Faint Trace by M. P. Cooley Read Free Book Online Page A

The trunk wouldn’t close, so I bungeed the top to protect it from the rain, not that it mattered at this point. I ran around front and climbed into my dry car, starting the engine to get the heat going, and unlocked the door for Dave, who made a distinct squelching sound as he dropped into the passenger seat.
    â€œI hate to tell you,” I said as I backed the car out of the spot, “but Tara won’t be very impressed with a big soggy box.”
    â€œShe’ll be very impressed with a big soggy box because she and her dad will have a project,” Dave said. “Is it too late to go back to get the kiddie tool set?”
    â€œYes.” I pulled out, bouncing through a pothole. My thirteen-­year-­old Saturn was close to the end of its life. “Yes, it is.”
    â€œYeah, and she wouldn’t go for the kiddie version anyway. I should remember to buy her gift at Home Depot next year.”
    I drove slowly out of the packed lot and negotiated the traffic circle, passing the exits for Colonie, Latham, and Cohoes. I missed the Hopewell Falls exit and was forced to loop around a second time. Dave snorted.
    On the outskirts of town we passed St. Agnes Cemetery, where my husband lay buried. In the first year after he died I would’ve insisted we stop. In the second year, I would’ve taken the drive through the cemetery so I could see his grave. This year, I thought a message to him: “Miss you, babe. See you on Thursday. Wait until you hear Lucy’s theory on where babies come from. She’s definitely your daughter.” I would never cut the thread to Kevin.
    The landscape crested, dropping into the city below. Hopewell Falls was all downhill. The Mohawk River bounded the city on the east and the Hudson on the south, the waterfall that formed where the two rivers met giving the town its name. Through newly sprouting trees and mist from the rain, I could make out my own house in the distance. Dad was babysitting Lucy while I helped Dave and worked the three to eleven p.m. patrol. In this weather, I wished I were at home. There would be plenty of car accidents tonight, but the bigger threat were those ­people trapped inside on a Saturday with their “loved ones,” drunk, and if I was very unlucky, armed.
    The streets got twisty the closer we got to the river. We stopped at a light, waiting to cross Interstate 787 and beyond that, the short bridge that spanned a small waterway, the last remains of the Mohawk River before it joined the mighty Hudson.
    Dave was frowning, his eyes on the Ukrainian church, its gold and sky-­blue dome bright against the gloomy afternoon sky.
    I touched his arm. “You OK?”
    â€œNever better, Lyons.” He shook off my hand. Something must be wrong—­I spent most of my time extricating myself from the hugs, pats, and leans Dave used with everyone, but especially me.
    â€œYou sure? It’s only a birthday party. You’re too late to be forced into pin the tail on the donkey. And if you really wanted to escape, you could take my shift for me . . . put on the blues, drive around for eight hours.”
    â€œUh, huh.”
    â€œAnd your brother’s doing better.” His brother, Lucas, had been unemployed for a while and had divorced again for the fourth time last year, leading to a drunk-­and-­disorderly charge outside his most recent ex-­wife’s house. Thankfully, the arrest scared Lucas straight.
    â€œLucas is doing great, although his plan is to score points off his ex today. I guess Felicia threw a roller-­skating extravaganza for Tara’s school friends, and Lucas insisted on throwing a second party for all the kids from the church. I’m expecting balloon animals.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œSo why are you tense?”
    He didn’t answer. The light changed to green, and in less than ten seconds we had crossed the highway and the bridge from the