“Oh.” It was the only thing she could think of to say.
Sarah was a patrol officer. Young and blond, with a heart-shaped face, a quick wit, and deep dimples. She was smaller than Harper, with the muscular build of a gymnast. All the cops had a thing for her.
Somehow that made it worse.
With effort, she asked, “Is it serious?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Maybe. I don’t know.” His jaw tightened. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about this.” He closed the locker hard. The metallic clang echoed in the long room. “We better get out of here.”
“Sure.” Heat rose to Harper’s cheeks.
She shoved the gun into her bag and got her keys out.
Luke’s brow furrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing the shoulder holster?”
“I carry it how I want,” Harper snapped.
She’d had enough of the gun range. Enough of pretending that she was fine. And that she didn’t have endless regrets. She turned and walked quickly across the shadowy shooting room to the dingy lobby. She heard the sound of Luke’s footsteps as he followed.
Neither of them spoke as he pulled the piece of paper Jerry had given to him from his pocket and set the alarm and locked the door.
Outside, Harper took a deep breath and stared up at the cloudy night sky. A hazy golden halo encircled the moon.
Ring around the moon—rain tomorrow, she thought, distantly.
When she glanced back, Luke was watching her with a strange, unreadable expression.
“Thanks for the lesson,” she said.
“No problem.” His tone was as clipped and cool as hers.
There was no point sticking around. No reason to drag this out. Every word between them was salt on their wounds. The best place they could be was away from each other.
She unlocked the Camaro and climbed in, her shoulders stiff. When she put her hands on the wheel, they felt numb.
She didn’t know why she was so upset. She’d known—or suspected, at least. And they were through.
It seemed she had let him go with her mind, but not with her heart. Because, this felt like breaking up all over again.
Shifting the car into gear, she drove away without saying good-bye.
Before she pulled out of the parking lot, she allowed herself one glance at the rearview mirror. Luke hadn’t moved.
He was standing right where she’d left him, watching her go.
23
After leaving the gun range, Harper couldn’t bear to go home. She didn’t want to drive through the marshes alone. She didn’t want to be in that cottage by herself, thinking about Luke and pretty blond Sarah Blake. She kept hearing the same words over and over.
“Is it serious?”
“Maybe.”
Instead of going to Tybee, she drove across town to a little duplex with a sweet front yard, where roses grew over the metal fence.
When she knocked, Bonnie cracked the door, peering out cautiously. She wore pink pajamas and fluffy white slippers that looked like she’d killed two rabbits and stepped into their corpses.
Seeing Harper, she flung the door open.
“Hey!” But her smile faded as she clocked Harper’s expression. “Shit. Something happened. You better come in.”
Inside it was warm, and all the lights were on. She’d obviously been painting—the room smelled pleasantly of oil paints, and a wet canvas leaned against a wall in the small living room. The painting was of a redheaded child who looked a lot like Harper, dressed in midnight-blue velvet, wearing a crown made of daisies and holding an owl on her arm. It was disturbing and beautiful.
“I like that,” Harper said.
“It’s going to make me rich,” Bonnie predicted.
Her house was a tiny Victorian two-story. Two little bedrooms upstairs, a small living room and kitchen downstairs, with a bathroom at the back. The living room was crowded with furniture draped in bright throws and cushions. A fire had been burning earlier in the hearth: now, glowing embers were all that was left. It looked as though she’d been heading to bed.
“I’m keeping you up,” she said, embarrassed. “I should go.”
“Don’t you dare.” Bonnie shoved her gently onto the sofa and headed for the kitchen. “Stay right there. I’m getting wine.”
From the kitchen, Harper heard her open the refrigerator and pull out a bottle. “Isn’t this your night off?”
“Something like that,” Harper said.
Bonnie returned from the kitchen holding two glasses. She handed one to Harper. “I was meaning to call you anyway.” Bonnie dropped onto the other end of the sofa. “That gig on Wednesday night at the Library with Allegra Hanson—she didn’t cancel. It’s going to happen. I double-checked today.”
This was a surprise. The last time Harper saw her, Allegra seemed shattered.
“I’ll come along,” she decided. “Might learn something useful.”
“I thought you’d want to.” Bonnie studied her face. “Now—what about tonight?”
Harper blinked hard. “Luke’s dating a cop named Sarah Blake. She’s younger than me. And really cute.”
“Oh, hell.” Bonnie reached across to squeeze her hand. “He’s such an asshole. He really, really is.”
“I know.” Harper sank into the pink cushions. “At least now I don’t have to wonder if Luke found someone else. There is no if.”
“Well, it’s his loss,” Bonnie told her loyally. “That cop, cute or not, she’s no Harper McClain.”
“Yeah,” Harper said, thinking of the way it had felt when he’d put his arms around her. How she’d let herself wish again for the things she couldn’t have.
Bonnie was watching her with a worried crinkle between her blue eyes. Harper forced a weak smile. “Now might be a good time to tell you I’m going on a date with my ex-boss.”
Bonnie’s face lit up. “That’s my girl,” she said, picking up wine. “Tell Aunt Bonnie everything.”
