by Jeff Shelby
It was inconceivable.
“Sunny,” Aidan said softly.
I didn’t look up. “You tried to kill Anne,” I mumbled.
His audible gasp made me break free from the cocoon I’d created.
He was looking at me, horrified. “How can you even think something like that? You know me!”
I just stared at him. “You literally had your head inside the shuttle, Aidan. You were fixing it.”
“No—”
But I wasn’t done. “You lied to me. You told me you didn’t know anything about cars.” I let out a harsh laugh. “Well, it sure looks like you do.”
His eyes narrowed. “I was filling the windshield wiper fluid,” he said flatly.
“The what?”
“The windshield wiper fluid,” he repeated. “You know, the blue stuff that comes in the big jugs?” He pointed toward the shuttle.
Sure enough, there was a mammoth size container of blue liquid sitting on the asphalt, just a few feet away from the shuttle.
Doubt began to creep in. “Why?”
“Because the shuttle needed it.”
“But you aren’t responsible for that.”
“I know.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Hugh came inside to ask for help. He sprained some fingers playing basketball the other night and they’re all swollen now. Jammed his thumb big time, I guess.”
I looked at our shuttle driver, who was busying himself with a bag of chips and a bottle of RC cola. Hugh was easily pushing sixty, and he looked like he spent more time at the food court at the mall than the basketball court.
He crumpled up the empty bag, drained the last of his soda and then climbed the few steps that led inside the shuttle. A few seconds later, the engine hummed and the shuttle door slid shut.
“He couldn’t get the cap off the compartment,” Aidan said. “You know, where you pour the fluid.”
Could it really have been something that simple? Had I just completely overreacted?
“He directed me the whole time,” Aidan continued. “I didn’t even know where to put it. I think I’ve looked under the hood of a car twice in my whole life.”
He was looking at me in earnest, his eyes searching mine for signs that I believed him.
“You can ask him,” Aidan said. “Come on. I’ll go with you.” He paused. “Or you can go by yourself. But he’ll tell you exactly what happened.”
I toed the pavement with my shoe.
I felt like the biggest fool for jumping to conclusions so easily.
And I felt horrible for immediately doubting Aidan. For believing that he’d lied to me.
“I believe you,” I said softly.
He blinked. “You do?”
I nodded.
“And I’m sorry for doubting you.”
He smiled in relief. “Thank God. Look, I might not like Anne but there’s no way I would do something to hurt her. You have to believe me.”
I did. The entire thing with Anne had me all messed up. It felt like I was making wrong assumptions left and right, particularly about people who were my friends.
“I really wouldn't hurt her,” Aidan said. “Or anyone else.”
“I know,” I told him. “I know that.”
The problem was, someone had tried to hurt Anne.
And I still didn’t know who.
TWENTY EIGHT
Anne called me the minute I got back into my office.
I was in no mood to talk to her. I wanted to decompress after the adrenaline rush I’d just experienced, seeing Aidan in the parking lot.
But when I didn’t pick up the first time, she called again.
And then again.
And then she switched to calling my cell phone.
Exasperated, I answered. “What?”
“I need to see you right away.”
I was immediately suspicious. “Why?”
“I have new information. Information I think you’ll want to see.”
“Just tell me.”
“I can’t. I have to show you.”
I frowned. “I’m working. And you’re not allowed to come here,” I reminded her quickly. “Not after what happened this morning.”
The last thing I wanted was a reenactment of her attempt at starting a UFC match with Bryce.
“I know that,” she snapped. “We can meet for coffee. Or tea.”
“Tea?” I had no idea she was a tea drinker. I certainly wasn’t.
“Bubble tea,” she said. “There’s a place over in the strip mall off Walker.”
My head was beginning to spin. “You like bubble tea?”
“No.” She sounded as exasperated as I was feeling. “But there’s a package store there. They have printing so I can print the stuff from my phone.”
“Anne.” My voice was grave. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll explain everything when I get there,” she said. “Just go. Now.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my cellphone, trying to figure out what had just happened.
Had I been so distracted by the events with Aidan out behind the building that I’d somehow missed part of my conversation with Anne? I replayed our phone call but didn’t remember ever tuning out. She’d just dived right in…not making sense.
I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling.
I didn’t have to meet her.
There was nothing she could do if I didn’t show up. Well, she could call me, I realized. Bug me repeatedly. But I could always block her number, at least on my cell.
Part of me was sorely tempted to just ignore her.
But her words replayed in my head.
She had something to show me.
Something that apparently was so important that she wanted to meet immediately.
And they were apparently documents she wanted to print out.
I had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that I was curious.
I nudged the computer mouse and my monitor flickered to life. My calendar program was open, along with a tab for my emails. Minimized were thank-you letters I’d been in the process of composing to all of the various groups and individuals who were volunteering their time to come in for activities with the residents. Another document, a grant proposal, was also minimized, and I quickly glanced at the desktop calendar. It was due on Monday, which left me three workdays to get it done.
Two, if I left now to meet with Anne.
I sighed.
