Revolver Road

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Revolver Road Page 11

by Christi Daugherty


  He didn’t argue. Leaving their full drinks on the table, they headed out. As he held the door for her, Luke fixed the tabloid reporter with an icy stare.

  Outside, Harper took a deep breath and let the salt air clear Graff from her lungs.

  As they walked back to their cars, she told Luke about Graff’s fixation with Cara. “There’s something personal there,” she said. “He seems obsessed with her.”

  He shot her a sideways look. “And now he’s obsessed with you.”

  “He’s the least of my worries,” she said, dismissively.

  Harper looked down the empty street. Now that she had some idea what she was up against, living out here was starting to seem like a truly terrible idea. The Tybee police force was too tiny to help her if men like the ones Luke had described came for her.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, Luke said, “I don’t like you living out here.”

  “Yeah,” Harper said. “I was just thinking it might be time to move closer to a heavily armed police department.”

  He didn’t smile. “I’m serious. You should think about moving back to town.”

  “I’m on it,” she said. And she was. Tomorrow she would start making calls and see if she could find a new place in the city.

  The thought was cheering. Maybe it was worth having a killer after her if it meant she could go home again.

  Luke glanced down at the keys in his hand. “Harper. About your mother … You’re not planning on going after Dowell for revenge, are you?”

  There was a long pause. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said, finally.

  He lifted his serious blue eyes to hers. “Well, before you do anything, remember this. I am a police officer with eight years of service. I am over six feet tall and trained in self-defense. And Dowell’s thugs nearly killed me.” There was a new intensity in his expression. “You’re the toughest woman I know. But they would eliminate you. Do me a favor. Don’t do anything. Just keep your head down. Pretend you don’t know what you know. Give me some time. Let me see what I can find out.”

  Their eyes locked, and she saw something in his gaze that was more than worry. Something that sent heat into her bloodstream.

  “I’ll wait to hear from you,” she promised.

  Suddenly, she felt completely drained. She longed for nothing more than for him to wrap her in his arms, as he once would have done. But that was the past.

  “I guess I better go,” she said.

  He looked almost disappointed—as if he’d hoped she’d suggest something else. But he said, “Yeah, me too,” and shifted the keys in his hand. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

  “Thanks.” She opened the driver’s-side door. The interior light glowed, illuminating her face.

  “Hey,” he said. “Watch your back, you hear me?”

  It had been a long time since she’d seen that expression on his face—a complex mixture of concern and longing. She felt that look in her stomach.

  But there was no point. He had someone else now.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, getting into the car. “I’m always careful.”

  13

  That night, Harper dreamed she was speeding across the marshes in the dark. The road unfurled before her, straight as a razor. There were headlights in the rearview mirror. Closing in. The glow grew brighter and brighter until a blinding light filled the car and she couldn’t see the road ahead.

  There was a bang, and her eyes flew open. She was lying on the couch, her forehead beaded with sweat. Zuzu was asleep at her feet.

  Daylight streamed through the open blinds, sending shards of bright sunlight across the dark wood floors.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Someone was pounding on the door.

  She sat up, disturbing Zuzu, who leapt from the sofa in a fluid arc and stalked away with her ears back as the pounding came again.

  Still groggy, Harper jumped to her feet, looking around for a baseball bat before remembering that she didn’t have one anymore.

  “Harper, are you naked?” Bonnie’s impatient voice called from outside. “Put some clothes on and open the damned door. These bags are heavy.”

  She’d forgotten it was Saturday. Bonnie was coming to stay.

  “Hang on!” she called hoarsely, grabbing the keys from the coffee table. When she finally got the door open, Bonnie stood on the other side clutching four overstuffed bags, including one that clinked when she stepped inside. “About time,” she groused.

  “Are you moving in for good?” Harper looked at the overfilled bags doubtfully.

