Dangerous Lies

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  Price's mouth pinched, but he didn't respond to my accusation. "To a jury, perception is everything. They have no reason to trust Reed. Right now, you're our best shot. Remember how I told you delay is the defense's best friend? That's because over time, witnesses forget their testimony. We need to make sure yours is rock solid."

  "Detective Cherry and I reviewed the statement you gave us," Detective Ramos said, "and we have a few follow-up questions. We want to make sure your story is airtight. We don't want the defense seeing something we overlooked."

  My knees swayed a little, but I ordered myself to keep it together. Follow-up questions. I knew my story. Stick to it, and I could get through this.

  "Why don't we sit in the kitchen?" Carmina suggested. "Stella can finish her meal, and I can pour the rest of you sun tea."

  "What was your mom's relationship with Danny Balando?" Detective Ramos asked, flipping out the coattails of his blazer as he lowered his muscled physique into the chair across from mine.

  "I already told you. He was her drug dealer," I said, refusing to be intimidated by his hulking size, which I was sure was his intent.

  "Meaning their relationship was strictly professional?"

  I held his gaze without blinking, but my mind raced furiously. He was digging. Why? What did he know? "If you call buying and selling drugs professional, then yes."

  "See, we believe he was more than that. We believe he was also her boyfriend. It's our belief that they were romantic."

  I blinked once, reflexively, but other than that, revealed nothing. "Did Danny say that? Because we all know Danny can be trusted. He's such a great guy. I mean, it's not like he's in jail for murder or anything."

  "Stella," Carmina said softly, covering my hand with her own. "Just the facts."

  "We believe the reason your mom is refusing to cooperate with us is because she's trying to protect Danny," Detective Cherry explained.

  "My mom's an addict. She was passed out when Danny Balando shot that man in our house. She isn't being uncooperative--she doesn't know anything."

  Ramos flipped through the notepad in front of him. "When we asked her to tell us about that night, she said,"--he licked his index finger, finding the right page--"'Go to hell.' Those aren't the words of someone with no memory of events. Those are the words of someone who's defensive because they're hiding something."

  "Maybe she's tired of being pestered for information she doesn't have," I shot back. Under the table, I wiped my palms on my shorts.

  "Tell us about that night," Detective Cherry murmured. Her dark brown eyes were soft, sympathetic. Classic Good Cop. "Let's walk through it one more time."

  "Again?" I said resentfully.

  "Again," Charles Menlove said. Until now, he'd stood with his shoulder to the wall, watching the proceedings without comment. "I want to hear it again."

  "It was after midnight," I began. I had rehearsed these words until I knew them by heart. My story was solid. "It was really late--or early, depending on how you look at it."

  "What time? Ballpark," Detective Cherry said gently.

  I shook my head, showing them I was at a loss. "I'd been out with friends. I lost track of time."

  "Can you give us a range--between this hour and that?" Detective Cherry urged.

  "I can't. I'm sorry."

  She nodded. "It's okay. Keep going."

  "I parked on the street because I didn't want to wake my mom."

  "Because you broke curfew, isn't that right?" Detective Ramos clarified. "You were worried you'd get in trouble if your mom heard you. You were sneaking home. But you can't remember the exact time you got home? You weren't frantically checking the clock as you drove, sweating bullets as each minute ticked by?"

  "I didn't have a curfew." Stay calm. "I was a little worried I'd wake her, but not overly. I knew there was a good chance she'd be passed out. I was right."

  "At seventeen, you were allowed to come and go as you pleased? You don't find that unusual?" he pressed.

  "She didn't allow me to do anything," I shot back. "She was completely unaware of me. When she was high, which was most of the time, the rest of the world dropped away. It didn't exist. I didn't exist. It was like . . . we were roommates. One roof, two different lives. I don't expect you to understand."

  "What happened after you got home?" Detective Cherry asked.

  Shutting my eyes, I let that night return to me. Every time I went back, I expected the nightmare to lose some of its grip, but that wasn't the case. I could see the past all too clearly.

  I remembered the squeak of a rain-washed pavement beneath my shoes as I crept toward the back door. I remembered the hushed stillness of sleeping houses. The cool dampness of the night air.

