The decorative tree filled her left wrist. The branches swirled in a stylish pattern and connected to the letters C, E, and D. Placed like initials. A scar ran up the middle and bisected the E with minimal disruption of the design. The edges of it were precise.
Everything inside Dexter stilled. He resisted the urge to run his fingers over the mark. Sadness crowded in his mind, a memory on the edge of it, but not materializing.
Had the tattoo come after it? Maybe she’d had surgery, then gotten the art afterward. Maybe…
“It’s a very vulnerable state to be in.” Beth’s voice jerked Dexter away from Charleen.
His heart launched into his throat. “Don’t do that.” He took a breath and stood.
Beth moved past where Charleen still slept on the couch. Her gaze roamed the pictures hanging on the walls—a photo of him and his siblings in the disaster of an attempted breakfast one Mother’s Day—her arms clasped behind her back. “What?” She glanced back at him. “Remind you that you are alive?”
“I think I can manage on my own.”
Beth shrugged. “The house could burn down and Vi would never know the difference.”
An image of Charleen trapped and unaware caused his stomach to roll. His gaze found her, unmoved. She hadn’t even roused when he’d shifted from beneath her. “Has it happened before?”
“Obviously not.” Her attention slammed to the front door. “You’ve got company.”
What?
The door opened and Mave Knight entered, a serene smile on her face, her silver hair—when had that happened?—neatly trimmed. She held a platter of donuts in one hand. Her focus was behind her. “Hart, promise me. Leave—” She turned, her eyes hitting Dexter.
A smile lit her face. “Dexter.” She moved toward him, her arms open and the flowing flowery shirt she wore rippling with her movements. “Come here. Give me a hug.”
He met her halfway toward the door, her free arm sliding around his middle. She gave a squeeze and pulled back as his dad set a toolbox beside the door and walked toward them. His leather cowboy boots echoed across the floor much as they had when Dexter had been a kid, his feet forever in a pair. His jeans were immaculately pressed, the dark button-up shirt he wore neatly tucked in. He stood at least a foot taller than Dexter’s mother, the silver buckle at his waist highlighting the reason all of the Knight children stood at attention during their childhood.
He’d probably used it on them all once, maybe Finn twice. Over the last four years, his dad’s hair had rapidly changed from salt-and-pepper to all salt.
His father clapped him on the shoulder. “Hi, Son. You get my message?”
Dexter had gotten it. Had felt guilty for not calling his dad back. Hadn’t been ready to discuss any of it—the job, moving home. The recent prison incident the general population had gotten wind of, thanks to the news. The past. And then he’d been swept into the chaos with Charleen.
He doubted the older man would appreciate or understand that legitimate explanation. He was still trying to get a handle on it.
“Hart.” Mave eyed her husband, a warning tone in her voice.
“What?” Dexter’s dad folded his arms across his chest. “Man can’t ask his son a simple question?”
“Not where that leads. Not this time of morning.” She pointed to the second story. “Go fix the tub like you promised Juliana.”
An unspoken message moved between them. “If anyone needs me I’ll be monkeying with pipes. Fine-tuning all the things I’d like to say to my oldest son.” He grabbed his toolbox, then he disappeared up the stairs, a whistle following behind him.
“Have you had coffee yet?” His mother moved toward the kitchen, still seemingly unaware of Charleen’s presence on the couch. “I’ll make some to go with these. Made them fresh this morning.” She set the tray on the kitchen table and moved to the coffee maker, out of sight from where he still stood in the living room.
A baritone voice filtered from upstairs, a country song his dad had enjoyed when Dexter was a kid. One the older man still sang with gusto.
Maybe he should have that chat with his dad. Get it all out in the open. Pray for it to be the last time they had this serious discussion. Forever.
Yes. He’d been in an explosion. He’d survived. He continued working at the prison to save lives. To change them. It was the same thing he’d been doing before the explosion. He wasn’t any more or less vulnerable now than he had been.
“Your parents are the best.” Beth moved beside Dexter.
“Yeah?” They had been fantastic role models. Growing up, there hadn’t been a kid on the block who hadn’t liked coming over for his mother’s baking. His dad’s love of teaching.
“Charleen’s afraid to get involved with them, but what she fails to see is that she already is.”
“Because of Juliana?” Or something—someone else?
