Jackson said that now, but I just didn’t see how it would all work. Not in reality.
Most men liked having their girlfriends close by. The long-distance thing? It was challenging, even for the most grounded of couples. It wasn’t that I thought Jackson wouldn’t wait for me. It was just that I worried what would happen during the waiting.
My dad used to always say that relationships were like flowers. They needed to be fed, watered, and nurtured in order to survive. I knew that some of that nurturing could be done through phone conversations and emails and weekend visits.
But was that enough for a truly healthy relationship?
“Listen, you have a lot going on right now, and I know you’re stressed,” Jackson said. “What did we hear about at church on Sunday? About how we shouldn’t worry about tomorrow because tomorrow would worry about itself?”
I nodded. “That sermon could have been custom-designed for me.”
“It’s a lesson we all need to hear. Let’s just take things one day at a time, okay?”
He was right. I was going into major anxiety mode when I shouldn’t. I needed to chill. “One day at a time.”
Jackson studied my face for another moment, and I couldn’t read his expression. Was he upset by this at all? Or was he taking it in stride?
I had to admit, I thought he’d be a little more upset.
Jackson wiped a hair from my face. “Why don’t you let me help you rehearse for your first episode of Relentless.”
I pulled back my tears, even though my heart still felt heavy. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
I nodded. Maybe that was just what I needed to distract myself. I needed to sleep on this offer instead of assuming the worst. “Yeah, that sounds great. Thanks.”
His voice sounded gentle as he peered at me. “I do need to warn you that I’m not much of an actor.”
“I think you’ll be fine.”
“Does this involve me professing my love?”
“As a matter of fact, it does.” I didn’t want to leave him, I realized. I didn’t consider myself a dependent type of person, but the thought of not seeing him for a month . . . it did something to my heart.
We’d be okay, wouldn’t we? We wouldn’t succumb to the same mistakes that other couples made? We were stronger than that.
I grabbed the script from the coffee table and handed it to him. “Let’s start on page twenty-three.”
He glanced at the paper in his hands. “You’ll need to walk me through this.”
“Of course. First you’re going to need to stand.” My throat still burned from unshed tears, but at least Jackson was making the most of this.
He rose to his feet and stood on the living room rug. I stood beside him, and Ripley settled at our feet. The lights around us were on the dim side.
Almost spooky dim.
No, I couldn’t think about that now. This was not the time to think about Desiree.
I took Jackson’s hand and pulled it to my waist. “You’ll need to put your hand here.”
Fire rushed through me at Jackson’s touch. I hoped that never went away.
“See, isn’t this so much better than Sam?” Jackson leaned closer, his voice low and intimate.
“So much better.” But my teasing only lasted a moment—because the curtain behind Jackson moved.
Was it an intruder?
Or the ghost of Desiree Williams?
Chapter Twenty-One
I jumped into Jackson’s arms. But not for long.
He morphed into detective mode and turned, as if expecting to see an intruder.
Instead, the curtain swayed.
He turned toward me, still all bristly and on guard. “What’s wrong?”
I pointed, but my voice faltered as I said, “The curtain is moving.”
I didn’t say out loud what I was thinking, especially the part involving a ghost . . .
Jackson squinted. “That’s because the air vent is right below it.”
I followed his gaze and saw he was correct. There was an air vent there. The AC must have kicked on.
I let out a shaky laugh and tried to compose myself. “Oh, you’re right. An air vent.”
“I know what you were thinking. It wasn’t Desiree’s ghost.”
“Me? Think that? Never.”
“Uh huh.”
He stepped closer. “So, where were we? We should stay focused.”
“You were about to kiss me.” I lifted my head and chided myself for overreacting.
“That’s right.”
Just as Jackson moved in for a kiss, a noise sounded outside, and I stiffened, trying not to overreact again.
“Is this part of the script?” Jackson asked.
“No, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
I froze, waiting to hear it again. All was silent.
“Joey?”
“There was a scratching sound.”
Jackson let out a breath and paused. I knew he’d rather be kissing me but . . .
“There it is!” I grabbed his arm as I heard it again.
Something sounded like it was scratching above me. Like maybe Desiree had come from the afterlife and was trying desperately to get to me through the walls.
“Joey, that’s a branch scraping the siding.”
What? That was too simple, too easy. “How do you know that?”
“Because I know there’s a tree on that side of the house. I know what it sounds like. It’s nothing to be alarmed about.” He kissed my forehead and pulled me into a hug.
“I did almost die today when that railing broke. I’m not all paranoid.” I felt foolish, and I didn’t like it. I needed to remind him that my actions were justified. In my mind, at least.
“I know. You’ve had a lot going on. But everything, at the moment, is good.” Was I imagining things or was there a slight wistfulness to his voice?
I let out a deep breath. Jackson was right. I just needed to relax.
Jackson shifted and held up the script. “Now about that scene?”
