Janice is Debraâs closest relative here in Chattanooga.â
âIf youâll give me your address and directions, Iâll be there within the hour.â
âThank you.â He hurriedly rattled off the street address and then went over the driving directions with her twice.
Audrey laid the portable phone on the counter, picked up her cup, took two quick sips, and then dumped the tea into the sink before heading straight back to her bedroom. There was no time for breakfast or even a leisurely cup of morning tea.
Â
J.D. had left Zoe a note stuck to the refrigerator with an orange and white UT emblem magnet. They had pretty much fallen into a routine during the past year, each giving the other plenty of space, neither able to truly connect with the other. Most weekday mornings, they ate breakfast together and he dropped her off at Baylorâthe outrageously expensive private school she attendedâon his way to the office. But whenever he was called out before breakfastâweekdays or weekendsâheâd leave her a note as he had done this morning. Since it was Sunday, he wouldnât have to make arrangements for someone to take her to school, and at fourteen, she was old enough to be left alone without adult supervision during the day.
After several come-to-Jesus talks with Zoe, he pretty much trusted her to do what she was told. She didnât like it, but thatâs just the way it was. She was a kid. He was her father. He made the rules. She followed them or else.
Or else what?
Damn it, sometimes he had no idea how to handle her.
She had pushed him to the limit more than once. He had grounded her, taken away certain privileges, and tried to talk sense to her. Only once had he threatened to send her packing. The fear he had seen in her eyes that day was something he never wanted to see again. As much as she hated living with him, as often as she grumbled and complained about how much she disliked him and what a piss-poor excuse for a father he was, Zoe knew he was the only game in town. Nobody else wanted her. If not for him, she would be living in foster care.
The thought unnerved him more than a little. He had heard the horror stories. Heâd run across more than one juvenile delinquent who had come out of the system the worse for wear, neglected, and occasionally abused. If Carrie hadnât gotten in touch with him before she died, if she hadnât told him he had a daughterâ¦
Pushing aside thoughts of how bad he sucked at being a father, J.D. took the Soddy-Daisy/Hixson Pike exit off US-27 North and followed Garth Hudsonâs directions to the illegal dump site in Soddy-Daisy. After taking TN-319 and following Tsati Terrace, he veered off onto what appeared to be little more than a winding, narrow paved lane. Within minutes, he saw the row of emergency vehicles lined up along the roadside and the swarm of personnel already on site. He carefully parked his â68 Dodge Charger at the end of the line, got out, and then walked a good two hundred yards before reaching the edge of the crime scene. Ordinarily, he didnât use his dadâs old car as a daily driver, but his â07 Chevy Camaro convertible was in the body shop. Some goofball had rear-ended him last week.
In a semiwooded area, less than twelve feet from the road, a band of investigators milled around a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot pile of discarded items. An old refrigerator. A ratty, seen-better-days love seat. A twin-size mattress. Empty paint cans. Several overflowing plastic garbage bags. And one old, broken rocking chair, the floral cushions faded with age and stained from exposure to the weather.
Tam Lovelady turned just as J.D. flashed his badge to the officer guarding the entrance to the cordoned-off area. She threw up her hand and motioned to him. As he approached Officer Lovelady and Sergeant Hudson, his gaze focused on the woman in the rocking chair. Her body sat upright, rigid, as if made
âIf youâll give me your address and directions, Iâll be there within the hour.â
âThank you.â He hurriedly rattled off the street address and then went over the driving directions with her twice.
Audrey laid the portable phone on the counter, picked up her cup, took two quick sips, and then dumped the tea into the sink before heading straight back to her bedroom. There was no time for breakfast or even a leisurely cup of morning tea.
Â
J.D. had left Zoe a note stuck to the refrigerator with an orange and white UT emblem magnet. They had pretty much fallen into a routine during the past year, each giving the other plenty of space, neither able to truly connect with the other. Most weekday mornings, they ate breakfast together and he dropped her off at Baylorâthe outrageously expensive private school she attendedâon his way to the office. But whenever he was called out before breakfastâweekdays or weekendsâheâd leave her a note as he had done this morning. Since it was Sunday, he wouldnât have to make arrangements for someone to take her to school, and at fourteen, she was old enough to be left alone without adult supervision during the day.
After several come-to-Jesus talks with Zoe, he pretty much trusted her to do what she was told. She didnât like it, but thatâs just the way it was. She was a kid. He was her father. He made the rules. She followed them or else.
Or else what?
Damn it, sometimes he had no idea how to handle her.
She had pushed him to the limit more than once. He had grounded her, taken away certain privileges, and tried to talk sense to her. Only once had he threatened to send her packing. The fear he had seen in her eyes that day was something he never wanted to see again. As much as she hated living with him, as often as she grumbled and complained about how much she disliked him and what a piss-poor excuse for a father he was, Zoe knew he was the only game in town. Nobody else wanted her. If not for him, she would be living in foster care.
The thought unnerved him more than a little. He had heard the horror stories. Heâd run across more than one juvenile delinquent who had come out of the system the worse for wear, neglected, and occasionally abused. If Carrie hadnât gotten in touch with him before she died, if she hadnât told him he had a daughterâ¦
Pushing aside thoughts of how bad he sucked at being a father, J.D. took the Soddy-Daisy/Hixson Pike exit off US-27 North and followed Garth Hudsonâs directions to the illegal dump site in Soddy-Daisy. After taking TN-319 and following Tsati Terrace, he veered off onto what appeared to be little more than a winding, narrow paved lane. Within minutes, he saw the row of emergency vehicles lined up along the roadside and the swarm of personnel already on site. He carefully parked his â68 Dodge Charger at the end of the line, got out, and then walked a good two hundred yards before reaching the edge of the crime scene. Ordinarily, he didnât use his dadâs old car as a daily driver, but his â07 Chevy Camaro convertible was in the body shop. Some goofball had rear-ended him last week.
In a semiwooded area, less than twelve feet from the road, a band of investigators milled around a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot pile of discarded items. An old refrigerator. A ratty, seen-better-days love seat. A twin-size mattress. Empty paint cans. Several overflowing plastic garbage bags. And one old, broken rocking chair, the floral cushions faded with age and stained from exposure to the weather.
Tam Lovelady turned just as J.D. flashed his badge to the officer guarding the entrance to the cordoned-off area. She threw up her hand and motioned to him. As he approached Officer Lovelady and Sergeant Hudson, his gaze focused on the woman in the rocking chair. Her body sat upright, rigid, as if made
Similar Books
