Pulling the keys from the ignition, I give myself a once-over and brush a hand across my tear- and make-up-stained cheeks. I blow my nose, my swollen eyes considering my next move.
My father wouldn’t risk everything for a twenty-something fling my husband had, would he?
But she wasn’t going away, I remind myself. He introduced her to your children.
My footsteps crunch over the gravel as I make my way inside, the wind picking up speed as the door slams shut behind me, enveloping me in darkness. I’m grateful, the dim lighting covers up my swollen eyes and shaking hands.
It’s a lighter crowd than usual, a weeknight, no live band or events, and the bar is dotted with the usual suspects, the lonely men that have developed a drinking problem to compensate for their solitude and the braggadocio men that speak highly of themselves and their conquests.
I search behind the bar for Jarrett.
He’s not there.
Randy and a woman, a cleavage-baring college student named Renata, are pouring drinks and commenting on the television screen behind them, a reality show the source of the noise and animated sounds.
My eyes adjust to the muted lighting and I scan for him.
Two shadowy figures stand in the corner conversing, one a man with a short ponytail wearing a ball cap.
His stance looks familiar, his posture crooked, as if he can’t seem to stand up straight. They look ill-matched, the other guy rigid and self-assured, muscles bulging out of his tight-fitting gray V-neck.
Jarrett.
The man is smoking, his hands holding a pack of cigs as he exhales. Jarrett’s letting him do this in the bar?
Jarrett’s hands go to his hips, his body tense, the muscles clenching as he twists away from the cloud of smoke the man breathes at him.
I take a few steps towards the corner, stopping mid-step as I realize where I know the man from.
The acne scars aren’t as prevalent in the dark, but they are there, his face covered in them. It’s the man from Portland, the elusive stranger that jimmied his way into Talin’s backyard and then locked me in.
Chapter Thirty
Meghan
What is he doing here, at this bar?
My palms start to sweat and a shiver tingles down my spine.
He’s in Houston, at Jarrett’s bar, and it’s too surreal to be a coincidence.
I start to back up a few steps, Jarrett pulling his eyes away from the man as he sees my profile. I want to shrink into the floor. His eyes are trained on me, holding me to the same sticky spot.
The man notices the distraction, tilting his head in recognizance. He nudges Jarrett, his lips moving. I can’t understand what he says, but it can’t be good.
My mind wanders backwards in time, as if I’m traveling through a tunnel and picking up on shreds of information and evidence I previously disposed of or thought nothing of. Jarrett’s interest in me, our daily meet-ups, yoga that became coffee dates, that turned into days spent planning and decorating the bar.
The oversharing of my suspicions that someone else killed Talin Forrester.
I let him into my life, little by little, my guard down as he held my hand and acted as a friend.
Shakily, I force myself to turn, a voice inside my head screaming at me to run, not walk.
I can’t move. Panic sets in, my heart skipping a beat. I’m frozen in the moment as I think of him in my house, all the access he had to Reed and I.
To my children.
It can’t be true. I shake my head. This man knows Jarrett. Jarrett knows Reed. Reed and Talin came here. Did Talin know this man?
There’s a tie that binds them, a link that’s tenuous, but nonetheless present.
Did Reed hire this man to kill Talin?
Or did Jarrett?
Could they both be involved?
I believe in miracles, a slight of hand. Even serendipity is believable in the right circumstance. What I don’t believe in is chance.
There’s not a chance in hell this man happened to show up at the Hanky Panky.
I hear my name being called. The last thing I want to do is answer.
Looking over my shoulder, Jarrett’s coming towards me. He looks glassy-eyed, a drunkenness I haven’t seen on him, his steps not as pronounced.
He reaches for me, his hand circling my elbow.
We lock eyes, his bleary, mine red-rimmed. I pull away, stumbling. I trip over my own feet, grabbing for the door handle as my face makes contact with the smooth surface.
My breath comes in shudders, and I half-run to the car, reaching for it like it’s my lifeline. I slam my palms against the window, shaking, as I fumble for the keys.
Jarrett’s running behind me, his face twisted in confusion.
I can’t hear what he’s saying, it’s gibberish, the words not making sense. All I know is I need to get away from him, danger vibes radiating through my body as I enter a fight or flight state.
Except there’s no fight left in me - I yank the door open and slam it in his face.
Locking it, I start the engine, giving him a hardened stare as I shake my head in disgust.
His fists pound on the glass, his temper flaring, his mouth twisted into a grimace.
Why didn’t I notice before? His calm façade has hidden the anger bubbling beneath his cool exterior. His pupils dilate and there’s a glower that scares me, the kind of expression men get before they punch the lights out of a guy in a bar.
Putting the car in reverse, I jolt back frantically, my head jerking against the head rest as Jarrett’s forced to jump out of the way. I avoid hitting him by an inch, his hand wrapping around the pole to catch his breath and his balance.
Squealing out of the parking lot, I drive, oblivious to the vehicles around me, my eyes trained on the rearview mirror. A honk blares to my left as the Mazda drifts over the center yellow line. My arms yank the Mazda back into its rightful lane as I sheepishly avoid a middle finger from the other driver.
