Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

enrolled in ground training. It isn’t particularly cheap, and it takes about six weeks to complete it for most people, in addition to the flight instruction.” I reel it off fast because I know it by heart; I do get a lot of callers who think learning to fly is easy and fast. Walk-ins are kind of rare at this airport, but I’m not really surprised by it either.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. I guess I should have called before I came.” He’s got a medium kind of voice, with a regional American accent I can’t immediately identify. He offers his hand, and we shake. We’re just about of a height, but I can’t read his eyes behind the sunglasses.

“Interesting name, Pharos,” I say. “Where’s it from? Greece?”

He doesn’t seem bothered by the guess. “Huh. Most people don’t know that it comes from there.”

I shrug. “I’ve done a lot of traveling.” That’s one way to talk about being in the military, anyway. See the world, kill people. “I can give you the paperwork to fill out for ground school, if you’re interested—how’s that?”

“Would you be the one to teach it, too?”

“I can, sure. Usually best if the same instructor does the ground school and flight training, because then we can be sure it’s all consistent.”

“I think that would be okay,” he says. We walk over to the small office I share with a few other people, and I get out the paperwork and price sheets. He goes through them slowly and intently. I’m feeling less bothered, but not a whole lot less, which is odd. I’m usually better with people, but I can’t seem to get a feel for this guy. He’s a blank slate, emotionally. Neutral.

I’m not disposed to doubting him, but one thing about teaching lessons: you have to evaluate people from the jump. I don’t care whether he’s rich or poor, as long as he can pay for the lesson, but it goes beyond that . . . I need to see his temperament, his level of tension or relaxation. In the back of my mind, too, is the ever-present urgency of finding out why they want to fly. I don’t want to train a suicidal person or, worse still, a terrorist.

He doesn’t hit either of those alerts yet, but I’m picking up something.

“Sorry, Mr. Pharos, but that’s all the time I have right now,” I finally tell him. “I have another place to be. You can fill out the paperwork and send it back to me, if you decide to proceed.”

“Okay,” he says. “I understand.” We shake hands again, but he doesn’t go. He just stands there, looking at me. I can’t read his expression.

Then he says, “I know who you are.”

Oh man. I brace myself and try to keep my voice light when I say, “A licensed pilot? You’d better hope so if you want me to teach you to fly.”

“You live with the serial killer’s wife.”

I was going to blow it off, minimize where he was going, but suddenly I feel my hackles go up, sharp as nails. “Gwen Proctor is my partner, yes. Not his wife.”

“Ex-wife, I meant,” he says. “Sorry.” I want to snap off something else, but I don’t. I just wait. I still don’t get any particular emotion from him, even now, when most people would show something . . . discomfort, at least. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I can see that,” I say, and miracle of miracles, my voice sounds pretty even. “So yeah. That’s me. And I’d rather leave my personal life out of this, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” I say. I’ve not had anyone recognize me before out of the immediate context of being with Gwen or the kids, and it stings unpleasantly; I’m starting to understand, in a very minor way, how Gwen feels all the time. “Sorry. I really do need to go. And I think you should find another flight instructor. Nothing personal, I just . . . like to keep it separate.”

For the first time, I see a little flicker of something like feeling in him. “I understand. It’s just . . .” He shakes his head and turns away. “Never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought you might be able to help.”

I know I shouldn’t do it, but there’s something about the subdued tone that gets to me. I say, “Help with what?”

“I—” He takes in a breath and lets it trickle out slowly before he manages the rest. “My sister was murdered too.”

I feel that go through me like a bullet, and for a second I can’t breathe. A jumble of things floods through my head—crime scene photos, my sister’s horrifically mutilated body, Gwen’s face, Melvin Royal’s mug shot—and I realize I’ve let the silence go on too long. “By Melvin Royal?” I thought I knew all the victim family members, and he doesn’t seem familiar.

“No,” he says. “Just—by someone. They never caught him.”

That’s a nightmare that I’ve never lived . . . not knowing who killed my sister. Not seeing him brought to justice. For a second or two I can’t even attempt a reply, but then I say, “I’m sorry. That must be really hard.” It hits me, then. “You . . . didn’t come here for the flying lessons, did you?”

“No,” he says. It’s almost a whisper. “I . . . somebody told me about you, and I thought you might understand. Might be somebody to talk to about it. Because I can’t talk to anybody else about her.”

I’ve been reading him wrong, I think. He isn’t emotionless. He’s locked up, wearing an emotional straitjacket. Afraid to express any emotion because once he cracks that door, he might not control what comes out.

And I feel that because I know that place. It’s where I lived for a while, before I moved on to darker places that I don’t like to remember.

“Have you tried seeing a professional? Doing therapy?” I ask. I know a lot of men are resistant to it.