  “I need all of this,” Bonnie insisted, dropping them by the door. “I know you won’t have any food. And the wine is medicinal.” She looked from Harper to the rumpled sofa to where Zuzu sat on the floor, blinking at them both disapprovingly. “Did you just get up?”

  “It’s noon.” Harper said it like that explained everything. She was wide awake now, though, and her main thought was that it was not a good idea for Bonnie to be here right now.

  She’d invited her before she’d learned about Martin Dowell.

  The last thing she wanted was for Bonnie to somehow get caught up in this. But if she explained why she wanted her to leave, she’d insist on staying to protect her.

  Utterly unaware of Harper’s internal conflict, Bonnie had already picked up the bag of wine and groceries and headed across the living room to the little kitchen, talking nonstop. “Well, as you might have gathered, my date was a disaster.”

  Harper tried to remember a conversation that now seemed to have happened long ago. “Remind me—who was he?”

  “His name is Dylan,” Bonnie called over her shoulder, setting bags down in the cramped little kitchen. “He’s so good-looking. He does light art.”

  Harper sat back down on the sofa. “That sounds … bright.”

  “It’s beautiful. That’s why I wanted to go out with him. But, dear lord, he talks about himself more than a homecoming queen.” Harper could hear her opening and closing cupboards. Sliding things onto mostly empty shelves. “He has a lot of thoughts about his process and art and ‘the realized world,’ whatever the hell that is, and damn if he doesn’t like to talk about it nonstop.”

  She leaned in the kitchen doorway. Her wavy, white-blond hair was pulled into a side ponytail that hung over one shoulder. The section dyed magenta shimmered in the light. She wore faded jeans rolled up to expose slim ankles, and a black T-shirt that she’d sliced up in places so that it hung loose, revealing the delicate curves of her collarbone. On the front, she’d painted the word “CREATE” in silver, entwined with flowers.

  “I’d have sent him home but he’s so good-looking.” She sighed, leaning her head against the wood frame. “Even when he was boring me, I just thought about how pretty he was and then I felt better about him. He’s got this gorgeous hair that falls over his forehead. He kind of peeks out from under it like a little deer.”

  Harper wasn’t impressed. “Did you make an excuse and get out of there?”

  Bonnie straightened. “Honey, no. I had sex with him and then I went home before he could talk me into a coma. You want some water? I’ll put some coffee on, too.”

  She talked as if Harper were visiting her, instead of the other way around.

  “Sure,” Harper said. “Was the sex good at least?”

  “It was okay when he finally stopped talking. But there won’t be a repeat performance.” Bonnie’s voice floated back from the kitchen. “I’m not as into him as he is.” Harper heard the sound of the tap running. “What about you?” Bonnie raised her voice above the water. “Did you go out after work?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of how?” Bonnie walked back in and handed her a glass, before sitting down in a chair.

  “I ran into Luke on my way back to town. We went out for a beer.”

  Harper kept her tone careless but Bonnie fixed her with a knowing blue-eyed stare.

  “And what was that
like?”

  “Like having a beer with the guy who broke my heart,” Harper said. Curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked under her, she told her about passing him on the bridge. The way he’d turned his car around.

  “I’m sorry but that is sickeningly romantic.” Bonnie sighed. “No one ever turned his car around for me. I swear someone up there wants you two together.”

  Picking up her water, Harper mumbled into her glass, “Well, they’ll need to try harder than that.”

  “So what did you talk about?” Bonnie asked, nudging her with her toes.

  “Oh, you know, work,” she said. “And this guy from an LA tabloid who’s been harassing me. He was in the Shipwreck being a dick. I thought for a second Luke was going to deck him.”

  “Y’all haven’t dated in six months, and he’d still fight for your honor,” Bonnie marveled. “If he wasn’t a cheating son of a bitch I’d like him.”

  “Yeah, well,” Harper said. “Me too.”

  “He still got a girlfriend?” Bonnie was as relentless as a pit bull.

  “Probably.” Harper shrugged. “It didn’t come up.”

