Page 14 of Protect My Heart

Nope, that would be suicide, and Jim wasn’t ready to die.

After rounding his desk, he pulled up the file and thought about the evening to come. CJ and he worked on the connection between the shooter and the vic. They didn’t find any at first glance, but if Jim wanted to lock the case without a lineup, he needed to find something. He pushed up his Henley sleeves and with a neck crack, got to work.

Liz was halfway home when her phone buzzed. Number unknown. Could it be Isabella? She hadn’t programmed Luis’s mother’s number into her phone. She answered, “Hello.”

No sound came from the other end. “Hello? Isabella, is that you?”

A breath heaved in her ear. She would swear her hair moved from its force. Shaking off the tiny fingers of fear tapping on her spine, she straightened and replied, “Who is this?”

The only response was another long, heavy breath.

“You must have the wrong number.”

Before she could end the call, she heard a faint cough. But it was the next sound that drained the blood from her face.

“Mo stór. Did you get the package?” How many times had she heard the Irish endearment. Mo stór. Her father had called her his little treasure for as long as she could remember.

“Papi?” Frail as a baby bird, her voice barely passed her lips. She pulled over to the side of the road, narrowly missing parked cars. She bumped the curb as she came to an abrupt stop. “How did you get my number?”

His parole hearing was coming up, and she would be there to make sure he didn’t get out one day early from his sentence. That night was seared into her memory. The shouts, the crash of the lamp, pungent smell of cigarette smoke, and the sight of her brother’s blood on the beige carpet.

He hadn’t seen her, but she had seen him.

“Answer me?” The tinge of panic rang in her voice.

A low, raspy, laugh reached her ear. The line went dead.

She threw her phone across the seat, gripped the steering wheel with her shaking hands, and let her head drop forward. He couldn’t be out. She received the letter from the prison yesterday.

Her head shot up then swiveled with the slow motion of a creepy ventriloquist dummy towards her purse on the seat next to her. The letter. She hadn’t opened the letter, but it was the notice of the upcoming hearing. It must be. It was the same process as before.

With a still shaking hand, she reached for the letter. It seemed like minutes went by before she slipped her pale pink fingernail under the flap and ripped the letter open. She took a big breath, surprised her lungs didn’t pop from the amount of air she forced into her body. With a low hiss, she exhaled and read the official notice.

Dr. Elizabeth Garcia, we regret to inform you of the death of your father, Patrick O’Roarke.

She made it through a few more lines before her vision blurred and the paper fell from her trembling hands. Her father was dead. He hadn’t been a real father to her in years. Even before the horrific night that her brother died. Her mom said his deployment changed him, but she was too young to remember much of the laughing, loving man her mom remembered. Liz only knew the drunk who yelled a lot and never held a job for more than a few months. As a psychologist and grown woman, she understood the effects of PTSD. But as a child who lived with a parent with it, she hadn’t moved past the hurt into forgiveness.

Her phone buzzed and she jumped in her seat. Picking it up, she glanced at the screen. Titi. Not sure if she could keep the tension out of her voice, she let it go to voicemail.

Joy Whittier didn’t like to be put off, but Liz would think of a way to distract her aunt. She couldn’t lie worth spit, so diversion and redirection were her best bets when it came to surviving her aunt’s weekly family dinner without it turning into a national emergency. If Joy knew Liz was upset about her father or that a dead man called her, it would be a red alert, batten down the hatches kind of drama. Her mother would not only be called but on the next plane home.

The thought of her mother comforted Liz. She wondered if she knew Patty was dead.

But was he really dead? She inspected the letter and envelope. It’s definitely official. He must be deceased, but then who had called her? A postmortem phone call? It must be someone’s idea of a sick joke.

Shaking the creepy feeling from her body, she squared her shoulders, placed her hands on the steering wheel once more, and blew out a long, slow breath. It was almost five-thirty. She put the car in drive and pulled back out into traffic. All the angels in heaven couldn’t help her if her butt wasn’t in that dining room chair at six o’clock. She drove like a teenage kid peeling out of the school parking lot on the last day of class.

Chapter 6

Jim sat in the Whittier’s living room. It felt like he was in a showroom of a fancy furniture store. He’d bet the interior designer’s commission was more than he made in a year. The crystal coasters protected the cherry coffee table from damage. A smile ghosted his lips. His parent’s coffee table had more rings than the Olympics.

He swiped his thumb across the condensation on his ice water glass. Mark, CJ’s father sat on the sofa sipping his twelve-year-old scotch, talking business with Harrison, CJ’s younger brother. Joy, Lorna, and a woman named Mira were in the dining room and the kids were in the den. The little one must be feeling better. Jim saw him playing a game on an iPad when he walked by.

But where was Doc? He glanced at the clock on the mantel.

“Let’s take our seats. Dinner will be served shortly.” Joy Whittier waved her hand and the light gleamed off the stones on her fingers. Jim would have shielded his eyes from the glare if the Whittier’s weren’t such nice people.

“Sorry I’m late.” Liz breezed in still wearing her coat and gloves. “Give me a moment and I’ll be right back.”