These Violent Roots Page 7

  His head tipped back as he inspected the starless night sky. “I’m not unhappy.”

  “And you’re content with this? Not unhappy, but not definitively happy either?”

  “I’m not sure I care to build my life with happiness at the core. I guess I believe there are more important things to attain in life than mere pleasure.”

  “Things like what?” I pressed.

  Noah watched the fog thickening in front of us. “Things like fulfilling a purpose in life. Meeting a need. Being a force for positive change. Happiness . . .” His head shook. “It’s too damn selfish and superficial. Could you imagine the world we’d create if all eight billion of us lived each day with happiness as the sole marker? We’d implode in the span of a single generation.”

  My face pulled together in consideration. “You’re right.” The words were soft, fading into the night. “I’m not sure if that’s more reassuring or daunting.”

  “More daunting.” Noah came around the other side of me when a dog barked at us from the yard we were passing. “Happiness is easy—you only have to consider yourself. With purpose, you must consider the rest.”

  “And is that why you do what you do? Spend so much time trying to help others?”

  “Trying to help?” I could feel him watching me from the side.

  “You know as well as I do that the men you counsel rarely, if ever, become cured.” My hands twisted inside the large sweatshirt pocket. “That isn’t a demerit to your skill as a psychiatrist, but one to their depth of depravity.”

  “You’re right. There is no way to cure a person of that kind of affliction.” Noah watched the yard with the dog, his shoulders tensed as though he were expecting a confrontation. “But there are ways to ensure they don’t indulge their drives. There are tools, principles that safeguard society from future offenses.”

  The passion in his voice, the glint in his eyes when he talked about his profession—I envied him that. My own passion had withered years ago.

  “Yet the endless cases that wind up in my department every month prove otherwise.” I checked his reaction. “If men like that could be prevented from reoffending, I would switch to your side of this battle.”

  His shoulder brushed mine. “It’s a slow process, but it will happen. I’m confident in that.”

  “Feel free to shove some of that confidence my direction,” I muttered.

  He nodded as he reached into his pocket to silence his phone. I tried not to consider who could have been texting him this late at night.

  “About the other night,” I started, though I wasn’t sure where to go from there.

  Noah’s head moved in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry I walked out the way I did. I should have stayed and talked out whatever it was you wanted to discuss with me.”

  My teeth ground together. There were times Noah talked to me in the same lilting tone and key phrases I imagined he used with his clients. I wanted to talk to my husband, not Dr. Noah Wolff.

  “It’s not that,” I said, still failing to bring the correct words to the surface.

  He waited, his whole demeanor reflecting patience and understanding. The doctor was in.

  While I choked on the right words, all of the wrong ones bubbled to the surface. So I kept my mouth closed.

  “Grace, what is it?” Patience embodied him; in his tone and eyes and body language. It was a coveted trait in a partner—so why was it so maddening to me?

  “The late nights,” I said, stacking my words as I was my thoughts. “You’re rarely ever home. When you are, you’re distant—distracted.” Before continuing, I gauged his reaction. “We barely share a bed anymore and we haven’t had sex in so long I really hope it’s like riding a bike because I’m not sure I remember how it works.” I turned toward him, noting the gap he was maintaining between us. “And when we do share a few minutes together, you maintain this space between us—both physical and emotional.”

  It was impossible to tell what he was feeling. He’d had years of practice hiding his gut reactions from hearing accounts that would churn the insides of most.

  “There wasn’t a question in all of that.” His voice spread into the air around us. “If there’s something you want to ask me, do it. But don’t expect me to guess your thoughts or suspicions.”

  My mouth opened. Then closed. If I asked him what I wanted—if he answered the way I guessed he would—there was no going back to the cozy state of denial I could occasionally bury myself in.

  I wasn’t sure it was worth the cost, but I had to know.

  “Are you having an affair?” The words blurted from me.

  Now that they were finally out, spanning the space between us, I waited. There was no way he could answer that would surprise me anymore. Pain, yes, but shock, no.

  Noah rubbed his mouth, the outside corners of his eyes creasing. It had been so long since I’d witnessed actual emotions from him, I couldn’t recall which one this was.

  “That’s what you’re worried about?” His words were slightly muffled coming through the filter of his hand. When it dropped back at his side, I recognized the emotion playing on his expression.

  Amusement.

  Noting my reaction, he reined in his smile. “I have one woman in my life who can attest to the fact I can’t keep up with her needs given my work schedule.” This time when his shoulder touched mine, it felt decisive. “I certainly have no interest in finding another one whose needs I can neglect.”

  I studied the sidewalk while processing his response. “Just so I’m clear—was that a no?”

  “That was an emphatic no,” he replied, shaking his head. “Paired with an apology for somehow carving out a career that demands most all of my waking hours.”

  As we came to the end of the next block, we turned to head back at the same time, as if our thoughts were synchronized.

  “You’re not the only one guilty of that crime,” I said, not meaning to follow it with a sigh.