  Bonnie’s eyes narrowed. “Harper Louise. Have I taught you nothing? You miss him, he obviously misses you, you have to find out—”

  “I know, but I can’t,” Harper cut her off, her voice ringing with sudden passion. “Even if he’s single, I can’t date him again. You know how it was last time. And the time before. We’re combustible, Luke and me. I won’t get burned again. Even if it means I’m single forever and I live all alone in this stupid little house with no one but the cat.”

  Bonnie’s expression softened. “He’ll be sorry one day for blowing this, I promise. And you won’t be alone forever. There’s no way that’s happening.” She stood up. “Now, let me get you that coffee.”

  As she walked back to the kitchen, Harper felt a needle prick of guilt for not telling her what was really going on, but she couldn’t. It was bad enough that Bonnie was here now, where anyone looking for Harper might find her.

  In the moments before she walked back in with two steaming mugs, Harper decided this would have to be Bonnie’s last visit until all of this was settled. For her own sake.

  * * *

  There was a huge amount to do, but Harper couldn’t seem to make herself leave the house. Bonnie made an omelet and toast from the supplies she’d brought, and the two of them sat on the sofa, drinking coffee and catching up.

  The normality of it was so welcome, Harper allowed herself to relax a little. She told her about the Xavier Rayne case, describing his housemates in detail. Cara’s distant beauty. Allegra’s exquisite voice.

  Bonnie interrupted. “That singer, what did you say her name was? Allegra something?” When Harper nodded, she said, “I think I’ve heard of her. I think she’s got a gig scheduled at the Library later this week.” She searched her phone. “Yeah, here we go. Allegra Hanson. She’s there on Wednesday.” She held it up so Harper could see. On the screen, a blue-tinted Allegra, holding a microphone, looked out at an unseen audience. Written across the image was “The Library Live: Wednesday 8 P.M.”

  “She hasn’t canceled?” Harper asked.

  Bonnie shook her head. “It’s still on the website.”

  Harper’s phone rang, interrupting them. The number wasn’t recognized. She jumped from the sofa so quickly she jarred the coffee table. Bonnie gave her a puzzled look.

  She barely got out the word “Sorry” as she ran out onto the porch, her breath tight in her throat. “McClain.”

  “Harper is this you?” It was Allegra’s distinctive voice, her accent thick as honey.

  It was as if they’d summoned her by talking about her. Harper was so surprised, it took her a second to reply.

  “Hey, Allegra. Is everything okay?”

  “No, it really isn’t.”

  In the background, Harper could hear the raised voices. It sounded like an argument.

  “Listen, would you mind coming over? I don’t know what to do.” There was a high, thin nervousness to her voice.

  Harper had planned to go in to the office early to dig deeper into Martin Dowell’s life. But something was going on over there right now, and she couldn’t say no.

  “Sure,” she said, trying not to sound as reluctant as she felt. “Are you all … safe?”

  “Just … please come,” Allegra pleaded, and then the phone went dead.

  14

  When she reached Admiral’s Row, seven TV vans were still parked outside but most of them appeared empty. No reporters leaned against the doors, watching number 6.

  Blessedly, there was also no sign of Jon Graff. In fact, Harper passed no one at all until an older woman in low heels walked out of number 5, rolling a Louis Vuitton suitcase with some effort in the direction of a silver Mercedes.

  Seeing Harper watching the vans, she stopped. “They’ve been there all night.” Her perfectly made-up face was set in lines of disapproval. “The police won’t do a thing.”

  Harper walked over to her. “This must be a nightmare for you,” she said sympathetically.

  “You have no idea. Reporters knocked on my door at ten o’clock last night trying to interview me. I’m alone in the house. Police were coming and going at all hours.” The woman’s lips tightened. “I’ve had enough. My children don’t think it’s safe for me here until they catch the person who did this.” She had the silky patrician accent of old Savannah gentry that elongated every syllable. “I’ll stay at the DeSoto until this madness blows over.”

