Page 44 of The Secrets We Hide
“I don’t need your counseling.”
“What do you need?”
“I need you to stay out of my business. I need you to stop trying to mentor my son.”
Jude pressed together her lips.
“He’smyboy. It’smyjob to teach him.”
Jude let an exasperated breath slip out. “Emmy Lou, I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need help, and Cole doesn’t need an aunt he didn’t even know existed until six weeks ago coming in here telling him how to think or speak or act on the job or anywhere else.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing. Telling him to file search warrants for Allison and Mandy’s devices. Getting him to call Uncle Cleetus to put a rush on the subpoenas. Pushing him to knock on Ginny Saddler’s door. Ordering him to gather information on Drake Saddler’s girlfriend. Finding Mandy’s friends through her socials and tracking down their addresses. Checking with Darla Bell to see if she’s spotted any unusual cars in the driveway. Making him check 911 logs to see if Mandy called for help.”
Jude said nothing, but it was clear Emmy had finally, blessedly, hit a nerve.
“I know my son. He’s good at thinking about first steps, but his follow-through is for shit. He’s never gonna learn to take initiative until he learns to take actual initiative. And he didn’t pack that goddam duffel bag. He can’t even remember to button his shirt collar half the time. I’m supposed to believe he thought to bring me a brush and a packet of wet wipes?”
Jude took a deep breath before slowly letting it go. “You’reright. I told him to follow up. I packed the bag. Let’s talk about why that makes you angry.”
“Don’t use your psychologist babble bullshit techniques on me.” Emmy ran straight into the windstorm. “Sherry told me you talked your way onto my crime scene. What the hell were you thinking?”
“That my nearly three decades of experience in the FBI might be of some use to you.”
“Oh, right, the celebrated Dr. Jude Archer. Slayer of bad guys. The Lady Catherine de Bourgh of law enforcement.” Emmy pounded her fist on her father’s desk. “I don’t need your help. I’ve got a handle on this case.”
“Sweetheart, you’re not handling anything. You keep gripping together your hands to keep them from shaking. You’re having panic attacks. Your moods are all over the place. I know you’re not sleeping because I hear you pacing at night. You’ve got PTSD from taking care of Myrna. You buried her this morning after burying Gerald last month and you’re so terrified of losing Cole that you risked your own life rather than ordering him to back you up against an active shooter. And now, you’re telling the one person who can help carry some of your burdens to fuck off.”
“Well, goddam.” Emmy huffed out a laugh. “Here I was thinking you weren’t listening to me, but that last part is like you’re reading my mind.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re just as pathologically stubborn as your father.”
“And you’re just as big of a nasty bitch as your dead mother.” Jude looked shocked. Her mouth dropped open. For once, she was without a response.
Emmy was no better off. She was struck dumb by her own cruelty. She could still hear the vicious words echoing inside the room. What the hell was wrong with her? When had she become this terrible person?
Jude reached her hand across the desk. “Emmy Lou.”
The kindness was too much. Emmy reared back as if a snake had lunged at her. She stood up so quickly that the chair banged into the wall. She walked out of the office. The cold night airslapped her face. She felt jittery. Time skipped forward again. She was in the driveway. Passing her cruiser, Jude’s Jeep, and then suddenly, she was half a football field away from the house following the yellow line in the middle of the road.
She looked up at the sky. Pinpricks of light pierced the night’s fabric. Emmy opened her mouth, took in a gulp of air. She started to grip together her hands but shoved them deep into her pockets to keep them from shaking. If she started screaming now, she might never stop. The last few minutes hit her like a sledge-hammer—the fight she’d tried to pick with Jude, the inexcusable thing that she’d said about her mother.
Theirmother.
If anyone had a reason to hate Myrna, it was Jude. Forty years ago, she had left town and no one, not even her own mother, had come to find her. Instead, Myrna had let everybody think that Jude was dead. Both she and Gerald had lied to the entire town—to the entire family—for decades. Even after Myrna’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, even when she was still in her right mind, she hadn’t reached out to her eldest daughter to say goodbye, let alone given Jude the opportunity to make her peace.
But it was Emmy who had just cussed her name like a dog.
She pressed her fingers into her eyelids, but there were no tears left to cry.
For the past few weeks, she had told herself that Myrna’s death was perfunctory, the last box to check at the end of a seven-year nightmare, but now, she found herself so filled with grief that she felt broken under the weight of it. She let her knees sink to the ground. Touched her forehead to the asphalt like a supplicant begging for forgiveness.
There had been one final day—one single, solitary moment—three years ago that Myrna had still been completely herself. They had both been standing in the kitchen arguing about something that meant absolutely nothing now. Emmy had burst into tears, and instead of Myrna chastising her for letting her emotions take over, her mother had grabbed Emmy and pulled her into an almost suffocating hug. They weren’t comforting each other so much as holding tight for fear that the other would slip away.
Cliftons were not known for their affection, and Colemanscould be downright frigid, but when Myrna chose to, she could radiate a warmth that healed you to the marrow. She had stroked back Emmy’s hair, kissed the side of her head, held on to her for what had seemed like hours.
