Hazard and Somerset, Gregory Ashe [ebook reader with internet browser TXT] 📗

think of a drill going through his teeth.

“Did you find your present?” Hazard asked.

Somers, still pressed to Hazard’s side, shook his head and kept watching the dance party.

“What present?” Cora asked. “I thought you guys got her—”

“We did,” Somers said. “This was just something small. We’ll find it.”

“What was it?” Hazard said; the question prickled inside him, and he wondered why he hadn’t asked before.

“A book.”

“What kind of book?”

Somers peeled away from Hazard and looked up at him. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re using your detective voice. It’s a party, Ree. Just enjoy it.”

“What kind of book?”

Shrugging, Somers said, “One of those women-can-be-anything books. Scientists. Astronauts. Engineers. I can’t remember the title.”

Hazard disentangled himself from Somers and headed for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

IV

SEPTEMBER 7

FRIDAY

5:06 PM

GRACE ELAINE WAS STANDING at the end of the driveway, which was packed with cars. The September day had turned hot, the sun soaking Hazard’s shirt and warming skin underneath; as a concession, Grace Elaine stood in the shade of an old maple tree, a massive handbag dangling from her wrist. She must have heard his steps because she turned. Her surgically-smooth face gave nothing away.

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” Hazard said.

“Glennworth has gone to get the car; we had to park at the end of the block.” Her tone filled in the rest: I suppose that’s to be expected in a neighborhood like this. I suppose that’s to be expected, now that you’ve dragged my son down to your level.

“Did you get a chance to tell Evie happy birthday?”

“She’s just turned three. I don’t think she even understands what a birthday is.”

“So, you didn’t tell her happy birthday?”

“I mentioned this to John-Henry, but I imagine with your current . . . situation, you’ll want to know too. Glennworth and I gave her a princess costume she can wear for Halloween. She’s going to be darling. I’ve already booked a haircut; we can’t have her looking homeless. Frankly, I’d appreciate it if you could at least run a comb through her curls once in a while. It’s a small town, you know. People do talk.”

Hazard’s grin felt like an icepick. “I guess that’s a no. You didn’t say happy birthday to your granddaughter.”

“For heaven’s sake. It’s not like she’ll even remember.”

“No. Of course not.”

The air held a charge that made Hazard’s skin prickle, and he just stood there, letting it build. Grace Elaine glanced at him once or twice. She fiddled with the handbag. She patted her hair. She shifted her weight.

“Well?” she said. “Was there something else?”

“If I could have a look inside your bag.”

Her face transformed into a series of shocked Os: her mouth, her eyes. Then the shock closed into something hard and mean. “Detective Hazard,” she said in the kitty-cat voice she liked to use with him when Somers wasn’t around. “You really are something else, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” Hazard said. “Let’s see the bag.”

“But you aren’t a detective anymore, are you?”

“If you happen to have something in there, I’m sure it was just an oversight. An accident. A misunderstanding.”

“You’re not a detective. You’re not a police officer. You’re a cripple,” she said with a small, triumphant smile as she glanced at his arm. “And you’re a pariah. And you’re an albatross around my son’s neck. You’re determined to ruin his life, is that it? You’re determined to drag him down with you.”

“It’s interesting,” Hazard said, distantly pleased at how rage smoothed out his voice, made it softer, deeper. “It’s interesting that you won’t open your bag.”

“I have absolutely no reason to open my bag. And I have absolutely no reason to spend another moment talking to you. What you’ve done to John-Henry—”

“I’m going to make a few guesses now,” Hazard said, still slightly thrilled with how his fury went through him like a glacier, flattening everything else. “You must have seen John buy the book. Or he must have told you about it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know what was under the wrapping paper. I imagine it was the first one; John loves you, thanks to the fucking ridiculousness of biology and oxytocin, but he doesn’t call you up just to chat. So you bumped into him at the bookstore. And you saw the book in his hand. Did he tell you it was for Evie? Or did you ask?”

An ugly, feverish red worked its way up Grace Elaine’s neck.

“He told you,” Hazard said. “That’s what I think. He was excited. We bought her the fucking playhouse, of course, but the book, that was something John was excited about, something important to him. Something he wanted to share with our daughter.”

“His daughter,” Grace Elaine snapped.

“So it was casual. Like I said: an accident. Chance. You bumped into him, and he was holding the book, and he started talking. And when you got here, all of the sudden, you saw your opportunity.”

Glennworth Somerset pulled to the curb in a gleaming Aston Martin. Grace Elaine took a step toward the car.

Hazard reached for her. He didn’t touch her; he wasn’t ready to start World War III. But the movement stopped her just as effectively.

“You still haven’t opened your bag,” Hazard said. “What do you think John’s going to say when I tell him my theory?”

With a speed that surprised Hazard, Grace Elaine spun toward him, thrusting open her bag. The book, still wrapped with Somers’s clumsily folded corners and superabundance of tape, lay at the bottom. She grabbed it and thrust it at Hazard.

“There,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “I hope you’re happy. Go on. Tell John-Henry all about our little talk. Tell him what a horrible mother I am. You can gloat. You can tell him you were right about me.”

“It’s not about me. It’s about Evie.”

“Please,” Grace Elaine said, the word laced with contempt. “This is entirely about you and your attempts to ruin this family.”

“Goodbye, Grace Elaine.”

“I’ll tell you one more thing, now that we’re talking openly. That book? The one my poor,