of the black Jeep parked in front of her house. Speed. As much as she had wanted to dump her frustration and anxiety regarding Kyle all over her ex, she had wanted to do it over the airwaves and be able to turn the phone off afterward. Neat and clean—at least in the moment. She didn’t have the energy to do it in person. She was exhausted, operating on three hours of sleep in the last thirty-three. The last thing she wanted to add to this shit day was a mental sparring match with her ex-husband.
She told herself she should have been glad he had shown up—for the boys’ sake. No matter how many times he let them down, he was still their dad, and they loved him. It was important for them to have their father’s presence in their lives, even if it was sporadic. But there was always an emotional price to pay after the fact—for the boys and for her.
The television was blaring a football bowl game in the living room as Nikki let herself in. The house was warm and smelled of chili simmering in the Crock-Pot. She wanted to feel the tension melt away, but that wasn’t going to happen.
She peeled off the layers of outerwear and wedged her coat in among the boys’ things in the tiny hall closet, then ducked into the powder room, disheartened to see she hadn’t turned into a Swedish bikini model in the last three minutes. It pissed her off that it mattered to her. She didn’t want to care what Speed thought when he looked at her, but she couldn’t seem to shake that particular vanity.
Unfortunately, she looked exactly how she felt: older than she wanted to be, worn, tired and jaded by life and by having just watched the autopsy of a young woman whose gruesome death had earned her the nickname Zombie Doe. Möller had estimated the dead girl to be between fourteen and eighteen—roughly the same age as Nikki’s own children.
She splashed cold water on her face and rubbed some color into her cheeks with the towel, then finger-combed her hair and muttered, “Fuck it,” under her breath.
In the living room Speed and R.J. were playing Nerf football as the television crowd cheered. Speed, ball cap backward on his head, grunted out a play, ran backward in his stocking feet, and fired the bright green football with a rocket arm. R.J. bolted across the width of the room, hurdled an ottoman, and crashed onto the sofa, then leapt up with the ball in hand. Father and son hooted and hollered and did a victory dance that knocked over a lamp.
Nikki said nothing. She would already be considered the bad guy by default in this scenario. No need to dig the hole any deeper over a lamp.
Neither Speed nor R.J. had noticed her yet. She watched them with an old familiar pang of envy in her chest. Hallmark couldn’t have conjured up a more adorable father-son picture: the matching football jerseys, the matching backward caps, the matching bad-boy grins as they grabbed hold of each other and wrestled each other to the floor.
R.J. had always been a mini-Speed. Looking at them side by side was like looking at some kind of crazy time-warp photo. At thirteen, R.J.’s body was only just beginning its metamorphosis from boy to adolescent. He was still on the small side. His shoulders were just starting to widen. The baby fat was beginning to melt from his once-cherubic cheeks. Beside him was the grown man he would become: broad shouldered, flat bellied, square jawed, handsome.
These days Speed was sporting a laser-sharp trimmed mustache and goatee that emphasized the angles of his face and gave him a certain sinister edge. Time and life had etched lines beside his too-blue eyes, but instead of aging him, instead of making him look tired—as those same lines did to her—they only served to give him a sexy ruggedness. She hated him for that.
“Uh-oh,” Speed said, looking up. “We’re busted, sport!”
“Nice to see you too, Speed,” she said. “I thought you’d left the country. You haven’t been answering your phone.”
“Lost
She told herself she should have been glad he had shown up—for the boys’ sake. No matter how many times he let them down, he was still their dad, and they loved him. It was important for them to have their father’s presence in their lives, even if it was sporadic. But there was always an emotional price to pay after the fact—for the boys and for her.
The television was blaring a football bowl game in the living room as Nikki let herself in. The house was warm and smelled of chili simmering in the Crock-Pot. She wanted to feel the tension melt away, but that wasn’t going to happen.
She peeled off the layers of outerwear and wedged her coat in among the boys’ things in the tiny hall closet, then ducked into the powder room, disheartened to see she hadn’t turned into a Swedish bikini model in the last three minutes. It pissed her off that it mattered to her. She didn’t want to care what Speed thought when he looked at her, but she couldn’t seem to shake that particular vanity.
Unfortunately, she looked exactly how she felt: older than she wanted to be, worn, tired and jaded by life and by having just watched the autopsy of a young woman whose gruesome death had earned her the nickname Zombie Doe. Möller had estimated the dead girl to be between fourteen and eighteen—roughly the same age as Nikki’s own children.
She splashed cold water on her face and rubbed some color into her cheeks with the towel, then finger-combed her hair and muttered, “Fuck it,” under her breath.
In the living room Speed and R.J. were playing Nerf football as the television crowd cheered. Speed, ball cap backward on his head, grunted out a play, ran backward in his stocking feet, and fired the bright green football with a rocket arm. R.J. bolted across the width of the room, hurdled an ottoman, and crashed onto the sofa, then leapt up with the ball in hand. Father and son hooted and hollered and did a victory dance that knocked over a lamp.
Nikki said nothing. She would already be considered the bad guy by default in this scenario. No need to dig the hole any deeper over a lamp.
Neither Speed nor R.J. had noticed her yet. She watched them with an old familiar pang of envy in her chest. Hallmark couldn’t have conjured up a more adorable father-son picture: the matching football jerseys, the matching backward caps, the matching bad-boy grins as they grabbed hold of each other and wrestled each other to the floor.
R.J. had always been a mini-Speed. Looking at them side by side was like looking at some kind of crazy time-warp photo. At thirteen, R.J.’s body was only just beginning its metamorphosis from boy to adolescent. He was still on the small side. His shoulders were just starting to widen. The baby fat was beginning to melt from his once-cherubic cheeks. Beside him was the grown man he would become: broad shouldered, flat bellied, square jawed, handsome.
These days Speed was sporting a laser-sharp trimmed mustache and goatee that emphasized the angles of his face and gave him a certain sinister edge. Time and life had etched lines beside his too-blue eyes, but instead of aging him, instead of making him look tired—as those same lines did to her—they only served to give him a sexy ruggedness. She hated him for that.
“Uh-oh,” Speed said, looking up. “We’re busted, sport!”
“Nice to see you too, Speed,” she said. “I thought you’d left the country. You haven’t been answering your phone.”
“Lost
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