  I let myself inside. The kitchen light didn't turn on. Same thing in the dining room. In the dark, I felt my way through the house.

  As I crossed in front of the library's glass doors, I saw my mom passed out in a chair. Her pills were spread on the side table. Before I could register disgust, my eyes were drawn behind her. I stared at the man's body. He'd been shot, execution-style.

  I was too paralyzed to scream.

  Scuffling sounds carried in from the street outside.

  I turned to the window. A barrel of a man dragged a second, leaner man over to a parked Honda Civic. The man being dragged had a sack over his head. Something about him was remotely familiar, but I was too much in shock to pursue the thought.

  The big man shoved the other man into the Civic's trunk, then beat him with a tire iron until his chilling screams fell quiet.

  After closing the trunk, the big man stared at our house. His eyes glittered with something dark and disturbing. He didn't see me. But I saw him.

  As much as I might want to, I would never forget Danny Balando's face.

  "Your mother was unconscious when you entered the library?" Detective Ramos repeated, jolting me back to Carmina's kitchen table.

  "Yes."

  "And the man on the floor, the man who was shot, he was dead?"

  "He wasn't moving. There was blood everywhere," I said shakily.

  "Did Danny Balando attempt to enter the house at that point?"

  "Reenter. No. He drove off."

  "Did you see the weapon he used to shoot the man in the library?"

  "No. He must have taken it with him. Why would he leave it?"

  "What time did you call the police?"

  "Right after Danny drove off."

  Ramos paged through his notes. "Phone records show you placed the call at three twenty-two a.m."

  "That sounds right."

  "So it's safe to assume you arrived home about three fifteen a.m., wouldn't you agree?"

  "I guess."

  "You see, here's where we have a problem. We have some new information, and your statement doesn't jive."

  New information? That had come to light while I was in Thunder Basin? My mind reeled frantically as I tried to guess what they knew. My hands felt damp with perspiration and I shifted in my seat.

  Ramos went on, "In hopes of catching Danny Balando leaving the scene of the crime, we pored over hours of security feed obtained from cameras in the area. Banks, convenience stores, that sort of thing. We have a street cam showing your car driving through the intersection of Audubon and Eighth at two fifteen a.m. That intersection is only a handful of blocks from your house. You were driving in the direction of home. It stands to reason you should have made it home closer to two twenty. And yet, you didn't call nine-one-one for another hour." He propped his meaty forearms on the table, his eyes locking me in their hard gaze. "That street cam shows your car driving toward your house at two fifteen, then away at two forty. More perplexing, it shows you returning again at three ten. That's a lot of driving. What were you doing? Where were you going?"

  I stared at him. My paralysis lasted only a moment. Finding my voice, I said, "I drove to Reed's. After I saw the dead man in my house, I panicked. I didn't know what to do. My mom was passed out--she coul
dn't help me. So I drove to Reed's, but he wasn't home."

  "You drove to Reed Winslow's?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you mention this in your statement?"

  "I--" Tears burned my eyes. I wanted to look to Carmina for help, but she hadn't been there. She couldn't tell me what to say. "I didn't want to drag him into this. I--wanted to protect him."

  "You weren't aware that Reed had just been at your house when you left to drive to his place?" Detective Cherry asked.

  I shook my head adamantly, blinking against the hot sting in my eyes. "No. I didn't know Reed was in my bedroom that night, waiting for me to get home. I didn't know he would hear gunfire downstairs and go see what was wrong. I didn't know he'd walk in on a murder scene." My voice went up an octave. "Did I know my mom's drug dealer would drag him outside, shove him in the trunk of a car, and beat him with a tire iron to make him 'forget' what he'd seen? No! Why are we going over this again?" I cried. "I've already told you what happened! Why are you making me relive it?"

  "Time for a break," Carmina said in that calm, yet adamant, voice of hers. Her chair scraped across the floor as she rose to her feet. "Detectives, Mr. Menlove, I know you traveled a long way to talk with Stella, but I'm calling it a night. She's had enough."

  Detective Ramos dragged his hands down his face and Detective Cherry leaned back in her chair with a sigh of defeat.