“Did you say something, honey?” Mave Knight poked her head around the corner.
He straightened. Right. They weren’t alone. He moved into the kitchen.
“Talking to myself.” He avoided looking beside him, where Beth followed him into the kitchen. “Work related. Nothing interesting.” Nothing that needed to be interesting for anyone else. He took a seat at the table.
A bark of laughter came from Beth. “That’s the wrong answer, Dexter.”
Worry bloomed across his mom’s face. She rested her hands on the kitchen counter. Smoothed a towel on its surface. “I didn’t want to do this. Not now. But your father heard about an incident—a stabbing at the prison—and he knows you were the target. He thinks if he asks point-blank, you’ll have to admit it. You’ll have to talk about it. About everything.”
Dexter wouldn’t cause them that kind of worry. The papers hadn’t revealed much of anything. Victim or assailant. They’d wanted to downplay it. He had too. Been just as shocked as anyone when the makeshift shank split the flesh of his upper arm. From a young man he’d been mentoring. A young man he’d been sure he was seeing progress in.
Maybe the prison board of directors was right. Perhaps he’d gotten involved to the point where he could no longer see the dangers.
“We really think you should come home. That place—that prison—isn’t healthy for you.”
Beth sat on the counter near the sink, much like she had last night, one hand braced behind her back. That moment seemed like a lifetime ago. “Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe she’s right.”
Maybe he was insane. Finally. After all these years.
“I understand your profession—”
“Mom.” In five minutes she’d be rehashing every debacle. They went around this bush every time he came home. He could barely remember what it was like to have a regular conversation with his parents. He missed those days. The joking. Games. Laughter. Didn’t know how to get it back. Was convinced it was impossible. “It’s a job. It’s fine.”
He’d prove that it was.
She sighed. Moved to the cupboard and grabbed several plates and two mugs, her motions careful. She set them near the carafe and brought the plates to the table. “I know you want to change hearts.” She put a donut on a plate and moved it in front of him.
These used to be his favorite. His reason for getting up on Saturday morning as a teenager. How long had it been since he’d had one of his mom’s homemade donuts?
She laid a hand on his cheek. “I admire your tenacity. I know that’s your passion. But these inmates—some of them are only interested in hurting others so they don’t have to feel their own pain. I worry about my son becoming another casualty.”
She wouldn’t feel that way if any of the events of the last several years had not occurred. The truth was all over her face.
He patted her hand. He’d used all the platitudes before. He was tired of the senseless argument. Tired of defending actions that didn’t need defense. To his family. His friends. The state. “I know you do.”
The smile faded from her face. She dropped her hand and moved away. “Your dad and brother plan to discuss the job opening here in Charlotte.” Her eyes met his. “You know the one I mean.”
“They can discuss the Internal Affairs Psychologist position all they want.” He set the plate aside. “It’s nothing new. Every time I come home they’re at the ready with a job somewhere in town.”
One time his dad had gone as far as procuring a building for Dexter to set up a brand new practice in. Had even paid the first and last month’s rent.
She held up a hand. “Humor them. For me. They miss you.” She moved toward the living room, but stopped short. “And don’t forget about dinner.”
Right. “Dinner or an interrogation?”
One brow arched much the same as it had when he’d been a kid in need of firm reprimand. “We’re eating promptly at six thirty.”
Huh. Usually these conversations lasted much longer and went far deeper. Continued until he ended up leaving early or they agreed to disagree. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
A smile crossed her face. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m going to go check on your sister.” She moved from the room, but detoured by the couch. Tucked the blankets around Charleen before disappearing to another portion of the house.
“She’s really banking on how much you’re going to love the neighbor’s granddaughter.” Beth hopped from the counter, a smile on her face. “Daisy would love to have three or four children. Loves baking and sewing. She’s had a huge crush on you since she was seven.” Beth clapped her hands together. “The best part? She just graduated with her Masters in psychology. You’re soul mates.”
He ran a hand through his hair. They were definitely not soul mates. They weren’t anything, nor would they ever be.
“Who pissed in your Cheerios, bro?” The scrape of a chair filled the silence before Finn plopped into the seat across from him at the dining table. He slapped an iPod on the wooden surface while he downed water from the bottle in his hands. His shaggy brown hair was damp, sweat cropping up along his temples and neck. It soaked into the gray shirt he wore.
