The swamp became his foe, slowing his escape. His boots slipped in the muck that threatened to hold him until he could be killed. He couldn’t slow down and he couldn’t hide—they’d find him.
Screaming startled him. He swung around and found her standing there. She stumbled backward into a tree. Her lips formed a small o as tears fell from frightened eyes.
The footsteps sounded behind him. They were coming. Miguel tightened his grip. They were coming to kill her. He couldn’t stop them. Salty tears stung his eyes, barely blurring her terrified expression.
It was too late.
Miguel took a step toward her and she screamed. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he knew if he opened his mouth his screams would match hers. He closed his eyes and swung his arm, bringing the bayonet down—
“Stop! Please stop screaming!” Miguel Roa’s eyes snapped open, her screams echoing in his ears. Why couldn’t he stop it? He should’ve protected them.
The throbbing in his head sent sharp pains to the back of his eyeballs. He groaned, closing his eyes. How long had it been since his last blackout? With more effort than it was worth, he pushed his eyelids open. The dark surroundings of his home spun around him. Miguel rolled to his side and let the cool cement floor bring him back to his senses.
When he was certain his world wouldn’t shift, he lifted his head. Slow and steady he pushed himself up to a sitting position on the floor. His legs stretched before him, Miguel stared at the boots still laced on his feet. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty. What day was it?
Every muscle ached. Miguel couldn’t remember his blackouts being this bad before. But then he could hardly remember anything about the dark lapses in time. No recollection of the minutes or hours when he slipped into the recesses of darkness. Or what caused them.
Well, that wasn’t true. His nightmare was proof of that. Atonement for his sin.
Using the edge of an end table for support, Miguel winced as raw pain lit a fire in the palms of his hands. Withdrawing them left a smear of blood on the wood in their place. His vision blurred at the sight of crimson fissures carved into his skin.
A metallic taste filled his mouth. Miguel focused on the sink. If he could just get there and run cold water over the cuts . . . splash his face . . . return to reality. The shattering of glass made him jerk around, sending his vision and the room careening. Miguel reached for something to hold him upright but found nothing except for air. He crashed to his knees, the pain jolting through his arthritic joints.
A shadow crossed in front of the window. Heavy footsteps slowed at his front door. Time seemed to still before his door swung wide open.
“Get out of here.” Miguel’s words came out thick. “I’ve got nothing to steal.”
“I’m not here to steal, amigo.” The man stepped into the home and into the moon’s waning glow. The light was just bright enough to expose the visitor’s ill intentions. “Where’s the painting?”
“Wh-what painting?”
The blow came quickly and sent Miguel’s brain rattling inside his skull. He slumped the rest of the way to the floor as warmth slid across his forehead.
“I won’t ask again.”
“Who”—the pressure behind Miguel’s eyes grew—“are you?”
The heat of the intruder’s breath curled around Miguel’s ear. “A collector. Where’s the painting Sydney stole?”
“Sydney.” Her name scratched against his throat. A glimpse of her face. Her blue eyes flashed in his memory.
The wide strokes of blue and green crashing over each other on the canvas. Tumultuous Ocean. Sydney had brought the painting to him. When? Last night? It felt so long ago. He squeezed his eyes tight. What happened? All he could remember were her eyes. Shocked. No, scared . . . she was scared.
And he was too late. Again.
SEVEN
THERE WAS A RUN in the carpet near the edge of the wall in Dr. Eddie Wong’s office. Lane had been focused on it since her appointment began almost an hour ago. Focusing on the pulled thread of the gray carpet was easier than focusing on Dr. Wong’s questions.
Always the same. Do you feel like dying? How many times have you thought about suicide? Do you feel like a burden to those around you? And all her answers were on the little card she filled out at the beginning of every session. The one he glanced at after each question as though he was trying to catch her in a lie. The only lie between them was how this continuous conversation about her depression was supposed to make her feel better when it only reminded her of her guilt—and the fact that she was broken.
