Mac slid her phone to Cole. Grasping both of her hands, he forced her to raise her gaze to his. “Charlie, I don’t know who sent that text, but Georgie and Cole found Remy in the creek this afternoon while you were at tea. The police think he never left the grounds after the party. They aren’t certain if he fell and was knocked unconscious, or if…”
“If…what, Taylor?” She sucked back the tears threatening her vision. Remy couldn’t be hurt. What if he died? He was her lifeline. He was the only one who knew the whole truth. He knew the truth. Tears swamped Charlotte’s vision. Her breaths shallowed. “No…no…it can’t be true. Not Remy. Not Remy…” She lifted her gaze to Mac. “It’s my fault. Mac, it’s all my fault.”
He snatched her to his chest, absorbing her sobs. He whispered, but nothing broke through the hum filling her mind as her mother’s words zipped through her mind. “I just need to find a few more ways to instruct you. Unfortunately, sometimes lessons to children require pain.”
“Mac, she did it. It’s all my fault.”
“What’s your fault, Ms. Dixon?” Special Agent Murphy’s thick voice cut through Charlotte’s grief. “If you are in some way connected to Mr. Reynard’s accident, you should tell us now.”
“Miss Dixon is clearly shocked by the news of her best friend.” Mac’s tone turned lawyer. “She needs some fresh air. You will excuse us.” He tugged Charlotte to stand, clamping her to his side and giving her little choice but to go with him.
Before they could step onto to the back porch, O’Neal stopped their progress. “Mr. Taylor, I know you don’t like Murph’s tactics, but he’s right. If Miss Dixon knows anything that could help the sheriff’s investigation, the fresher her memory the better.”
“Give us a few minutes. I promise, Charlotte will be cooperative.”
O’Neal nodded and stepped away from the doors leading to the veranda.
As they crossed the threshold, she broke free from Mac’s comforting embrace. Gulping in a breath of cool damp air, she leaned against the railing. The midwinter sun dipped low for an early sunset. How could there be such beauty in the midst of this nightmare?
They stood in silence watching the colors in the west sky bleed from pink to deep purple before blanketing the world in inky black. Stretching her fingers to the left, she brushed against his hand. His palm turned up, and she laced her fingers through his. Her breaths steadied. Calm poured through her weary spirit. Too broken to resist the tug of need pooling in her stomach, she shifted her gaze to his.
He drew her into his embrace. She breathed in his clean, woodsy scent. His arms around her filled her with strength she hadn’t realized she’d lost.
“I need to get to Remy. I need to protect him.” She rested her head against Mac’s broad shoulder. His pulse reverberated against her cheek. “He is my best friend. Often he’s my only one.”
With feather-light fingers, Mac stroked her back, his touch soothing, sprinkling tingles up her spine. “He loves you. But he isn’t your only friend. You have Georgie. Savvy.” He stepped back from her, lifting her chin with his forefinger. “You have me, Charlie. You always have me.” He brushed his lips against hers.
Tiny bursts of light exploded through her and tamped the darkness threatening to overwhelm her.
Lifting his mouth, he pressed a light kiss to her cheek. “You have me. And we will figure out what happened.”
The need for justice darkened his hooded eyes. He would stop at nothing to discover the truth. She sensed the danger emanating from him. But the truth wouldn’t set him free.
She knew all too well, the truth could very well lead to his demise. She couldn’t allow another person to suffer because of her family. Because of her. Especially not Mac. She didn’t know what she felt for him. But if her mother suspected she cared even a little, Charlotte could be signing his death sentence. She shook her head and twisted out of his embrace. Locking her arms across her chest, she stepped to the end of the porch.
The music of the twilight filled the quiet.
“Charlie?” Mac stood behind her.
“My name is Charlotte.” She tightened her grip, comforted in the bruising pain she felt stinging her sides.
“Don’t do this.” Mac’s thick fingers clamped on her shoulder, easily turning her to face him. “Don’t shut down on me. Don’t try to protect me. I can protect myself. Let me protect you. Let me help.”