  The DeSoto was one of Savannah’s most stylish and expensive hotels.

  “That’s probably the right thing to do.” Harper kept her tone supportive.

  “I think so, too.” As if she’d belatedly realized she was talking to a stranger, the woman peered at her. “I’m sorry, who did you say you were visiting?”

  Harper gestured vaguely at number 2, where no car was in the drive. “My friends don’t seem to be home, though.”

  “Gerald and Anna? I saw them leave about an hour ago,” the woman told her. “I think they’re going to stay in the city as well.”

  This was perfect. She was a veritable one-woman Neighborhood Watch.

  “Can I help you with that bag?” Harper offered.

  “That’s so sweet of you.” The woman pushed a button on her key fob, and the trunk lid rose smoothly.

  Harper picked up the suitcase, which was considerably heavier than it looked, and maneuvered it in. “There you go,” she said, dusting her hands together. As the lid closed, she made no move to leave. “It must be terrible, all of this happening so close to you. Anna’s really upset about it.”

  “It’s terrifying.” The woman’s pencil-lined eyes widened. “The police have no idea where the murder happened; they couldn’t even tell me for certain it wasn’t on my very doorstep.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Harper sympathized. “Did you know Xavier Rayne?”

  The woman made a vague gesture. “Enough to say hello. He was a sweet man. Very sensitive. It’s such a tragedy. He and his girlfriend—that pretty actress—they were a beautiful couple.” She leaned forward confidingly. “They had problems, though, I have to tell you. Terrible fights.”

  This time, Harper didn’t have to feign surprise. “Really? They fought?”

  “Like cats.” Mistaking her expression for disbelief, the woman explained, defensively, “I sleep lightly. Insomnia runs in my family. Besides, they made no effort to keep their voices down.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just surprised,” Harper said. “They seemed like the perfect couple.”

  The woman gave her a look. “Not very perfect from what I could hear.”

  “Was this recently?” Harper asked. “The fighting, I mean?”

  “Oh my land. The night he disappeared they had the biggest screaming match you’ve ever heard. He said he wouldn’t move in with her in LA, which really upset her. And she accused him of having sex with another girl. Which really upset him. She
told him she was going back to California and she’d never come here again. She used extremely foul language. And so did he. I meant to talk to them about that but … Well, you know.” Her words faded.

  “Have you talked to the police about this, Mrs.…?” Harper tilted her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Masters,” the woman said. “Jennifer Masters. And yours? I beg your pardon, I should have asked earlier.”

  “Harper McClain.”

  “McClain…” The woman’s carefully penciled eyebrows drew together. “I know that name.”

  Harper nudged the conversation back on track. “Did you tell the police?”

  “I did. In fact, a detective came by this morning,” she said. “She was extremely interested.”

  She. That had to be Daltrey. Harper hadn’t noticed any detectives’ cars parked on the street, so she must be gone already. She hoped so, anyway. Either way, she needed to get moving. The last thing she wanted was to run into Daltrey before she could find out what was going on in there.

  “I don’t blame you at all for going into the city until things calm down out here,” she said, taking a step back. “It was nice talking to you.”

  Taking the hint, the woman got into the car. “I won’t feel safe until they catch whoever did this,” she said before she closed the door. “You should be careful out here, too.”

  Harper waited until she drove out of sight before dashing over to number 6. Bypassing the main door in case anyone was watching, she slipped down the path between the two houses. This time, she didn’t run into anyone before reaching the arched, wooden gate.

  For a second, she feared she wouldn’t remember the security code, but as soon as she touched the keypad it came back to her: 0924.

  The gate opened without a sound. On the other side, the smooth green expanse of lawn was empty.

  She walked across the lawn to the back steps, and up to the veranda, where the white wicker chairs were still arranged as she’d seen them last. A pale pashmina had been abandoned on one, and the wind lifted it, making it flutter like a wounded bird.

 

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