Page 37 of View from Above

“What?” he asked.

“I was told you’d be interested in visiting him. You’re welcome to stop by our facility anytime between noon and five pm,” she said.

“Who…” He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Payton closed his eyes, hand over his face as the seconds ticked off slower than he wanted them. “How long has he been there?”

“Let me see.” Rustling papers staticked through the line. “Our records show Mr. Doe has been with us going on thirty years.”

Thirty years. No. That wasn’t… That wasn’t possible. “And you’ve never been able to identify him?”

“No, sir,” she said. “Mr. Doe came to us with severe brain trauma. He doesn’t even remember who he is.”

Blood drained from his face and pinned his body to his chair. His voice croaked as he set the receiver against his temple. “Thank you.”

He hung up.

Mallory must have contacted every psychological clinic in Seattle to locate his father. While he’d called and visited all the shelters, hospitals, morgues, and funeral homes in the city with his father’s photo in hand, she’d thought outside the box. She’d done what he couldn’t and possibly found his father. And, hell, if that wasn’t the lowest blow she could deliver. He shoved the notebook in his desk drawer, out of sight. Their partnership was over. As soon as this case was closed, he’d do whatever it took to get her out of his system and forget the past few days.

It was the only way to stop feeling so… helpless. Not only had she taken control of her father’s investigation, she’d put her nose in his personal business and solved the one case that’d kept him going all these years. Now what?

Payton forced himself to focus on the personal records recovered after Roland Kotite’s death, but the notebook, the phone call, the clinic—none of it would go back into the dark corner he could forget about. Because of Mallory. “Hell of a way to have the last word, Doc.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Brick columns stood guard at the front door of her childhood home.

She hadn’t been back here since the day Detective Payton Nichols had knocked on the door to inform the family her father had committed suicide. Her fingers tingled with the need to curl, but the wounds in her hands were just starting to scab. Lake Washington softly lapped the private dock behind her and triggered memories of sun, water, and family picnics. They used to be happy. She remembered that. When had it all gone wrong?

Mallory pushed through the front door into the vast entry way tiled in checkered black and white marble. A grand staircase swept upstairs to her left, and she dumped her keys on the table. “Mom?”

No answer. Then again, the eleven-thousand square foot home rarely made communication easier. Modern art and bright silver sconces led her down the hallway toward the formal sitting room. Plush gray couches and a large grand piano had welcomed thousands of guests over the years, from her mother’s rotary clubs and book clubs to her father’s clients. Old mixed with new as she took in three antique trunks stacked one on top of the other near the floor-to-ceiling doors looking out into the outdoor patio on the other side. “I’m sorry about what happened at the police station. I got pulled into another meeting.”

One that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

It hadn’t been enough for Payton to reject her visions of the future. No. He’d completely destroyed her self-confidence and broken her heart. Calling her career bullshit, comparing her to a prostitute, and the man who’d pimped her out to his clients when she’d only been a child. The pain still ricocheted through her as echoes of Payton’s last words grew louder. All because she’d wanted to help him the same way he’d helped her grapple with the past.

She’d loved him. Was in love with him. She hadn’t cared that he lost himself in cases he was investigating, that for him relaxing or unwinding from a long day compared to standing on hot coals, or that his intensity and abrasiveness had driven away more than a few partners. She hadn’t cared about any of that.

She’d seen his commitment for justice, his goodness in providing answers to families like hers. She’d seen his compassion in offering to let her stay in his home and in making her breakfast before they started the day. And in the brief images Agent Dunn had helped her to recover from her near-death experience on that rooftop, she remembered Payton. Reaching for her. Holding her. Soothing her sobs until she’d stopped crying,

He’d tried so hard to ignore the past—just as she had—but it would always be there, just waiting under the surface to sabotage him. She’d thought she could help.

Instead, he’d pushed her away.

She made her way into the kitchen where the largest raw edge dining table in existence spanned half the length of the room. Her mother could usually be found baking homemade marshmallows or some other kind of treat nobody wanted when gifted with unstructured leisure, but the kitchen was empty. No signs of flour on the walls or food coloring on the oversized gray marble counters.

Odd. Mallory rounded through the second entrance to the kitchen and climbed the staircase to the upper floor. One of these days she’d have to talk to Lucille about downsizing. Six bedrooms and ten bathrooms had been far too much house for them as a family, but even more so now that her mother was the only one living here. Near white carpet depressed under her boots as she maneuvered to the door leading to the master bedroom. She hadn’t ever been allowed past this point. Her father’s rules, but the man was dead now, and she was the one left to clean up his mess. “Mom?”

Maybe she hadn’t come home from the precinct yet. But Mallory had needed to wait for a ride share for the thirty-minute drive. Lucille rarely left the house unless asked. Her mother should’ve been home already.

She stepped over the threshold of the massive bedroom with its crown molding, king-sized bed, and luxurious spa-like feeling. Her heart and her memories knew the truth. This space, no matter how well decorated and clean, had witnessed things Mallory preferred to forget. “I’m coming in whether you’re dressed or not.”

Her foot hit a familiar pair of heels just outside the wall-to-wall marble en suite attached to the bedroom. Black, close-toed, three inches, and absolutely pristine. Her mother’s favored every-day wear. She gripped the door frame as stockinged feet butted up against the jetted tub taking up one wall. Her heart seized. “Mom!”

She slid across the cold floor and dragged Lucille’s unconscious frame into her lap. Blood slipped along one side of her mother’s face. No response. “Mom, come on. Wake up.” Mallory pressed two fingers to the woman’s throat. A slow uneven pulse beat back. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to call for help. Okay? Just hang on.”

She patted her jacket for her phone, remembering all too late that Payton had confiscated hers in the precinct elevator. Damn it. She targeted her mother’s purse on the vanity and lunged. Her mother always carried her phone.

A hand slapped over hers. “That won’t be necessary.”