“Right, right. The kissing scene.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Where were we?”
“I think we were right here.” Just as his lips touched mine, a pounding sounded in the distance.
I startled again, nearly jumping out of my skin.
Desiree.
That was definitely Desiree.
I glanced at Jackson. “How can you explain that one, Mr. Smarty Pants?”
Jackson frowned and nodded at something in the distance. “Easy. Someone is at your door.”
Michael Mills’ father stood on my deck.
It seemed like everyone with an ounce of curiosity could find my place.
Not comforting.
“Can we help you?” Jackson wedged himself in front of me.
Mr. Mills’ worried gaze met ours. “I was hoping to talk to Ms. Darling.”
I stepped past Jackson, my curiosity kicking into high gear. “Is everything okay?”
He nodded, but he didn’t look okay. “It’s about my son.”
“Come on in and have a seat,” I said. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Mr. Mills shook his head as he stepped inside, away from the sticky air of the deck. He didn’t move any farther. “No, I’m fine. I don’t have much time. My wife is expecting me back at the hospital.”
“What’s going on?” Jackson’s hands went to his hips.
“I’m worried about Michael.” Mr. Mills rubbed his hands against his khaki slacks, as if he were anxious. “The doctor took him off the vent, and Michael started talking in his sleep.”
“And?” I asked, knowing this was going somewhere but unsure of the destination.
“It was like he was arguing with Desiree. He said, ‘Desiree, no. You don’t want to do this. Desiree, I love you. We’re meant to be together.’ Then he screamed.” Mr. Mills held back a cry.
I drew in a deep breath. “You think your son killed his g
irlfriend?”
A full-out sob escaped from the man. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think that my son could be a killer. But he just sounded like he was reliving something, you know?”
It was great that he was coming forward with this, but . . . “Mr. Mills, why are you telling us this? You know that, if you’re right, your son could be in serious trouble.”
“Desiree was like a daughter to us. And I’ve always said my son’s anger was going to get him in trouble one day. I hope you’ll prove me wrong. I hope that this was just a terrible nightmare Michael was having. But I know I can’t live with myself if I stay quiet.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” Jackson said. “The doctor was supposed to let me know when he was off the ventilator anyway.”
My heart sagged. Jackson was leaving. But I knew why, and I couldn’t blame him. But our relationship seemed to be feeding on interruptions, and I’d been so looking forward to just some quiet time with him.
It looked like my career wasn’t the only one that would be challenging.
Jackson turned back to me. “You going to be okay here?”
I nodded, pushing aside my earlier dread. “Yeah, of course. You do your thing.”
“Okay, I’ll leave Ripley to keep you company. Does that work?”
I looked at my alert, blue-eyed, hairy friend. “Perfect.”
“Great. I’ll call later.” He kissed my cheek.
After Jackson and Mr. Mills left, I got ready for bed and lay there, trying not to think about scary things like ghosts or people who’d died in my house.
It was easier said than done. I just needed to talk myself through this.
Okay, so the tree next to the house had brushed its branches against the siding and that could explain one noise.
Then the AC had come on and moved the curtain.
The rattle I’d heard from the room above me? Jackson thought it was probably a shingle rattling on top of the house.
There were explanations for all this.
So why did I keep thinking about Desiree? I reached down and rubbed Ripley’s head.
I just needed to distract myself from ghosts and irrational fears and anxiety about potential changes in our relationship. And what better way to distract myself than by thinking about this case?
Wesley had an alibi. I really didn’t think he was our guy. But his painting was still missing, and he did need that money. Could he have hired someone?
Michael Mills had a temper, he was possessive, and he’d followed Desiree here. As far as I was concerned, he was still in the running as the bad guy.
Desiree had a side hustle going on. That side hustle possibly involved Wesley’s painting.
Jennifer was unstable. But was that just grief? Or was this standard for her? And, if so, did that mean she had something to do with this?
I had no idea. And I had no idea where to look next.
I had nothing. Not really, at least.
But maybe if I got a good night’s rest, I’d have some clarity in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My phone jostled me from slumber. I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep but apparently, I had. Ripley curled up beside me on the bed.
I rubbed his head.
I was going to miss Ripley also. I was going to miss all of this.
As my phone rang again, I grabbed it, remembering someone was calling and that noise wasn’t an alarm clock. I hadn’t had my coffee yet, so don’t judge.
I glanced at the screen. It was Jackson.
“Morning,” I muttered.
“It’s nine. And guess what?”
“You found the killer?”
“No. But the doctor cleared me to talk to Michael Mills this morning.”
“I thought you went to talk to him last night.”
“No, the doctor wouldn’t let me into his room. Besides, Michael was still groggy and could hardly speak. I figured it would be okay to wait until this morning. You want to go with me?”
Certainly I hadn’t heard him correctly. I sat up and rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. “You’re inviting me along?”
“You’re researching for your role, right?”