  Noah didn’t miss it. “How have things been at work?”

  Our pace slowed on the return journey, the fog having thickened into a vaporous wall. “Today started out great. Took an abrupt detour after that.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know that Skovil case I was trying?”

  “He was acquitted?” he guessed.

  “Well, yeah, last week he was, but this morning, I learned he’d been found dead in his apartment over the weekend.”

  Again, Noah switched sides with me when we approached the yard with the dog. “Found dead? From natural or unnatural causes?”

  The stirrings of anxiety rose for the second time in one day. My prescription was back at home in my purse, which meant I had to manage this one on my own. Shit. I’d become so conditioned to reaching for a pill when something unpleasant clawed at me, I wasn’t sure my natural coping skills were still in commission.

  After taking a deep breath, I answered. “Unnatural.”

  There was a brief pause. “Suicide? Murder?”

  Another deep breath and I felt the panic siphoning back into its hiding place. “They’re going to be investigating it as a homicide.”

  Noah’s expression pulled together briefly. “And I’d imagine there won’t be a short list of potential suspects given this man’s history?”

  “It will probably include a quarter of the city,” I admitted. “Though I’d chance a guess that most everyone in the whole metro area would want a man like Skovil dead.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  “Darryl. Darryl Skovil.” The name felt heavy in my mouth. “Heard of him in your neck of the woods?”

  His brows drew together in concentration. “No. Not that I recall. An offender of minors, I assume.”

  My nails dug into my palms; we spoke different dialects of the same language. “Yes, he’s a child rapist.”

  “How many victims?” he continued.

  “Three who came forward, though we both know for every one who speaks out, there’s
another dozen that stay quiet.”

  His silence was Noah’s way of agreeing.

  “All we had was circumstantial evidence against him, but it was considerable. No jury in their right minds should have been able to look at the case stacked against him and issued an acquittal.”

  “But you wound up with a jury not in their right minds,” he stated.

  “A jury of his peers acquitted a beast incarnate, thus serving to further dissolve my belief in the righteousness of our justice system.”

  Noah stopped moving. “You? Doubting the infallibility of the rule of law?” He caught up to me in a few long strides. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  A note of laughter escaped me. “Don’t broadcast it to the world, please. I’d like to keep my job.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” There was a lightness in Noah’s voice I’d forgotten existed and a look on his face that reminded me of the boy I couldn’t stop staring at the night of that fateful frat party.

  I wasn’t sure who reached out first, but our fingers tangled, palms coming together.

  “Here’s the problem with the whole jury of peers idea. You get a man like Skovil, who absolutely needs to be imprisoned for his crimes and to keep him from committing future ones, and we trust the welfare of society on the decision of twelve people who don’t know anything about the law and were the unfortunate few who weren’t able to get dismissed from the jury pool. It’s a joke.”

  His fingers stretched and relaxed between mine. “It’s rare you have a case go to trial, right? Most of these things are settled outside of court.”

  “True, but the ones that tend to go to court are the type of defendants who really need to be locked away for as long as possible. I hate knowing that my case lies at the mercy of a handful of people who the entirety of their understanding of the legal system comes from cable television.”

  “It does sound hopeless when you put it that way. So what else can you do?”

  My teeth sank into my lip as I considered what more could be done to protect society from the Skovils of the world.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered.

  “If you conjure any brilliant ideas, let me know.” His arm bumped mine. “I’d love to find an answer to the same problem both of us fight in our separate corners.”

  “Well in this instance, my corner lost this round. I didn’t get the conviction.”

  His car came into view up ahead, a fluctuating shape in the rolling fog.

  “You might not have gotten a conviction, but you don’t have to worry about this guy hurting anyone else, right?” he said.

  “Right.”

  “Can’t that count for a win then?”

  This time I was the one who stopped moving. “Dr. Wolff, surely you can’t be advocating death for pedophiles as a therapeutic means of treatment?”

  His eyes lifted. “Of course that’s not what I’m suggesting. There is treatment—effective treatment—for these types of individuals. However, there has to be a desire to change, and it sounds like in this case, there was none.”

  “So murder is the answer for these types of creeps?” I asked.

  “Murder is never an answer.”

  When he pulled my hand, I fell in step beside him. “Then what are you suggesting?”

  He consulted with the dark in front of us, heavy lines drawing into his forehead. “That sometimes, in certain situations, the ends justify the means.”

  When I stayed silent, his head twisted my direction. “On this topic, at this juncture,” I said, “you’ll hear no objection from me on that.”

  “Look at us, finding some common ground after drawing battles lines on this topic years ago.” He stopped when we approached his car, turning to me, his face hovering above mine.

  My heart responded to his nearness, a chill winding up my spine. Noah shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around my shoulders. It was such a natural motion, it could have been an instinct wired into him.

  My discomfort—his remedy.

  His head tipped when he saw my smile. “What?”

  “You just put your coat around me.”

  He opened the passenger door for me, shoulders lifting. “You were cold.”