“Help?” She barely restrained a scream. “Like Remy? You want to help? Do you have a death wish, Taylor?”
“Charlie…” He reached for her, but she spun past him.
“Don’t.” She lifted a hand between them. “Please, you don’t understand. I can’t risk you too. I never thought they…she…would come after Remy. But look…my best friend of twenty years is in the hospital, unconscious because I asked him for help. What if he never wakes up? She told me at tea…she told me…”
“What did your mother tell you?”
They both turned at the sound of Murphy’s voice. He leaned against a wide column, his arms loosely linked across his chest.
“How long have you been eavesdropping?” Charlotte spat. “Didn’t your mother teach you better manners?”
“I’m sure my mother didn’t teach me the same lessons as your mother.” He pushed away from the column and closed the distance. “Why don’t you share some of the wisdom of Stasi Bickford?”
“Special Agent Murphy,” Mac stepped between Murphy and Charlotte. “You’ve walked in on a private conversation. I told you when Charlotte was ready to talk, she would cooperate. She’s not ready. Please go back inside and wait.”
“I don’t think so. The hospital called. Mr. Reynard was transferred to MUSC trauma center. Based on the initial assessment of the scene, and the doctor’s assumptions regarding Mr. Reynard’s injuries, we believe this was a horrible accident. My guess is Mr. Reynard wandered away from the hubbub after the fire. Maybe he had a few too many, tripped, and fell into the creek. The mud’s pretty thick. Your friend likely hit his head, fell unconscious, and nearly drowned.”
“An accident?” Charlotte’s voice shook.
“Well, we think that’s what we are supposed to believe. Is there any reason why we shouldn’t?”
An accident?
Could she have jumped to the wrong conclusions? Perhaps neither her mother nor her associates were involved.
The text floated through her mind. Remy wouldn’t have been able to send her a text today if he was injured last night. Why would someone steal his phone and make her believe he was out of town? Coincidences were never coincidental.
“I received a text from Remy this morning. He told me he had to go out of town on business.”
“Where’s your phone?” Murphy asked.
“I think I left it in the kitchen with Georgie and Cole.”
He pivoted toward the back door.
“Special Agent Murphy,” she called after him.
He glanced over his shoulder.
She sucked in a deep breath. “This has to stop. I’ll do anything you need. Please just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Protect Georgie.”
24
Mac rested his hip against the breakfast bar of his kitchen. Coffee popped and sizzled to completion as he listened to Charlie answer another of the agents’ list of questions.
With the police still tagging and bagging the surrounding property of the plantation, and reporters beginning to swarm, he’d quietly suggested the sisters and the seemingly ever-present federal agents adjourn to his house. Charlie agreed on one condition. She had to see Remy first.
The over sixty mile drive on U.S. 17N to Charleston was slow and silent. By the time they arrived at the hospital Charlotte’s standard issue shell was securely in place. Mac ignored her stiff exterior and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. For a moment, he felt her body relax into his, until she saw Remy’s mother. Her spine of steel snapped into place as she walked the dozen steps to Mrs
. Reynard sitting alone in the stark ICU waiting room.
Charlie wrapped Mrs. Reynard in a tight embrace and the silent tears of both women reverberated through their conjoined frames. Within minutes, Mac followed Charlie and Remy’s mother down the sterile hallway to the wide glass walled room Remy would call home for who knew how many days. His swollen face, blackened and yellow, was half covered by a ventilator. A heart monitor beeped in a consistent rhythm offset by the in and out flow of oxygen being pumped into Remy’s lifeless form.
Mrs. Reynard slipped from Charlie’s embrace and reached for her son’s hand. Charlie stepped back from mother and son and wove her arms around her middle. They stood in silence, only the sound of life saving machines to interfere with the chaos of questions surrounding Remy’s accident.
Mac wanted to protect Charlie. To save her from the pain he could feel rioting through her.