I doubt Jarrett will follow, he’s got a place of business to run.
And a friend to consult.
My eyes widen in horror as I consider the possibilities.
What if the man came here to hurt me or worse yet, my family?
A pit forms in the bottom of my stomach. I’ve been telling Jarrett my suspicions, that I don’t believe that Reed’s involved, that he’s shady but not capable of murder. Maybe he told the guy to come and finish me off, my questions getting in the way of what should be an open-and-shut case.
If I go home, Jarrett will know where to look. He’ll lead the greaseball straight to my house.
Where can I go?
Impatient, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. I don’t want to involve Leona or Mel or any of our neighbors.
I need to warn my mother. She has the boys. What if Jarrett tells the man about my parents and he decides to try their house next? Calling her over Bluetooth, it rings twice and goes to voicemail. Dammit.
Speeding up, I watch the speedometer needle bounce as I press on the gas. They live close, only a couple miles from the Hanky Panky. I’m shaking the entire drive, watching behind me, lunging forward at every car that passes me on the two-lane highway as if someone is going to take me out with their vehicle. I pay attention to my surroundings, the license plate numbers, scanning for a sign of the creepy straggler approaching me.
I don’t want to park in my parent’s driveway, just in case I am being followed or Jarrett directs the man to my parents. I’m sure they aren’t much harder to find, especially when there’s a reason behind it.
Leaving the Mazda down the street and around a corner, I find my phone and dial Detective Walsh’s office number. I let out a frustrated sigh as a recording plays. I don’t bother leaving a message.
Fumbling around in my wallet, I find his business card. His cell number is only a few digits off from his office number.
It goes straight to his recording.
I leave a frantic message, jumbled and incoh
erent. “Detective Walsh, I need you to call me ASAP. There’s someone else that I need you to check out, it’s urgent. Please, please, call me back.” My voice shakes as the beep signals I’m out of time.
The key to my parents’ house is buried in the bottom of my purse. I grab for it, wondering if my father has made it home yet. Both cars are usually parked in the garage, and the driveway is empty. I sprint across the grass, lunging at the front door.
It’s locked. I use my key to let myself inside, their sprawling two-story house over forty-five hundred square feet. For as large as it is, it’s quiet as a tomb, my footsteps echoing on the tile foyer.
My mom’s decorating is over the top. Her tastes are gold-plated - everything from the chandelier to the gold-mounted resin lion head that greets you, his vacant black eyes watching your every move.
The only light on is in the kitchen, the dark sky ominous through the floor-to-ceiling windows that face the golf course as I hear a clap of thunder. The twins are going to freak out, but I don’t hear them shrieking in the house.
It’s eerily silent.
I peel my heels off, walking through the downstairs, the fireplace the focal point of the living room, the stone hearth an impressive height, reaching to the top of the twenty-foot ceilings.
“Mom? Rolly?” I call out. “Henry?”
No answer.
“Father?” I knock softly on the entry to his office.
Nothing.
I walk to the garage door, opening it to see if they’re home or out.
My father’s tan Lexus is missing, my mother’s Volkswagen in its usual place, the golf cart in-between where both vehicles sit. Clubs sit on the seat, my father practicing his swing on the regular.
A shrill ring echoes through the house, startling me as I drop the phone in my hand. Jarrett’s name flashes as a text comes through from him. Before I can click on it, the impractical but trendy designer case hits the porcelain tile with a loud thud. I bend to pick it up, glaring at the flimsy cover that’s now broken and the cracked screen that’s now black.
“Dammit,” I murmur as I rub my hand over the jagged glass.
I turn to the offending sound, the house phone, as it shakes in its cradle.
I’m not planning on picking it up. It feels like a violation of privacy. No one has called here for me in years. This isn’t my home anymore. Not to mention I told them to get rid of their landline.
It rings three times and then stops abruptly.
I walk over to the house phone, picking it up to dial my father.
As I’m starting to punch in the numbers, a voice comes through on the line.
“Dina?”
“Um…no, who is this?” I ask.
“Dina, you know,” the voice sneers.
“This isn’t Dina. Can I take a message?” I reach down in a kitchen drawer for a pad of paper and pen, poised to write their name. “Who is this?”
“Stop playing with me,” the man hisses.
“Excuse me, sir. This isn’t Dina.” I’m thrown by the animosity in the man’s tone.
“Then who the hell am I speaking with?”
I hesitate before answering. “Okay, this is Dina.”
“The job’s done. When do I get my payment?”
This must be the cleaning crew for the work trailer.
Or maybe it’s the landscaper.
“How much do I owe you?” I tap my pen against the paper, ready to jot down a number.
“You wanna play now?” He scoffs. “You still owe me more.”
“A check work?”
There’s an audible laugh. “Yeah, right, a paper trail. Just what we need.”
I hear muffled breathing through the phone. I’m about to hang up when he murmurs. “If you don’t meet me now, I’ll come find you.”
“Okay, I’m at the house. You want to pick up the money here? How much do we owe you?”
“Ten.”
“You’re calling about ten dollars?” I’m incredulous.