“If we’re going to make progress with your treatment, you’re going to have to let me know what you’re thinking.”
Lane stared at her psychiatrist. Wasn’t that his job? To tell her what she was thinking and why she was thinking it? And more importantly, what was wrong with her? Why she was this way and how she could fix it? Yes, Dr. Wong. Please tell me why I feel broken and not worth the breaths I take every single day. Oh, and if you have an answer for the guilt . . . She smirked. Those questions had gone unanswered all her life. Not even God heard her prayers. Or if he did, he chose to ignore them . . .
“What about activities? Are you doing anything fun?” Dr. Wong ran his fingers across a thin mustache and down the sides of his mouth to the goatee on his chin. He had more hair on his face than on his head, and it was graying, which was the only part of the man that made him look like a head doctor. The black T-shirt, dark jeans, and Converse high-tops gave the impression he was more of a hipster. Was the comfortable look supposed to make him easier to talk to?
“Lane?”
Fun? When was the last time she had fun? Laughed? Charlie. Lane shifted in the leather chair. He’d brought a smile to her face—a rarity the last two years. In fact, she smiled, laughed even, every time she thought about the way Wilbur, Clarence, and Ducky had harassed him inside the Way Station Café. What did that mean? Acknowledging the feelings Charlie stirred up within her felt like a betrayal. It unnerved her.
“Life’s busy.” Safe answer.
Dr. Wong tapped his pen against the notebook in his lap. If he was annoyed by her answer, she couldn’t tell. He seemed to always be studying her. Maybe, like her, he was trying to figure out why she was so defective. “What about your family? This is a big time in your lives.”
“Their lives.”
“You don’t think your father’s campaign affects your life?”
Lane thought about the words her father had spoken to her—his demands for her presence. The inherent threat if she failed to do her part. And pretend. She shrugged.
“Depression doesn’t only affect one person.” Dr. Wong chewed on the end of his pen. “You know that.”
She did. Every day, Lane was reminded of the effect her depression had on those around her. Mathias was gone. Noah didn’t have his daddy. Her mother wouldn’t discuss it. Her father used it to manipulate her. Her brother thought it was a joke. Darkness crept at the edge of her mind. The walls of Dr. Wong’s office felt like they were closing in on her. Wasn’t her session over yet? Her leg began to bounce as the urge to run set in.
“I’d like you to invite your parents to our next session.”
The oxygen was sucked right out of the room. Lane shrank back. Did she hear him correctly? “Yeah right. Are you serious?”
“I am. Sometimes those who don’t understand the illness don’t know how to show their support. I think it would be good for them to hear how you feel.”
The man was delusional. “My father is running his biggest campaign yet. He wouldn’t be caught dead coming into a psychiatrist’s office—no offense.”
“Lane, these appointments are for your benefit and part of the hospital’s condition of release.”
Condition of release? “I’m doing everything you’ve asked. I take my medicine regularly. Get exercise. Sunshine.” Never mind all the conditions her father had placed on her. Dr. Wong didn’t know that part. Everything she agreed to was to regain
some normalcy to her life.
No.
Every deal Lane made was to keep Noah in her life.
“I’ve come to terms with my illness. I’ve accepted it and everything that comes with it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s my burden to bear.”
“We’re not meant to shoulder the burden of life on our own all the time. To be successful we need support from those who love us and believe in us.”
Lane wanted to argue with him. A therapy session with her parents wasn’t going to change their ignorance. They avoided the topic because they were ashamed. And she was left paying the consequences. Her moment of weakness—that cry for help—killed the only person who truly ever saw past her flaws. The alarm on Dr. Wong’s phone beeped, indicating their session was over. Finally.
“One month.” Dr. Wong stood. “This is for your health and for Noah.”