* * *
Harper woke just after nine the next morning in Bonnie’s rose-colored spare bedroom, with a vague memory of terrible dreams.
The two of them had talked until the bottle of wine was empty. Bonnie had made her eat a sandwich while she told her about Paul Dells. Even though the evening with Luke had made the whole idea of dating Dells seem faintly absurd, it still felt good talking about something that wasn’t murder and danger.
Maybe that was why she felt a bit lighter as she showered, helping herself lavishly to Bonnie’s floral-scented shampoo, and wrapping up in warm towels. Talking about something so normal made the craziness of her world recede, just for a little while.
“Make coffee,” Bonnie called hoarsely from her bedroom as Harper padded downstairs, barefoot. “I’ve got a class to teach in an hour.”
As the coffee brewed and Bonnie showered, Harper dug through her closet, finding a few things to wear that didn’t make her look like an artist.
There was only a small mirror in the cottage at Tybee, and when Harper stopped in front of the full-length mirror on the back of Bonnie’s bedroom door, she was arrested by her own image.
For as long as she could remember, Bonnie had been one size smaller than she was, but these clothes fit comfortably.
She studied the new angles and edges to her body, running her fingers across the bones of her clavicle—they pushed against her skin in a way they hadn’t before. She was paler than she used to be—her freckles stood out against the milky pallor. Her eyes appeared hollow, as if the last few months had drawn some of the life from her.
She tore herself away, hurrying back to the spare room to finish getting ready.
There was little time to chat as Bonnie downed a cup of coffee and ran out without even drying her hair, calling back for Harper to stay as long as she wanted. Deciding to take her up on that, Harper settled on the sofa with a mug and some toast. She texted Myra and asked her to feed Zuzu and let her out.
Once that was done, she began thinking throu
gh her situation. Her most immediate problem was finding somewhere to live.
She didn’t think she could wait three weeks. Not with everything going on. She wanted out of Tybee. She needed to be back in the city as soon as possible. But where could she go?
She knew coming here last night was a mistake. She’d taken a long route and made sure she wasn’t followed, but still. Now, more than ever, she didn’t want to involve her best friend in her messed-up life. And she certainly wouldn’t move in with her and expose her to danger. She needed somewhere on her own, not too far from the police.
There was one person who might be able to help.
Billy Dupre had been her landlord in Savannah. He knew everyone who owned property in Chatham County. When she called him, he sounded delighted to hear from her.
“How’re you doing, Billy?” she asked, holding her coffee in one hand and balancing a notepad on her knee.
“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” he said jovially. “How about yourself? How’s your situation?”
“I’m good,” she lied. “Things are looking better. It’s just … Myra’s throwing me out.”
“Yep.” He didn’t sound surprised. “Summer starts before Easter for Myra. Got to get that money while she can. You got someplace to go?”
“Actually, I thought I’d check with you. See if you had anything.”
A self-made man from a dirt-poor background, Dupre had gotten into the property market in the city more than twenty years ago. He’d started with a duplex—living in one apartment, renting out the other. Gradually, he’d added to his rental portfolio. Now, he owned about ten buildings in Savannah, most in the historic district.
He was a great landlord. And a trusted friend. She didn’t want to live anywhere except in one of his places if she could help it. But the news wasn’t good.
“I’ve got nothing right now, chère. I got a couple coming up in a few months, though, if you can find a place to see you through until then.”
Biting her lip, Harper moved the mug across the coffee table with one finger. “Is Jones Street one of them?”
“I wish it was,” he said, gently. “I got a family in your old place right now. A mother and two little babies. She works downtown so it’s a good location for them. They’ve got six months left on their lease. Seem pretty happy there, though, so maybe they’ll want to stay longer.”
Harper felt gut-punched. She’d known it was crazy to think it might be empty. It was a great apartment in a perfect location. But for some reason she’d thought it would be waiting for her.
“Of course,” she made herself say. “But you have other places maybe coming up?”
“I got a gorgeous place on Huntingdon Street coming up in May.” Instantly he was enthusiastic again. “Big old building. The apartment’s twice the size of Jones Street. Two bedrooms. Lots of light. It’s even got a fireplace. It’s a little more than your rent was, but it reminds me of Jones Street. Got the same feel. Nice neighbors. You come take a look at it whenever you want.”
“Thanks, Billy, I’ll do that.” She forced a smile into her voice. “It sounds great.”
“You’d love it,” he assured her. “It’d be a fresh start.”
A fresh start. But in two months. What would she do until then?
She knew Bonnie would let her stay if she needed to, but she couldn’t. Her presence here could put her best friend in danger. She needed someplace else. Small and hidden.
When she hung up the phone, she sat for a moment, lost in thought. Then she grabbed her jacket and bag, heading for the door. As soon as she was in the car, she called Miles. “I need to pick your brain. Can I come over?”
All he said was, “Bring coffee.”
Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of the warehouse apartment building next to the river holding two cardboard coffee cups. She pushed the button for number 12 and looked up at the little camera above the door, holding the cardboard coffee cups high.
The door lock released with a click.