“Ah, Finn.” Beth hopped up on the edge of the table facing his brother. “Long time no see. What trouble are we finding this week?”
Dexter cleared his throat. Focused on his brother as best he could. “What?”
Finn shoved part of a granola bar into his mouth. “Mom said you got in yesterday, dropped your stuff off and disappeared. Figured I’d find you here and I’d come say hello before you hide out for the remainder of your visit.” He polished off the bar and reached for the donuts at the center of the table. Slid the entire tray toward himself.
“Funny. Did you run here?”
“I’d run anywhere for these things.” Finn picked one up and took a mouthful. “Or if I were running toward a beautiful woman with her arms open for me.”
“Oh, honey.” Beth shook her head. “We’re going to have to work on this open for anyone policy you have. It’s very dangerous.” She turned toward Dexter. “Tell him it’s dangerous.”
How did Charleen manage this every day?
“Simple.” Beth rested her elbows on her knees. “No attachments. Nobody asks questions. We go on our merry way. We’ve been at this a very long time.”
How? The question buzzed through him like an electric charge.
Dexter sucked in a breath. Focused on his brother who still devoured the pastries. “Don’t you have a house where you can eat your own food?”
“Uh-huh.” Finn’s deep blue eyes centered on him. “No girl though. Seems I’m off my game as of late. My charm hasn’t impressed the one. She’s definitely not welcoming me with open arms.”
Beth rolled her eyes. “Oh, brother.”
Dexter cleared his throat. “The one?”
“Not the one.” He hiked a thumb toward the living room, his voice lowering. “I’m pretty sure Charleen views me as a worm she’d rather run over with her tin can of a car before letting me get close. Even in a platonic manner. Have you ever tried talking to her?”
A snort came from Beth. “His unhealthy obsession with my girl is the only thing keeping him away from the disaster named Mia. Charleen knows it.” Beth pointed to her head. “Subconsciously. That’s why she allows your brother to hang around and hasn’t told him to suck-start a shotgun. Why she checks up on him every couple of days even though she’d rather eat dirt than dive into anything resembling family.”
What? Dexter used his thumb and forefinger to rub his eyes. What did Beth mean by hanging around? “What did you do, Finn?”
“Me?” His brother straightened, his arm frozen halfway to his mouth. “She’s been helping Juliana around here. I tried to hug her to show my gratitude. Girl got a stiff arm like a football player. A mouth like one too.”
Dexter didn’t want to focus on the sudden, intense need to tell his brother to back off. That Charleen had stiff-armed him because she’d seen through him the second he’d stepped on the premises. At least in the relationship department.
Dexter tapped his fingers on the table. “A little rejection every now and then is good for you.”
“It’s not about that.” Finn leaned closer. “Last week I came across some guy up in her face.”
Everything inside Dexter tightened.
“She brushed it off like I was the jerk—like she had everything under control—but this guy towered over her and she was, I don’t know, frozen. It happened right outside. Even Mia was freaked out.”
Charleen frozen. It didn’t make sense. The woman he knew was action—some of it ill-timed. “Who’s Mia?”
Something dark slithered over his brother’s face, the carefree Finn disappearing in milliseconds. “Just this girl I know from Marks Academy.”
“And?”
“Nothing.” He leaned back. “We both teach. That’s it.”
Dexter clasped his hands on the table, content to wait the other man out. Something wasn’t adding up. Finn had always been pretty open about the women he dated.
If he were tight-lipped about one it could mean—
“That you should question it.” Beth hopped from the table and headed toward Charleen.
Finn shifted in his chair, his elbows braced on the table, hands clasped and his eyes hard. “Whatever you’re aiming for here, it isn’t going to work. I’m not an inmate who needs to offload my conscience.”
Irritation hummed through Dexter. Not everything he did was in direct correlation to his job. “Doesn’t mean you don’t have something to say.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.” He reached for another pastry and took a bite. “So, when are you disappearing? Sometime after this honor ceremony?” He gestured with the donut, a sugary mess falling to the table. “Mom told me all about it. Gushes to all her friends, too. With the way they act, you’d think you invented a cure for cancer or something.”
