Free Snake Skin by CJ Lyons Page A

was just a polite exchange
of information. Two guys shooting the breeze. While one of their
daughters could be a rotting corpse putrefying in a shallow
grave.
    God, he hoped not. Last DB he'd caught was
past ripe and well into the creepy crawly stage, maggots squirming
all over.
    He wasn't in the mood to be looking at no
dead kid's body today. In fact, he was seriously regretting
switching weekends with Jimmy Dolan, but Dolan had a family reunion
and Burroughs' kids, well, right now he wasn't exactly in the
running for father of the year.
    He'd barely seen the boys all summer, had
claimed overwork, falling into a pattern of letting his ex keep
them even on his weekends. He loved his boys, he really, really
did—he just didn't have what it took to be a full-time father. Or,
according to his ex, a full-time husband.
    Thing of it was, Kim was right. On both
counts.
    What the hell was wrong with him? Same
question he'd been asking the better part of two years. He just
never seemed to find the energy to answer it.
    When he'd seen Ashley Yeager's room it
looked perfectly normal to Burroughs. The barren walls, beige
decor, mass produced furniture and linens could have been his own
apartment.
    Maybe that's why he'd stuck around. He felt
a kinship with the Yeager girl. Like she was sleepwalking through
days and nights filled with apathy, just like Burroughs. Until
finally she just couldn't take it anymore.
    Pretty sad. The person he'd felt most
connected with in ages was a girl most likely dead.
    "You need a drink or anything?" he asked
Yeager after giving the man a few minutes to stew. "Glass of water
or something?"
    "No." Yeager's gaze kept darting back to the
house like he expected someone to interrupt them.
    Who? Burroughs wondered. Ashley? That would
mean he was innocent. Or maybe the guy was guilty and simply
couldn't look him square in the eye.
    "I'm just gonna take notes so I don't forget
anything, okay?" Burroughs pulled his digital recorder from his
pocket and clicked it on. Yeager didn't even seem to notice. "So
tell me about this photographer, Tardiff."
    Yeager bristled, his body practically
vibrating out of the chaise lounge even though his face showed
little expression. But little was more than Burroughs had seen from
the man so far today. And what little seeped through the chink in
Yeager's mask was enough to tell him Yeager hated Tardiff. A
lot.
    Good. A little bit of hate was good for
baring the soul.
    "He's tried to wreck my marriage before,"
Yeager said, his lip twisted in a sneer. "Wanted to destroy my
family, take it away from me."
    It? Didn't he mean them ?
Burroughs merely nodded sympathetically. Yeager kept talking.
    "He's a big deal fashion photographer,
wanted to become known as an artist. Melissa was trying to make a
comeback after having Ashley, so they started working together.
Only he also wanted more artistic," Yeager slashed finger-quotes
through the air with the last word, "intimate photos. Not just of
her but of Ashley as well. Melissa never asked me, never said
nothing. Not until I saw them. Displayed in New York galleries,
made a splash. He slept with Melissa, too."
    The last was an afterthought. Yeager wasn't
upset by the sex, but rather the fact that he'd lost control of
what was his. Family as possession.
    Burroughs scratched a few notes, nothing to
imply the father was a suspect—no need to give the defense any
fuel—but just to show he was actively listening to Yeager's
rant.
    But the other man said nothing more. Just
sat there, rigid, his back not touching the seat cushions.
    "Did you call child services? Launch an
investigation?"
    Yeager looked offended. "Of course not. I
wasn't about to have strangers invade my privacy. Bad enough those
photos were out there, being bought and sold. Melissa made no
secret that they were of her—they re-launched her career. For a few
years at least."
    "Did you confront Tardiff? Ask him if
anything more than taking photos happened?"
    "What good would that