With a squeeze of Mrs. Reynard’s shoulder, Charlie pressed a kiss to Remy’s cheek. She turned to Mac. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.
“I’m ready.” Those were the last words she spoke before she started the FBI inquisition.
Hours later, Mac shook the memory from his mind as Charlie sipped on the sparkling water he’d handed to her after she changed into a pair of his sweats and a Beaufort Bombers t-shirt that dwarfed her lean frame. Perched on the edge of an overstuffed chair, her back elegantly straight, she rolled the glass between her hands, directing her gaze to O’Neal.
The night of the fire, she’d shared most of what Remy had uncovered in her books and some of her worries. But tonight, with each drawn breath revealing a new chapter in the horror story of her life, Mac realized she had only chipped the edge of the iceberg. He was struggling to mask the shock of what she shared with Murphy and O’Neal.
Embezzlement.
Money laundering.
Illegal high stakes gambling.
Suspected human trafficking.
Possible drug smuggling. And now, potentially arson and murder.
How had he not seen what she had been hiding for months…years?
The answer was simple.
He hadn’t looked. Hadn’t wanted to know.
He, along with nearly everyone in the Dixon clan, had tried and convicted Charlie as the villain in the drama swirling around Bent and his two daughters. Her cold shoulder was a shield of protection for each of them. They were blind by choice.
Cupping a steaming mug of coffee, he glanced toward Georgie sitting cross-legged, leaning against her sister’s chair. Charlie’s unofficial guard dog against the world.
Georgie didn’t try to stifle the horror she felt with each of Charlie’s stories. Her face was a mirror into her soul. After years of watching Georgie rescue small lizards and nurse wilting plants back to health, he guessed she wanted to hide her sister in a room for the next six months until Murphy and O’Neal had enough to convict Charlie’s mother and her consorts. But Georgie also seemed to sense the separation Charlie needed. Although she was close enough to snatch her sister in a hug, she hadn’t touched her once.
“Charlotte, let’s go through this one more time.” Nearly two hours into the interview, Charlie asked Special Agent O’Neal to call her Charlotte. She had neglected to give the same courtesy to Murphy.
“Dylan,” Georgie leaned forward. “Can’t we take a break? It’s nearly ten. We haven’t eaten dinner. Why don’t I make us something?”
“Georgie, I appreciate your concern, but we really do need to make certain we know everything your sister knows before we talk to our boss. She’ll want to ensure the paperwork is spotless. One hole in our investigation and years of work will be for nothing.”
“Dylan, I think Georgie is right.” Murphy spoke for the first time in hours. Perched in the wide window with the lights of the ballfield haloing him, the intense agent catalogued every word, leg cross, and head tilt Charlie made. He was obviously waiting for her to make a mistake.
“Murph…”
“I’m hungry. And you’re always hungry. Let’s get some fresh air. Allow everyone a minute to stretch our legs. I’m sure Miss Dixon will appreciate a little break.”
Charlie nodded and stood with the elegant grace of a decade of ballet training. “Georgie, how about we see what Mac has to cook?”
Georgie bounded to her feet and linked her arm through her sister’s. “He always has pasta.” She glanced over her shoulder at Mac. “Do you have any vegetables?”
She released Charlie’s arm as they wove around the heavy weight bag and into the single line galley kitchen.
Mac pushed off the breakfast bar, walked through the opposite door, and caught sight of Georgie’s head and shoulders plunged into the refrigerator. Charlie faced the cabinets and clutched the marble counter. Her knuckles stretched white.
“Georgie, I don’t think pasta will do.” Mac reached in the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his phone. “Why don’t you go ask the gentlemen what they like on their pizza? Vito’s delivers in under twenty. Their number’s in my speed dial.”
Georgie glanced across to Charlie. She stretched her lips to a soft smile. “Why don’t I see if they want to go and take a walk? Vito’s is just around the corner.” She patted his shoulder when she left.
Mumbles from the living room were followed by the quick sound of the front door closing, leaving Mac and Charlie alone.