There was no cure for anything. Just a slew of problems—his own, Charleen’s—he couldn’t fix. His gaze wandered toward the couch. But he’d attempt to. “I fly out Monday.”
“Wow.” Finn’s jaw flexed. “Not even a full week.”
Guilt smacked Dexter in the chest for the first time in a long time. He’d been so absent he didn’t know what his own brother was up to. Why his nephew was getting into fights at school. When exactly his dad’s hair had started turning silver. “I’ve got to get back to work. I have responsibilities.” That he’d already been away from in the week he’d spent convincing a board of directors the grant money they supplied The Central Prison was warranted.
That Wittemoore’s incident was isolated and irregular. And Dexter’s focus was absolute.
Finn nodded. “Are they still keeping the death row inmates segregated?”
“Permanent isolation isn’t sustainable.” Dexter had the new scar over his arm to prove it. “People have lost their minds over less. Some of these guys have been in for ten years or more.”
Charleen’s guardian angel proved something else altogether. Not that he could march to the board of directors and point to the woman no one could see.
Hey, guys. It works. She saw the light.
“Should have thought about that before they broke the law.” Finn flicked his granola wrapper. “Murdered people, stole lives, and destroyed families.” He jammed his index and middle finger into the table. “You remember that, right? They committed crimes—some of them so heinous most people refuse to talk about them.”
Dexter didn’t ever forget. “I’m not disagreeing with you.”
“They don’t deserve your pity or compassion. A deep, dark hole would be too kind.”
“Some of these men and women haven’t ever been shown anything but that kind of hatred—the kind you’re talking about. If we don’t break the cycle, that’s it. There’s no other opportunity.”
Finn tucked his tongue in the side of his cheek. “How many times you gonna get shanked before you give up? They made choices, man. Bad choices, yet you sit there and try to help them as if you’re in Africa saving a village from starvation.”
Never. He was never giving up. Not in any part of his life. It was worth the risk.
Wasn’t it?
Wasn’t that what drew him to anybody? Affecting a change, even if he didn’t get to see the end result. “I’m not vetting for release for these guys. I’m not asking for a lighter sentence. I’m attempting to stave off an entirely different form of starvation.”
If you could change something…
Finn tossed his half-eaten pastry back on the plate. Used a napkin to wipe his mouth. “When was the last time someone came at you with something sharp?”
He’d already had this argument with the warden. He wasn’t recreating it with his brother who likely had as much suspicion as his dad on the matter. Would want the details just the same. To convince him to come home. To give up. Move on. “This is what I do. I’m aware of the risk. We have safety briefings on a regular basis. I’m under no delusions. I know I don’t work at Disneyland.”
Finn slung his arm over his chair, the tips of his fingers on his opposite hand tapping the surface. “Dad said Major Fritz has an opening for a psychologist here in Charlotte.”
Dexter stood. Moved to the carafe and poured himself a cup. He’d cut down on the stimulant sometime after the rehab center explosion. “I’m not applying.”
He couldn’t leave Raleigh. Couldn’t leave his house. The idea sent swift anxiety through him. It was his space—nothing he’d built or struggled unduly for. Just a place he called home.
And there was more—a lot more he couldn’t put into words.
“What’s so bad about living here? You could help people here. People who actually want to be productive members of society—heck, even some who don’t, if that’s your thing. Plus, Juliana could use your help with Ricky. He listens to you. You have his full attention, Dexter. You’re all he ever talks about.”
Dexter closed his eyes. He’d failed in the most basic way someone failed a child. Absence. He had to fix it. Make sure Ricky understood…
Sixteen foster homes.
“You know Juliana’s been talking about getting in contact with Ricky’s dad. Having Ricky get to know him.”
Dexter spun around. “What?”
“We don’t even know him. He’s this faceless guy. And we’re all suddenly supposed to be okay with Ricky spending time with him? Where’s he been all this time? Not here. Not helping Ricky with homework or playing with him. What if he’s a drug addict or worse?” Finn stood. “Meanwhile, you’re in Raleigh.”
Dexter took a breath even as everything inside him wanted to storm upstairs and shake his sister. “Juliana’s an adult with a good head on her shoulders. If she thinks Ricky should spend time with his dad, then we trust that she knows what’s best.” Hopefully. His parents had been asking about the man since Ricky’s birth. Juliana refused to give answers. “And Raleigh is two-and-a-half hours away. It’s not like I live in Africa.”
