EPILOGUE
TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER
MELANIE
I lifted my arms, trying to stretch out my back. I could definitely tell I was older with this pregnancy—things were creaking that hadn’t creaked with Isabella. Not only that, I had a fraction of the energy.
Only two more weeks, then you get your body back again.
Well, except for the midnight feedings, lack of sleep, and general volume of poop to clean up. Grabbing my tablet, I walked into the living room, settling down on the couch. Izzy was over at Reese and London’s place. Painter was working on a mural in the baby’s room. It was a boy. I was pretty sure Painter already had a tiny baby Reapers cut made up for him. He’d bought him a little motorcycle ride-on toy, too. I kept pointing out that we had a good year before the kid would be big enough to use it, but Painter didn’t care. He had baby fever. Seriously. I’d even caught him reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting and taking notes.
We had a little intervention after that.
Sitting down, I flipped through the local headlines online. There was a new pizza place going in on Sherman Avenue. The public safety levy had passed, but the fund-raising campaign for the Fourth of July fireworks show was behind in their goals. A car had been found in the lake, and human remains were inside—they were in the process of identifying the body, but the cops didn’t suspect foul play. The Post Falls Police Department had gotten a new police dog, and her name was Peaches.
The baby started to kick, and I set down the tablet, rubbing my belly slowly, admiring my diamond solitaire wedding ring set. I hadn’t wanted anything fancy, but Painter insisted I deserved the real deal.
Now that his son was beating the crap out of my kidneys, I sort of had to agree.
“How’s it going in there?” I asked the kid. “You about ready to come out and meet us?”
He kicked me again, harder. Persistent little shit. Rolling onto my side, I closed my eyes, drifting.
Might as well enjoy a nap while I still could.
• • •
The doorbell woke me up.
I blinked rapidly, hearing Painter’s footsteps as he walked over to answer it.
“Can I help you?” he asked, a touch of challenge in his voice. Blinking, I pushed myself up to find a cop at the door. That was enough to wake me up—Duck’s still body flashed through my mind, along with an image of Talia bleeding on his kitchen floor.
“I’m Detective Sam Grebil,” he said. “I’m looking for Melanie Tucker.”
“I’m her husband,” Painter challenged. “Why do you want to talk to her?”
“I can really only talk to Ms. Tucker,” he said, spotting me. I pushed myself up awkwardly, turtled by my big belly.
“I’m Melanie,” I managed to say. “Melanie Brooks, now.”“Can I come in?”
“What’s it about?”
He sighed. “Ms. Brooks, I may have news about your mother.”
That caught my attention in a big way. It’d been nearly nine years since she’d ditched me and my dad, and I hadn’t heard a thing from her since. I rolled off the couch sideways, struggling to my feet.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s about your mother—I spoke with your father already, but he indicated you aren’t in touch with each other.”
“He’s kind of a bastard,” I said bluntly. “We haven’t talked in years.”
“A car was found in the lake by a recreational diver earlier this week,” Grebil said. “A woman’s remains were found inside. Her body was badly decomposed, but she had Nicole Tucker’s purse and driver’s license in the car with her. The windows were closed, and we found the remains of groceries in the back seat—plastic yogurt cartons, that kind of thing. We’re still investigating, but it looks like she drove off the road, rolling the car into the lake. The underbrush is thick enough through there that nobody noticed the wreck. Did anyone ever file a missing persons report?”
I shook my head slowly, trying to process his words.
“No, she took off,” I said. “I mean, she and my dad, they didn’t get along. He used to hit her sometimes. One day she was just gone—we figured she ran away from him.”
“We’d like to get a DNA sample,” he said, eyeing me with compassion. “So we can positively identify her. Until then we won’t know for sure that it’s your mother, but it’s her car, her ID, and the height is right. I don’t think she ran off and left you, Ms. Brooks—I think she died in an accident.”
I swayed, and Painter put an arm around me, offering his strength.
“I can’t believe that,” I whispered. “She . . . she left.”
Grebil just looked at me, his face tired but compassionate.
“Like I said, we won’t know for sure until we get the DNA.”
“There’s no chance my dad . . . hurt her . . . is there?”
“No evidence for it,” he told me. “At least not yet. We’re still investigating, but there’s no sign of trauma. The medical examiner thinks she probably drowned.”
“Can I see her?”
He coughed, looking uncomfortable.
“Ms. Brooks, her remains are skeletal. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I’m a nurse. I’m used to seeing bodies.”
“Not like this,” he said firmly. “Will you allow me to collect a sample?”