Lane scowled. He was using Noah as leverage. Like her father. She hurried out of the building, ignoring the receptionist who was calling after her to make a follow-up appointment, and didn’t see the man holding the tray of drinks until it was too late.
Liquid and ice splashed all over the ground.
“I’m sorry.” Lane tried scooping up a cup before the remainder of its contents emptied out, but it was useless. The day couldn’t get any worse.
“Lane?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Was it possible to already recognize the absence of a drawl in his voice? What kind of God would allow this level of embarrassment? One, it seemed, intent on using Charlie Lynch to disrupt her life.
“Hey there, Deputy.” Where did this guy keep coming from? “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s Charlie, remember? Are you okay?”
A wet stain was spreading across his uniform. Still holding two white paper bags in one hand, he reached out to her with the other. Humor filled his eyes, making it nearly impossible to avoid matching the smile lighting his handsome face.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Ooh, taking his hand was a mistake. The touch of his skin set off an internal alarm. Too soon. She pulled her hand back. “I didn’t see you.”
The glass door to Dr. Wong’s office swung open. “Ms. Kent. Your appointment card.” The receptionist handed Lane the card as her eyes darted from Charlie to the mess then to Lane, before she turned around and returned to the building. Why couldn’t the ground just swallow Lane up like it did the ice?
“Money.” Lane grabbed her wallet. “Let me pay for the drinks and your dry cleaning.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was an accident. Unless”—Charlie narrowed his eyes—“you meant to douse a member of law enforcement in high fructose carbonated syrup?”
He was joking. He didn’t flinch. Lane fidgeted. He was joking, wasn’t he?
“I’m kidding.” Charlie lifted the white bags in his hand. “I saved what really matters. Lunch.”
“On a hot day like today, you might’ve been safer saving the drinks.”
Charlie’s lips curled and those dimples returned. He could easily be the poster boy for law enforcement. She was finding it harder to heed the caution bells ringing in her ears over the flutter of butterflies awakening from a prolonged dormancy inside her chest. Pay him and get out of there.
“Do you think this will cover it?” Lane pulled out a ten-dollar bill.
“It was an accident and taking money from a citizen while in uniform is a crime.”
Truth? Or more of his easy humor?
“Deputy Lynch.”
Charlie and Lane turned to see a woman crossing the parking lot in a skirt so tight her knees turned. Lane didn’t recognize her, but apparently Charlie did, based on the groan he released at the woman’s approach.
“Deputy Lynch, don’t you always pick up lunch a little closer to the station?”
“A change in scenery, Ms. DeMarco.”
The woman’s gaze cut to Lane, giving her a less-than-subtle once-over before her heavily coated eyelashes batted back in Charlie’s direction. “I’ve been looking for you. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions regarding the Sydney Donovan murder.”
“I’ve already told you and the rest of the reporters that if we get any new information, we will let you know.”
“So, no new leads? What about the person who found the body? Maybe they remember something. I can be very persuasive.” DeMarco’s voice dripped like syrup. “We can work together.”
The heat returned to Lane’s cheeks as she watched Ms. DeMarco sidle up to Charlie. The woman had a sort of citified poise about her that probably did make her very persuasive to the opposite sex, but she reminded Lane of a snake coiling for the strike.
“I think you should leave the police work to the professionals.” Charlie took a purposeful step out of Ms. DeMarco’s path and winked at Lane.
What was that? Flirting? A flood of emotions sent Lane’s pulse spiking to a dangerous level.
“What about new suspects? Evidence? Or the family?” Ms. DeMarco wasn’t going to be easily dissuaded. “Don’t you have anything to say about Walton’s reputation being ruined by this murder?”
That last comment was just loud enough that it drew the attention of a few people nearby. Charlie’s jaw flexed, his brows knotting as he took in her question.
“Ms. DeMarco, I’ve told you everything I can about our investigation and I expect you to do your job as a reporter. Report the truth. If you want to judge this beautiful city, that’s welcomed you by the way, on this one horrific event rather than on its character . . . well, all I can say is that would be a shame.”