That was right. The police chief had allowed me to tag along with Jackson before, under the guise of research. It was one of the many ways Jackson and I had bonded early in our relationship.
“I’m absolutely researching for an upcoming episode,” I said.
“Do you promise to behave?”
“Of course.” I mentally snorted at the no-brainer question.
“You say that every time.”
I wanted to be offended, yet I couldn’t be. “How do you define behave?”
Jackson chuckled. “I’ll pick you up in five.”
I ran a hand through my tangled hair and knew my face was going to need some work this morning. “Can you make it ten?”
Thirty minutes later, I’d made myself fairly presentable and Jackson and I were walking toward Michael Mills’ room. Our timing was right because his parents were just leaving for breakfast. As we passed them in the hallway, Mr. Mills gave us a soulful look that begged us not to share what he’d told us yesterday. I nodded, trying to reassure him.
As soon as we were in Michael’s room, I stood nicely in the background while Jackson stood by his bedside.
It was the first time I’d seen Michael in real life, although I had seen pictures of him online when I’d looked at Desiree’s social media accounts. Michael had tattoos all the way down his arms and up his neck. He had messy hair—messy because he was in the hospital? Maybe. But he seemed like the rough-and-tumble type of guy. His eyes were a striking green color, and he had a nice build.
But when Michael’s gaze focused on me, our initial conversation got sidetracked.
“Joey Darling? I can’t believe you’re here. Desiree loved you.” Michael’s voice sounded raspy, no doubt from the ventilator. He had a small bandage on his forehead, his arm was in a cast, and he probably had other injuries that I couldn’t see beneath his gown and blanket.
“Thank you,” I told him. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
His smile slipped. “Yeah, me too. I still can’t believe it. I keep forgetting and expecting her to walk through the door to check on me.”
His voice caught, and he looked away, his toughness seeming to melt for a moment.
Michael finally cleared his throat. “Did you ever catch whoever did this? Whoever T-boned me?”
Jackson shook his head. “We found some footage on a nearby camera that gave us the license plates of the vehicle. But, unfortunately, it was stolen. We still don’t know who was driving it, but I assure you that we’re looking into it.”
“Thanks for that update,” Michael said.
“Did you find Desiree when you got into town, Michael?” Jackson asked.
He nodded somberly. “I did. I saw her leaving Joey’s house and followed her.”
“When was this?” Jackson stood by his bed, pen and paper in hand.
“The night she died.” Michael’s voice cracked as he held back a sob. “I just never thought . . .”
Jackson stayed focused. “You said you followed her?”
I remained quiet against the wall, just like I’d promised. TV shows could convey a lot, but not the gut-wrenching reality of emotions like the ones Michael had to be feeling. The air even felt tight with tension.
“I did follow her,” Michael said. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I just felt like there were things Desiree wasn’t telling me. I thought I was losing her.”
“Let me rewind a bit. You said you found her. Did you talk to Desiree at all after you got into town?”
“I called her on my way here. She told me she’d found a way to earn some more money and that it was really going to help until she could get that role on Relentless.”
Interesting. That was what Jennifer had told us also.
“Did she say what that way was?” Jackson asked.
I still wondered about that painting of Wesley’s. Did Desiree discover it was worth one hundred thousand and steal it somehow? We still hadn’t located the artwork, so it seemed like a possibility.
I could only assume that Jackson had looked into her finances and that, if Desiree had received a large amount of money, he would know. However, he hadn’t mentioned anything to me about it. Not that he was obligated to do that, but it did seem like something he might bring up.
“What happened when you followed her?” Jackson asked.
“She went to a hotel.” Michael frowned, his whole face twisting with the action. “I followed her the best I could without being seen. She went to one of the rooms and knocked on the door. A guy answered, and she went inside.” His cheeks turned red and it was obvious he was upset.
Okay, I hadn’t expected that one.
“And then?” Jackson prodded.
“I waited. I wanted to barge inside and find out what was going on. But I didn’t. I figured she might have an explanation. Maybe it was a business transaction. Maybe it was anything but what it looked like.” The man’s jaw looked like it clenched harder and harder with each new detail that was revealed.
“Keep going.”
“But I couldn’t stay. Security must have been called on me because I was escorted out. At that point, I was mad. I’d started thinking about worst-case scenarios. I wondered if there was more to this story, and I wanted to talk to Desiree. I kept trying to call her, but she didn’t answer.”
I held my breath, waiting to see where this story would go. Nowhere good, if I had to guess.
“As I was leaving, I decided to take a drive and cool off a little. Three hours later, I was T-boned.”
“What’s the name of this hotel? And do you have a room number?” Jackson asked.
“I sure do.” Michael recited the information to us.
He was just in time because Michael’s doctor came in and announced Michael needed to rest.
But I wasn’t totally convinced that Michael wasn’t our guy. He had the rage, the motive, probably the opportunity. But how did we prove it?
Gaffe Out Loud Page 12