  Eight

  Word spread fast about Skovil’s death—the rumors spread faster.

  The office had been buzzing yesterday, but today it was swarming with speculation. I had no interest in being sucked into a conversation of guesswork where Skovil’s death was involved—I needed definitive answers.

  “Isn’t it a little early for lunch?” Connor caught me on my way out the door, venti coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other.

  “I’m not going to lunch.”

  “Then where are you going at ten a.m. on a Tuesday, fifteen minutes before we’re scheduled to take a witness statement?”

  I froze mid-step and muttered a curse. I’d been so distracted by Skovil’s death, I was forgetting all kinds of things, including putting on my wedding ring when I woke up this morning. Hopefully Noah didn’t notice it. Not that he’d notice if I went a month without wearing it.

  Last night, we’d made progress . . . that came to a halt when I brought up the dinner with Dean and his date this Thursday. Noah had never been a fan of double dates, but he was even less a fan of Dean Kincaid. He assured me that the level of a man’s ego was a direct reflection of his sum of insecurities. Classic psychiatrist.

  “I forgot all about the interview,” I said.

  “That’s why I make these handy things known as appointments in your calendar. Both your virtual and physical copies.” Connor stepped between the exit and me.

  “This is important.” I checked my watch. “And you’ve taken plenty of witness statements on your own.”

  “Not expert witness statements.”

  “Connor, you’re a better lawyer than half the actual ones in this office. You could try a case in court if need be, and you are certainly capable of this.” Stepping around him, I patted his shoulder. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Life or death qualifier anything,” I clarified.

  “You owe me a triple chai soy latte,” he called after me.

  I snapped my fingers as I headed toward the elevator. “Done.”

  The drive from the office to South Park didn’t take long, though it was like traveling from one world to another. The crime rate in this part of Seattle was over two hundred percent the national average, and more blocks than not gave the impression of a third world hidden in the shadow of a first world one. You couldn’t roll down the window and not catch a whiff of the danger in the air.

  South Park wasn’t a stranger to me, but this visit wasn’t strictly official business. I’d visited the address I was heading to, but under different circumstances.

  Finding an empty spot on the street, I maneuvered my giant SUV into the vacant space. A handful of cruisers were stationed outside the Rambler Apartment Complex, one of them occupied by a familiar face. He finished up the call he was on and stepped out of the car.

  “Hey, kid.” Ed’s thick arms wound around me, squeezing as gently a man his size was capable. “It’s been too long.”

  “What are you talking about? We got together for coffee and pie around Christmas.”

  “Yeah. That was nearly a year ago.” His hands molded around my shoulders, appraising me like I was his own daughter he hadn’t seen in years. “I used to see you nearly every weekend when you were growing up.”

  “Adulting is hard. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.” Smiling, I veiled my surprise at seeing how much he’d aged in a short amount of time. Exhaustion leaked from every part of him, his eyes and posture most of all. Even his wrinkles sagged, as if tired themselves. “How have you been, Ed?”

  He winked. “Never been better.”

  “You’ll still be saying that on your deathbed.”

  “And it’s never going to be more true than it will be then.”

&nbs
p; My gaze cut behind him to the crime scene specialist emerging from inside the complex. The smiles fell from our faces.

  “How’s everything going in there?” I asked.

  “You know how this works. It takes time, then more time, before any determinations can be made.” Ed’s hand landed behind my elbow, guiding me aside. “There’s no smoking gun as far as evidence is concerned yet. Other than the defensive wounds the ME’s discovered, I haven’t seen a trace of proof inside that shithole to lead me to the assumption this was a homicide.”

  My eyebrow quirked up at him. “The evidence hasn’t been tested yet.”

  “The results won’t do much to change my mind either.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “I’d love to sweep this whole thing under the suicide rug, but we have to jump through the hoops the same way your department does. Someone really needs to inform that new sixteen-year-old at the ME’s office that there are certain things we overlook when it comes to certain people.”

  Crossing my arms, I gave him a look of mock sternness. “I still don’t understand how you and my dad were such good friends for years.”

  “Me either, kid.” He sighed, shaking his head. “How is the old man, by the way?”

  “The same. Stubborn. Stuck in his ways.” I gestured at the cloudy sky. “A ray of sunshine.”

  “Tell him hey for me.”

  “You probably talk to him as often as I do,” I said, examining the crowd assembling on the sidewalks around the building.

  Ed tapped the crease drawn between my eyebrows. “You know, most parents and kids get along again after the teen years.”

  “Ah, yes, except I’m the constant reminder of the golden son he never had. The only child it took them a decade and a half of trying for and instead of being elated they finally had a kid, they expected a perfect one who pleased them in every way.” I made a face when I heard myself, the epitome of bitter and jilted. Ed had heard enough of this rejected child routine to know each word, anticipate every turn.

  “You always felt you had big shoes to fill,” he said.

  My head cocked. “I wonder why?”

  “And here I was thinking the point of life was to work to fit inside whatever shoes we decide to create for ourselves.”