  It was Charles Menlove, the prosecutor, who spoke up. "Just one more question, Stella, and we'll be on our way. Can you tell me who the man in the library was? The man who was shot."

  "He was my mom's former dealer, before Danny Balando."

  "His name, by chance?"

  "She called him the Pharmacist. She and her friends did. He supplied them with painkillers, I think. Prescriptions."

  Charles Menlove's eyes were sure and steady, telling me he already knew this. "And what do you surmise he was doing at your house that night?"

  "He'd fronted my mom prescriptions, and she owed him a lot of money. He came to the house, demanding payment. He threatened her, roughed her up--we both saw the bruises."

  A complying nod. "And Danny Balando? Where does he fit in?"

  Angry now, I gave him my opinion with open defiance. "I think Danny Balando showed up, saw the Pharmacist assaulting his client, and shot him. Then again, I'm not the detective. Far be it for me to make sense of these mystifying--or not--clues."

  Ignoring my jab, Charles Menlove said, "And that's when Reed came downstairs? Upon hearing gunfire?"

  "That's right. Reed ran downstairs to see what was the matter, and Danny assaulted him, then drove him to the west side, where he dumped his body on the street without any care about what might happen to him."

  "You seem to have your theory all worked out. I admit, it's well developed. Everything explained, no loose ends. You practically handed it to us on a gold platter."

  "I'll put the bill in the mail," I said with withering sarcasm.

  That night, I lay in bed listening to the stillness of the house. The air in my room was hot and placid, but I drew the sheet under my chin, shivering. It was after midnight before I got up the nerve to open the window. I leaned my back against the wall and shut my eyes. I rested a hand on the windowsill and let the cool air wash over my clammy skin. I breathed deeply, trying to plant my feet solidly in Thunder Basin.

  I hadn't realized how tense I was until they--Price, Charles Menlove, and the detectives--left. When they showed up tonight, it was as if they'd brought Philly with them.

  The secrets I'd been running from had finally caught up with me.

  But the detectives were gone now, and the world was beginning to slow. I felt the wide open spaces surrounding the farmhouse envelope me. My problems receded into the shadows and life seemed simple again. I felt cool, sweet relief.

  Tonight Thunder Basin didn't feel like a prison. It felt like a set of open doors at the end of a long, painful road, beckoning me closer.

  It felt like my sanctuary.

  Estella,

  Last day of baseball camp. I'll finally be free of my roommate and I get to see you. Can't wait. I'm going to take a cab from the airport and stay with a friend in the city until things blow over at home. That's right. ore fighting at the Winslow residence, and I wasn't even there to start it. I called my mom last night and she'd been arguing with my dad. I could hear it in her voice. y dad wants her to host a party for his army buddies. But her fibromyalgia makes it hard for her to get out of bed. She's in constant pain. How's she supposed to play hostess? In the end, I know she'll do what he wants. It pisses me off that she won't stand up to him, but I have to let it go. I've waited seventeen years for her to stand up to him, and look where it's gotten me. It's a weakness to care. When you care, you have something to lose.

  xReed

  18

  BY THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, I WAS FEELING MUCH better--physically. I'd been medically cleared to go back to work, and despite Carmina's insistence that I not rush things, I was ready to see the Sundown again. As in all small towns, talk traveled quickly in Thunder Basin. If there was one piece of news I wanted to reach Trigger's ears, it was that I was back at work. He'd taken some skin and blood, but that was all he was getting. I wasn't going to hide in Carmina's house, living in fear of him.

  But since the Sundown was closed Sundays, I had one more day of waiting before I donned my support hose, faux-leather skirt, and camo top again. I woke first thing, beating Carmina out of bed, and put a pot of coffee on. Then I showered for church. That's right. Church.

  I hadn't seen or talked to Chet since our disastrous kiss over a week ago, and despite the proverbial expression, time was not mending my heart--with each passing day, I felt worse. I needed to know things were okay between us. I needed his friendship.

