Page 97 of Paranoid

It was late.

Ned should just shut off the damned TV and go to bed.

But he knew he wouldn’t sleep.

Not that he ever did.

Instead he tossed the newspaper he’d been reading into the trash, then walked to the kitchen, delved into the refrigerator, and cracked another beer. Over the sink, where several dirty plates and a couple of glasses resided, he looked out the window at the dark yard, but all he saw was the headline, in bold type, burned into his brain:

TWENTY-YEAR-OLD MYSTERY STILL HAUNTS TOWN

“You bet it does,” he said to himself and saw the ghost of his reflection. He noticed that his jawline wasn’t as tight as it had been and he scowled, then looked past the watery image to watch a stray cat tiptoe along the boney laurel that marked the edges of the yard. The scrawny thing sniffed the night air and cast a thin shadow in the fake light from Ned’s back porch.

He took a long swallow from his can, then snapped the blinds shut.

The night of Luke’s death had changed his life forever. Changed Melinda’s and Rachel’s, too.

Disturbed, he walked back to his sparse living room and retrieved the paper, stared down at the smaller print.

WHO KILLED LUKE HOLLANDER?

“Jesus,” he whispered, and it was half prayer as he remembered that night, the confusion of the dark interior of the cannery, the kids shouting and running, firecrackers or something going off and, of course, gunfire.

A genuine clusterfuck, if ever there had been.

He felt a deep sadness and more than a little guilt for how he’d handled the situation, first cop on the scene and the one who had ultimately helped his daughter into the back of a squad car.

It seemed like a million years ago.

And it seemed like yesterday.

He’d hoped it would slowly disappear, the pain subsiding, time dulling its edges, and it had. Until now. Until the renewed interest due to the article.

And not just one.

A series.

“Great,” he muttered, scratching his chin. “Just great.” That night had killed whatever hope he’d had of repairing his faltering marriage. Luke’s death had shattered Melinda. The fact that her daughter had been accused of the murder had caused an emotional chasm so deep, no amount of penance, tears, or family counseling had been able to bridge it.

And really, who could blame Melinda, he wondered as he settled into his recliner in his small living room. Certainly not he. No, Ned Gaston, the cop who had put her first husband away on assault charges, a man she’d thought was her hero, had certainly proved himself fallible, or worse. Melinda had learned that sorry fact too little, too late.

And so their marriage had died, along with her son.

Another swallow and he told himself again that he should give up the booze, but hell, it was only beer and light beer at that.

If he could change things, God knew he would. His connections to what remained of his family, his daughter and grandkids, were frail at best and sometimes seemed to be unraveling.

Probably his fault.

He needed to try harder. Hadn’t Rachel told him that over and over again, that if he wanted to know his grandkids he needed to make an effort? Harper would graduate from high school next year, was about the same age Rachel had been when Luke had died. And Dylan, that kid was only a couple of years behind. It was probably already too late.

“Shit.” Another deep swig.

He’d observed that Melinda and Rachel had a decent if far from perfect relationship. All things considered, that was more than he could ask for.

Melinda still blamed him for Luke’s death. He knew that. He’d heard her arguments: Ned should have been around, more invested in the marriage and family. Ned should have been more of a positive influence on Luke as his biological father

was an ass-wipe and a felon. Ned should have been more of a hands-on father to Rachel, more of a loving, faithful husband to her. Maybe then her kids wouldn’t have lied to her, Melinda had rationalized, maybe they wouldn’t have been at the cannery that night, maybe the tragedy that had ripped their lives apart would have been averted.