Finn straightened. “You might as well. We’d know if something happened to you in about as much time.”
“What’s the real issue? I expect Mom and Dad to host dinners disguised as dating shows and improvise in whatever way they can, but you’re usually too busy with the flavor of the month to worry about what anyone is doing, so what’s going on?”
“Yeah. Flavor of the month.” Finn grabbed his iPod from the table and unraveled the cord. “You know it took them two days to figure out who you were after that explosion four years ago at the rehab center?” He held up two fingers in a peace sign. “You didn’t have any identification on you.”
Like Hugh last night. Like Jane Doe. Like the vic in that house.
That day was hazy. Had his wallet been lost or had he left it behind? No. He would’ve had to present it at the visitor’s desk. Would’ve signed in. Gotten approval from Mitch, his army buddy.
“Your body was mangled, bruised, and bloody. We didn’t have any idea you’d even been anywhere near the rehab center. You could’ve died and we wouldn’t have figured out there was anything wrong until far too late. Lucky for you, there was a nurse who recognized you and called us.”
If he survives, I never want to hear his name again. I can’t watch him put himself in jeopardy. And that’s what he’ll do. Over and over. Regardless of anything I say or do. If I forget him—if I forget us…
The voice was so clear in his head, the anguish in the words slashing at his heart, but an image of the speaker wasn’t forthcoming. And the subject matter?
What would he do over and over that would jeopardize anything?
“I expect this kind of thing from Juliana. Duck and dodge. She’s been that way her whole life—even more so after Ricky’s birth. But you—you’ve always been around. Then four years ago you almost didn’t make it. And even though you recovered, it’s like you didn’t come back at all.”
Dexter, honey, it’s a little more precise than that.
What if it wasn’t? What if he’d been thrown—slingshotted to that moment in time, leaving him little recollection of the events? Leaving him little glimpses of something that hadn’t happened yet or had happened, too distant to categorize or recognize. Because he remembered every second of what had occurred with Charleen over the last twenty-four hours. “You’re right.”
He hadn’t come back because he’d left a part of himself somewhere. Had moved from a normal rhythm to a disjointed semblance of life.
One dark brow rose on Finn’s forehead. He shifted. “I am? Does that mean you’ll consider that job?”
“Will it make you shut up if I say yes?”
“Only if you mean it.”
He didn’t know what he meant at this point. Didn’t know what the future—or the past—could hold. He needed to talk to Charleen. Find a way to get in touch with Simone and Hugh. He needed answers. They needed to find Elliot, which meant finding…
He froze, his eyes leveling with his brother. “When I first came out of the drug-induced coma, did I say anything? Do anything? Was there anyone who came to visit other than family?”
Finn blew a breath of air from between his lips. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. The truth. Not the sugar-coated version Mom and Dad told you to feed me.”
Worry covered his brother’s face. “Dex…”
“The truth. I beat you when we were kids.”
Finn rolled his eyes. “Only if you count a long discussion a beating.”
“Finn.”
“You were in that hospital for a week before Mom and Dad were able to make it home from the Bahamas. It was just me until Juliana could get coverage for Knight House. And she had Ricky. You looked pretty bad. We couldn’t let him see that.”
Maybe he should’ve used his fist more when they were kids. “Finn. Speed it up.”
“You were in and out of it. When they weaned you off the meds you’d get so agitated that they’d have to sedate you all over again. You kept talking about a woman.”
Something heavy landed in his stomach. He hadn’t wasted four years. What if she were in trouble? What if she needed him? He’d never know.
“I thought you might have recently met someone we didn’t know about. I asked around the prison. I asked your neighbors. If you had a girlfriend, no one knew anything about her.”
Because she was his wife. And he’d forgotten every basic thing about her. By design. His or hers?
In the beginning, he’d attempted to hunt down a marriage license—anything to give him the little bit of proof he needed. There’d been nothing.
No rings. No license. No joint checking accounts or property deeds.
Because she’s in the details one hundred percent.
His wife would never dip her toe in the water to test it. She’d dive right in. He knew that right down to his toes.
“By the time Mom and Dad arrived, the doctors warned us not to upset you with anything you’d said while out of it. Any information you needed to know would come over time.”
Or not at all.