Harper’s footsteps echoed as she walked into the cavernous lobby of the converted warehouse, with its angular leather sofas and metal coffee tables. She’d always described its cold, modern décor as “serial-killer chic.”
The subtle lighting didn’t disguise the security cameras in every corner. There was no reception desk, but the place was remotely monitored and Miles said the security firm was good. Nobody in the building had ever had a break-in. The elevator opened the second she touched the button.
Maybe she could live here for a while, Harper thought, as the elevator rose. Rent a place.
Miles had left his front door ajar and she pushed it open, calling, “It’s me.”
“In here.”
She followed his voice to the kitchen—a masculine space with tall cabinets painted dark gray—and found him sitting at the dining table, a Nikon camera disemboweled on a sheet of white paper in front of him. A police scanner sat on the kitchen countertop next to the toaster, burbling a steady stream of misdemeanors.
Setting the cup of coffee at his elbow, Harper took the chair across from him, observing the tiny metal pieces with interest. “Is this new?”
“I’ve had it awhile, finally getting to it.” He picked up the body and held it up to the light, peering inside with the same air of professional interest Jerry had shown when studying the Glock the night before. “It has a bit of internal damage. But nothing I can’t work with.”
Buying broken cameras being sold for parts and fixing them was Miles’s hobby. Harper had never known a time when he wasn’t working on one. He found the work meditative. “It’s why my blood pressure’s so low,” he’d told her long ago. “Some people do yoga. I fix things.”
Setting the camera down, he picked up the cup. “What’s going on?”
“I need a place to stay in the city,” she said. “And soon.”
He already knew her history. He listened quietly as she told him the latest in the Martin Dowell case. “Luke and Blazer say the state police refuse to give out his location, or explain why they’re refusing,” she said, when she’d told him everything.
Miles looked at her over the wire-framed glasses he wore for close work. “Why do they think they’re hiding him? It can’t be witness protection, can it?”
“It’s the only thing we can think of,” she said. “If he’s cooperating with the police on bringing down his own organization they’d keep his location a secret. But I don’t know.” She pushed the cup a few inches away. “I just feel like I can’t stay out at Tybee anymore. Not with this happening.”
He gestured at the living room behind them—it wasn’t big, but it had high ceilings and a wide view of the river through the loft windows. “My couch is your bed if you need it for a few nights.”
Harper gave him a grateful look. But his apartment wasn’t meant for friends to share—the only thing separating the living room from the bedroom was the bookcase where he kept his LP collection. To get to the bathroom, you had to walk through his bedroom. He’d have no privacy.
“You’re the best for offering, but I can’t crowd you like that. Actually, I was wondering if maybe you could find out if there was a studio apartment for rent in the building. Something small.”
“I’ll ask around for you. Last time I checked, though, it was fully occupied.” He thought for a second. “Could you stay with Bonnie?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want her getting caught up in this.” Standing, she walked to the window and stood looking out at the muddy water of the river below. “I honestly don’t know what to do. I’m trapped.”
“Now hang on.” He frowned. “You’re assuming he’s going to get to you, but there’s no sign of that. Seems to me, if he could find you he’d have shown up by now. Maybe you should find another place out at Tybee. Lay low until this works itself out.”
“But if he does find me out there, I’m miles from a police department that can take him on.” The thought of Tom Southby trying to take
on Dowell was chilling. “I’d be all alone.”
“If Martin Dowell finds you, it doesn’t matter where you live.” He gave her a level look. “Harper, you can’t fight someone like him and expect to win. All you can do is stay the hell out of his way and Tybee’s a good place to do that.” He picked up the broken camera. “I think you’re safer out there. Stay as long as you can.”
His words stayed with her long after she’d left to go to work. He had a point. She’d been safe out on the island all these months, but for all she knew that was because Dowell had still been in prison. He was out now.
And there were too many ways to track her down.
* * *
Baxter felt the Xavier Rayne story was done for now, and wanted Harper to find new crimes to investigate until someone was arrested. But she kept thinking about that phone call with Cara the night before. It was difficult to know if she was telling the truth, but she’d sounded genuinely scared.
When work fell quiet, and Baxter was away from her desk, Harper dialed Cara’s number.
The phone rang six times before her voice mail came on. Harper hung up quickly, leaving no message.
It didn’t make sense. If Cara really was afraid to leave the house, why didn’t she answer?
A few minutes later, though, her phone rang. Cara’s name was on the screen.
Harper snatched it from the desk. “McClain.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t answer when you called. The others were in the room.” Her voice was just above a whisper. “They can’t know I’m talking to you.”
“I just wanted to make sure everything was okay out there,” Harper said. “Did you see the article?”
“I did. And thank you.” Cara said it with apparently genuine warmth. “It meant a lot to me that you listened.”
“Are things any better? This isn’t for the paper, by the way,” Harper added hastily. “I’m just asking.”
“I wish they were,” Cara said. “It’s just weird out here. I want to leave.”
“What’s so weird?”
Cara lowered her voice to a whisper. “Hunter doesn’t sleep. He just sits in the living room smoking all night. I think he’s going crazy. His temper is so quick. He’s angry all the time.”
Revolver Road Page 19