“Ha. Thousand. You’re really starting to piss me off. I didn’t come all the way here to play games.” He clears his throat. “I’ll show up, and then what will he say?”
I grip the phone, annoyed at his threat.
I hear a creak, my hand cradling the phone to my chest as I spin around. I’m face to face with my mom. She comes in from outside, shutting the door behind her with a guilty purse of her lips as a cloud of smoke trails her in the house. The offending cigarette pack is in her hand as she waves behind her, as if that will clear the smell. I thought she had quit the nasty habit years ago.
She doesn’t greet me, indignantly motioning towards the phone. “Give it to me.”
“Hello.” She speaks into it. “This is Dina.”
I hear garbled murmurs but can’t make out what the man’s saying.
Her face goes ashen, the color draining as she grips the marble counter for support. I search her face, trying to lock eyes, a pained expression crossing her face. She can’t twist her face the way most women her age can, the facial fillers and injections making sure of that.
She holds the phone away as if it might bite her. “I need to sit.” She’s breathless, shoving the phone into my hand. I rest it against my ear, the shriek of a dial tone offending my hearing as I put it back on the receiver.
“What was that about, Mom?” I’m bewildered. “Whoever that rude man is, you need to fire him.” I roll my eyes. “The nerve of some people.”
“He’s coming here.” She’s nervous, wringing her hands on the counter.
“Where’re the boys?” I ask. “We need to talk. Whatever this is, it can wait.”
“You don’t understand.” She anxiously looks down at her lap, her eyes drifting downward, unable to meet my eyes.
“Okay, why don’t you just give him the money you owe him?” I’m indifferent. “I’m happy to intervene. I’ll tell him off.”
She considers me for a moment, her eyes taking me in. A sense of apprehension settles in the room. “You know?”
“About the money?” I ask.
“He’s trying to blackmail me, and I don’t know what to do.” She puts her head in her hands, resting them on the countertop.
“Does Dad know?”
“No,” she whispers.
“Why don’t you give him the money?” I tilt my head, confused.
“Because I don’t have ten thousand dollars on me, that’s why.” She starts to tremble, her hands shaking as they reach for me. “He’s on his way over here, he knows the address.”
“Wait, back up.” I’m lost, my thoughts shuffle as I pause to catch up.
“I’m so sorry, Meg, I was trying to help.” She sounds desperate.
“How so?”
“I just wanted him out of your life.” She cringes. “And her.” My mouth drops, realizing we’re no longer talking about a maintenance worker or a cleaning company.
We’re talking about something else entirely.
“What happened?” I lower my voice. “What did you do?” I try and take a step back, but her wobbling voice holds me in place.
She reaches out for me. “It got out of hand.” She’s tugging on my wrists, as if they can be detached from my body. I wince in pain and disbelief.
“He wasn’t supposed to kill her.”
“Who?” I want her to stop talking, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. My mouth goes bone dry, the ability to swallow lost as I examine her shrinking demeanor.
“The man, I don’t know his name.” She shrugs. “He goes by John.”
I want to shake her. “What are you talking about, Mom?” I’m frantic, scrambling to pull my hands out of her ironclad grip. “Where are the twins?”
“He was just supposed to strangle her, scare her, put the fear of God in her. Instead…”
“What are you talking about?” I jerk away, putting my hand over my ears. “Stop, Mom. Stop it right now.”
We both jump as a crack of thunder touches down near the house,
a sliver of bright white cutting across the sky. I shudder, thinking of the knife and the stab wounds, the overkill.
Gripping her shoulders firmly, I say, “What happened to the boys?”
“They’re at the neighbors playing with their new Golden Retriever.” She’s in a trancelike stare, refusing to meet my eyes.
I exhale. The boys are all that matters. As long as they are safe.
Springing backwards, a noise startles me.
The garage door slams shut behind my father. Thank God, he’ll know what to do.
I breathe a sigh of relief until I realize he’s not alone.
Jarrett’s behind him.
Followed by the strange, haggard-looking man.
Chapter Thirty-One
Meghan
Oh my God, Jarrett brought the man here with him. I wonder if the man offered him a cut for giving us up.
Except I notice something’s shoved into his back. There’s a metal glint, a gun shoved into his lower region.
His face is piqued, his expression impenetrable. I stand back, reaching for the phone.
“What’s going on?” my father asks, the look of shock registering on both our faces as he looks from my mom to me.
The man yells in my direction. “Put the phone down.” I drop it in response at the same time my father starts to turn. The man, ‘John’, clobbers him with the butt of the gun. He tilts forward, surprise registering on his face as he falls forward. I reach for him as he stumbles into the island.
“Father.” I gasp as blood trickles from a large gash down his face. He looks dazed. “What’s going on?” he whispers.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” John waves the gun around, pointing it between Jarrett and me. “You owe me some cold hard cash. Where’s the safe?” He turns to Jarrett. “You go grab the money.”
I glare at Jarrett, his expression unreadable. He told him my parents have a safe?
He’s in on this with my mother and this man. Is my father part of the equation too?
“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” My father growls as I rush to grab a dish towel, running it under cool water in the sink.
All the Pretty Lies Page 23