“Wha—I . . .” Ms. DeMarco huffed and gave Lane a disdainful look before storming off in the direction she had come from.
“I don’t think speechlessness is a good trait for a reporter.” Lane smirked.
“She’s new. Works for some paper out of DC and is trying to make a name for herself by writing a story about Walton’s first murder in thirty years.”
There wasn’t any malice in his tone. Just . . . understanding? The good-looking deputy was catching her off guard in more ways than one. Did he really believe what he said? That something could be defined by more than one horrific event? Or someone?
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it in on Monday.” Charlie looked sheepish. “This case makes me lose track of time—”
“Oh, no, I get it. Ms. Byrdie said Sheriff Huggins is sucking down antacids like they’re Tic Tacs.” Lane played nonchalant. Or at least she hoped she was. Disappointment was what she really felt when Charlie didn’t show up at the Way Station Café and she wasn’t ready to admit that—or the possibility of what it meant. She eyed the stain on his uniform. “I feel really bad about your uniform. Are you sure I can’t pay for the dry cleaning at least?”
Charlie waved his hand. “It’s almost dry. Sticky but dry.”
“Okay, but promise me you’ll stop by the café and I’ll make it up to you.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she put thought to what she was asking. “I mean, for breakfast, or coffee. We have these cinnamon rolls that the whole town loves and I’m sure y’all could use some coffee, right? On the house—to make up for the mess I’ve caused. I insist.”
“Okay, but only because everyone at the station will appreciate it. I’m glad we ran into each other.”
“It was mostly me running into you.” She blushed.
“Most excitement I’ve had all day. Well, except for hiding from Ms. DeMarco.”
“Have a good day, Charlie.”
“You too, Lane.”
Lane turned and strode to her car before Charlie could steal another one of her breaths. Could he hear the anticipation in her voice to see him again? Why was his presence in her life so disarming? And what was she going to do about it?
Charlie dropped his hat on his desk and wiped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the humidity, but the pressure outside was nothing compared to the pressure mounting inside the station. Deputies hunched o
ver their desks, pounding back their third or fourth cups of coffee as they answered the assault of phone calls.
Everyone had a tip. Heard a strange noise. Or wanted details. The peaceful community Sheriff Huggins worked so hard to maintain had been shaken. Now the citizens of Walton wanted answers. And based on the messages sitting on Charlie’s desk, so did the reporters. Just like Ms. DeMarco—they’d have to wait.
Charlie changed out of his sticky uniform and into a fresh one before heading back to the small room reserved for him and Deputy Frost to use while the investigation remained active. The flurry of activity he passed reminded him of the chaos in the Tactical Operations Command when a unit was under assault.
When the scrap hit the fan, the TOC became a lifeline, sending in reinforcement or air support to those fighting the enemy. But this was different. They didn’t even know who the enemy was. Yet.
The drone of chaos quieted as he made his way to the small office at the back of the building. After a quick stop at a vending machine, Charlie entered the room with humming fluorescent lights and no windows.
“Sorry it’s late.” Charlie lifted the bag holding their lunch. “And probably cold. I owe you.”
And it was a debt well worth it. Running into Lane, literally, had been the highlight of an already long day. And it might have been the exhaustion he felt, but Charlie swore he saw a spark light her eyes when she insisted he stop by for breakfast. Or did he want to see that? Lane Kent was married. And the breakfast offer wasn’t just for him. It was for the entire station. He blew out a breath. Definitely exhaustion.
“No biggie.” Pushing up his glasses, Deputy Frost looked away from the computer screen. “I think I found something.”
“Oh yeah?” Charlie took a seat in front of the desktop computer, their sandwiches forgotten.
Frost’s thin fingers moved nimbly over the keyboard before a Facebook page filled the screen. “Check it out.”
Living Lies Page 7