  I could pretend I liked him only because there was no one else around, but there was something about him. Something hard to resist. He was overpoweringly masculine yet incredibly sensitive. It was a dangerous combination. A dangerous, alluring, tempting combination. I staunchly refused to compare Chet to Reed--there was no point; I was happy with Reed--but an unwanted voice at the back of my mind whispered it was because I knew who'd win, and it wasn't who I wanted.

  Or was it?

  Despite my best-laid plans, I hadn't bumped into Chet in town, which I'd hoped would give me the perfect opportunity to gauge his feelings. Nor had I worked up the nerve to call him. I figured if I was aiming to cross paths with him, my best shot was at church. If I sat close enough to him to unavoidably run into him after the service, I'd get my excuse to talk to him. I had no doubt it would be awkward. I'd rejected him and had probably wounded his pride. He had every right to feel hurt. I just hoped . . .

  I hoped for the impossible. That things would go back to the way they'd been before. But I'd settle for saying sorry. Which was another reason I was hell-bent on going to church this morning. If you couldn't make amends at church, where could you?

  Carmina and I rode together. Climbing out of her truck, I straightened my skirt and squared my shoulders. Here goes nothing.

  As we walked to the doors, we passed the marquee sign on the lawn. FORBIDDEN FRUITS CREATE MANY JAMS.

  Talk about a guilt trip. No one knew I'd kissed Chet, certainly not Reed, certainly not any of the congregation, but just the same. I couldn't help but glance around nervously, half expecting to see huddled groups whispering and pointing at me like I was some kind of twenty-first-century Hester Prynne. Not that it was any of their business.

  Carmina seemed to see the marquee sign at the same moment, and grunted her disapproval. "The flashy things pastors do these days to draw in larger crowds. That sign is just plain vulgar."

  "We should rearrange the letters. Create an anagram. Create a dirty anagram. Let's see. . . ." I tapped my lip thoughtfully. "If an erect bride surfs on a fried car--"

  "Oh, hush." Carmina eyed me reproachfully, but a hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  "The expression
on Pastor Lykins's face would be priceless," I said temptingly.

  She rolled her eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh, as if to lament having to put up with me.

  We reached the top of the steps, and Pastor Lykins greeted us by shaking our hands enthusiastically. He leaned in, his hushed voice turning grave. "Stella, I was grieved to hear about what happened last week. I sincerely hope you're feeling better. Did you receive my flowers?"

  "Yes, thank you." In fact, he'd stopped by Carmina's house twice to check on me, but luck had been on my side both days and I'd been gone. A crying shame, as Carmina would say.

  "I'm so relieved and delighted to see you at church this morning," he went on. "I hope you enjoy the sermon. Carmina, looking lovely as ever."

  With a brusque nod that acknowledged his compliment, Carmina led me inside.

  I waited until we were out of the pastor's range of hearing before I echoed, "'Lovely as ever?' Is there something you're not telling me?"

  "Don't be nonsensical."

  "He was hitting on you!"

  Carmina paused in walking to give me a stern, reproachful eye. "Of all the harebrained things to suggest."

  "Now I know what you do at Bible study," I said slyly.

  "Lord help us," Carmina muttered, sliding into an empty pew.

  I had just taken my seat beside her when Trigger and his parents strolled up the aisle. Trigger wore a navy-checked shirt and Dockers, and while he looked squeaky clean, I knew the dirty truth about him. He had a crutch tucked under one armpit, and hobbled into a pew two in front of ours. Before easing gingerly into his seat, he looked back and caught my eye. To anyone else, his expression would have seemed perfectly impassive. But I saw the taunting gleam in his rage-filled eyes as he leered at me. In that moment, he reminded me of Danny Balando. They shared the same untouchable arrogance and unstable temper--I could see it as plainly in Trigger's fixated stare as I had in Danny's crazed eyes all those weeks ago.

  The woman seated in front of me leaned forward to speak with Trigger. "What happened, Trigger? Hurt yourself at baseball practice?"

  He smiled, slow and easy. "Yes, ma'am. Took a stray ball to the ankle. Doc said I got a distal fibula fracture. Fancy talk for one broken bone, so I can still walk on it, I just gotta be careful. And I gotta wear this walking cast four more weeks."