Winterkill - C. J. Box [79]
Missy’s face fell. “I can’t believe you said that to me,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Sorry,” Joe said, his voice unsympathetic. “Happy Birthday.” He turned and resumed climbing the stairs.
“Ah, you don’t really care,” Missy said behind him. “You know, Joe Pickett, if you weren’t my son-in-law, I’d say you were a very self-absorbed man.”
Joe hesitated again on the stairs, thought better of it, and proceeded. He heard the clink of the wineglass against her perfect, six-thousand-dollar teeth.
Although the bedroom was dark, Marybeth was awake.
“Joe, were you arguing with my mother?”
Joe stood still, trying to tamp down his anger from a moment before. Instead, something he had been bottling up gushed out.
“Is she going to live with us?” he asked. “Is she going to stay here?”
Marybeth turned on her bedside lamp. “Joe, she’s going through a tough time. I can’t believe you’re acting this way.”
Joe couldn’t quit. “She’s going through a tough time? Look at us, Marybeth. All she has to do is snag another husband and she’s home free. We’ve got the situation with April, and lunatics are running everything . . . I’ve got a guy who somehow expects me to save his life, and I’m pretty sure there’s a murderer out there running loose . . .”
“Joe, lower your voice,” Marybeth said sternly.
“ . . . and I’ve got a mother-in-law downstairs feeling sorry for herself.”
“JOE.”
He stopped and caught himself.
“I don’t need you to remind me what’s going on.” Marybeth’s eyes flashed. “What do you want me to do, throw her out into the snow? All day long I’ve been trying to blot out this . . . ‘situation’ . . . with April and do something constructive. And you lose your temper and bring it all back.”
Joe looked at her, noticed the tears forming in her eyes. But he was still too angry to apologize.
In a silence that was deafening, Joe got ready for bed and climbed in. She switched off the lamp, turned her back to him and he thought she was pretending to sleep. He touched her shoulder but she didn’t respond.
You’re right, he wanted to tell her now, I’m sorry.
Joe rolled back over and stared at the ceiling and listened to the icy wind outside rattle the window.
Joe woke a few hours later, the remnants of another nightmare skittering in his head. He quietly slid out of bed and went to the window. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass and wondered how everything had gotten so bad so quickly.
Things are building up, Joe thought. His family was coming unhinged, and he was not blameless. Somehow, he thought, I need to do more. To try and fix things. Take some kind of action before everything explodes.
Twenty-two
The next morning, Joe was eating breakfast early and alone when Marybeth came down the stairs. He could tell by the way she walked that she was still angry with him, and he watched as she went silently into his office, and came out with something in her hand and a glare in her eyes.
“You got a fax.” Her voice was not kind. “I heard it come in late last night.”
Joe winced, and reached for the single sheet.
“It’s from Elle Broxton-Howard,” Joe said, reading it.
“I know.”
“She wants to interview me. I invited her to dinner with us.”
“I figured that out.”
“This is a list of things she can’t eat. I guess she has a stack of these all made up and ready to send to people when she gets a dinner invitation.”
“Apparently.”
“Says here she doesn’t eat beef, poultry, pork, olive or canola oil, sugar, processed foods of any kind, or genetically enhanced products.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“She has a suggested menu here. Baked trout, steamed broccoli, and brown rice. Hell, we don’t have any of that stuff,” Joe said.
“No, we don’t—although I’d be happy to get it for you and your friend for your little dinner.”
“That’s not necessary, Marybeth.”
Marybeth turned on her heel and went up the stairs to get dressed.
Joe cursed, and crumpled the paper into a ball and flipped it toward the garbage can in the kitchen.
In a foul mood, Joe left the