Linking his arms across his chest, he rested against the stove and waited.
“She’s my mother.” Her voice was a dry whisper.
“We don’t get to pick our parents.”
She twisted to face him. The way her hair fell, barely concealed the yellow and purple bruise from her encounter with the car bomb. Fury simmered in him. He’d like five minutes with the maker of that bomb.
A single tear slid down her cheek and all thoughts of vengeance slipped from his heart replaced by a singular desire to shelter her from any pain.
She smiled against the tears. “But I bet you would have picked yours every day of the week and twice on Sundays?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean they were perfect.”
“I’m guessing that Momma Taylor never stole money from your piggy bank? Or your dad never had an affair with the church choir director? Or the FBI didn’t think that your family was intimately linked to the Russian mafia?”
“Every family has their issues.”
“Seriously, Taylor? That’s the best you can come up with? I’ve been telling the FBI for the better part of two hours, I think my mother tried to kill me, possibly tried to kill my best friend, and is laundering drug money through my art gallery. They believe she is likely tied to an international ring of human traffickers, and all you have to say is my family is as dysfunctional as everyone else’s?” She spun away from him. Her bare feet slapped against the hardwood floors as she closed the short distance to the wide expanse of windows facing the ballpark. Hugging her middle, she leaned her forehead against the windowpane. “I used to dream of living in the dugout when I was little.”
“Me, too.” His reflection was a blur above hers.
“My dad took me to the ballpark everyday between April and September. Stasi hated baseball. She thought it was too American. Too lower class. But my dad loved everything about the sport. His love affair with the game, transferred to me. I wanted to pitch a no hitter. Hit a grand slam to win the World Series. I dreamed of being the first woman in the Show, but after a few weeks of little league I knew I was a better coach than player. I hit clean off the tee, but I proceeded to tell every other little boy how to square up his hips to hit a solid grounder.”
“Really? Where were you my junior year when my swing went south, and I couldn’t hit a single to save my life?”
She rolled her head to face him. “All in the hips.” A faint smile brushed her lips, as she returned her focus to the distant field. “How different would my life have been if I’d stayed with Delia and my dad?”
He closed the distance, leaning a shoulder against the
cool glass. “Why didn’t you?”
“When my parents divorced, I was too little to really understand. I remember the night we left Colin’s Fancy. Mama came into my room; it must have been after midnight because the moon was so bright I could see the circles of black mascara caked against her cheeks. She kissed my forehead and said we needed to leave for our adventure. I asked if Daddy was coming too, and she shook her head. The next thing I knew I was living with my grandparents, and my mother was gone. I don’t think I saw her for another three or four months. But my dad never contacted me either. And I did what any six-year-old would do; I adapted. My grandparents became my stability. I don’t remember much of the divorce, except one day when my dad came to visit.
“It was right before Christmas. I hadn’t seen either of my parents since the night Stasi and I left South Carolina, but there my father was. Standing beside the Christmas tree. The present I was too afraid to ask Santa to bring. He was holding a baseball mitt with a giant green bow in the center.
“I was so excited. I launched myself into his arms. Nothing had ever felt as good as those thick arms engulfing my body. I don’t remember much of the visit, but I can still smell the mix of leather, pine, and seed oil that always seemed to linger around my dad. And I can hear him whispering to me how much he loved and missed me.
“I didn’t see him for another two years.”
Mac’s heart screamed. The Bentley Dixon he knew would never have allowed a day to pass without talking to his daughter, let alone two years. But one look into Charlie’s glassy eyes dispelled any questions.
“When I finally saw him, I was in the second grade. He came to my school for a parents’ day function.”
“He came back to New York?”
She shook her head. “I was enrolled at Laramore Academy in Connecticut for most of my primary school.”
“You couldn’t have been more than eight years old.”
“After finishing kindergarten at a day school in Manhattan, my mother felt I would be better suited for boarding school.”
Girls of Summer Page 13