The wisest thing for me to do would be to ignore Anne’s demands and focus on the work needing my attention. My primary concern should be the job I was getting paid to do, not the mystery my boss wanted me to solve.
It was the wise thing, but that didn’t carry much weight, especially when my curiosity was ready to drag me out the door.
What kind of documents did she want to show me? I didn’t know if they related to what had happened to her, but I couldn’t imagine why else she’d be so insistent that I see them if they were about something else.
My sigh was deeper this time.
I was going to go. It was a foregone conclusion.
I reached for my purse with one hand as I powered down my computer with the other.
My work would be there tomorrow.
So will Anne, a voice inside my head pointed out.
I ignored it and hurried out of my office and out into the parking lot, before anyone—or anything—could change my mind.
TWENTY NINE
I’d never been to Boba’s before but it was easy enough to find.
Just like Anne had said, it was right in the strip mall off Walker Street, tucked between a Pack&Print and an orthodontics office.
Anne was already sitting at a table when I arrived. The bell on the door jingled when I opened it and she and the clerk behind the counter, a college-aged kid with a goatee and man bun, both looked up.
I offered her an uneasy smile.
She glared at me in response and returned her attention
to the glass of tea in front of her. It was a pink concoction, with dark bobas floating on the bottom of the see-through plastic cup.
I slid into the chair across from her.
“Aren’t you going to order something to drink?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t really like bubble tea.”
She made a face. “I don’t either. What are these little things that keep getting sucked up in my straw?”
“They’re the bobas,” I said. “I think they’re tapioca?”
“Well, they’re disgusting. I don’t like solid things coming through my straw.”
I wanted to ask what she thought bubble tea was but decided against it. I wasn’t there to have a conversation debating the merits of bubble tea. I was there to look at whatever she had that she’d insisted was so important.
“You really should order something, you know,” she said. “It’s rude to come into a restaurant and not get anything.”
I ignored her. “Show me whatever it is you have.”
She sucked another mouthful of pink tea, her lips contorting when she encountered a boba.
I just waited, drumming my fingers on the table.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a small paper bag from the print shop next door. Wordlessly, she pulled out a stack of photos and slid them across the table, facedown.
“Photos?” That was not what I’d been expecting.
All she did was nod.
I reached a hand out to pick them up.
“I don’t know if we should look at them here,” she said, a little nervously.
My hand froze. What on earth were in the photos?
“What are they of?” I asked tentatively.
Her eyes darted to the man stationed behind the counter. He had a box of straws, colorful plastic ones, and was restocking the large dispenser.
“Anne?”
She turned her attention back to me. “Just be discreet.”
I didn’t pick them up.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She grabbed them and thrust the stack at me.
I took them, flipped the stack over.
A picture of Bryce greeted me.
A much younger Bryce.
Dancing on a stage.
Wearing only a Speedo.
My mouth dropped open. “What is this?”
“A picture of Bryce.”
“Yes, I can see that. But…why? What is this?”
“Proof.”
I looked up. Anne was smiling.
“Proof of what?”
Her smile was one of complete satisfaction.
I shivered.
“Proof that he’s an exotic dancer,” she announced.
“Uh, okay. And...so what?”
Her smile dimmed, but her expression remained earnest, almost defiant. “An exotic dancer for older women.”
I slowly thumbed through the pile of photos, even though doing so made me feel completely uncomfortable. Bryce was in every single one of them, flexing his muscles, dancing suggestively in front of small groups of women.
Much older women.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
Her chuckle sounded almost like a cackle. “I have my sources.”
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t smile. “Seriously. Where did these come from?”
“It’s funny,” she said. “Everyone talks about how big the world is, but look at us. We’re sitting here drinking bubble tea. Five years ago, no one in the United States drank bubble tea.”
“I don’t know about that…”
She waved a hand. “Fine. But there certainly weren’t bubble tea shops every two miles.”
I was having a hard time following how bubble tea played into how she’d gotten her hands on these photos of Bryce.
“But, you see, the world is pretty darn small,” she continued. “Especially with social media.”
I waited.
“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands these last few days.” Her expression darkened. “Time I didn’t expect to have. I don’t have any hobbies to keep me busy so I spent a lot of time on Facebook. You know, just scrolling through all my friends’ and family’s profiles and photos. Everyone does that.”
Everyone did not do that, I wanted to tell her. Stalkers did that.
But I stayed quiet.
“A friend of mine, Bridget, was tagged in someone’s birthday photos. Some woman I don’t know,” Anne said. “They had some big celebration at Disney for her 6oth.” She made a face. “Why anyone would want to celebrate their birthday there is beyond me.”
“I’ve gone three times for my birthday…”
She rolled her eyes. “Figures.”
“What does this have to do with Bryce?”
“I’m getting to that part,” she said. “So this woman, Susan, had posted a bunch of pictures from her birthday. Well, I didn’t know much about her so I went and poked around on her page. Everything is public—she really should lock it down—and she had an album of old photos. It was literally labeled that. Old Photos. Anyway, I looked through them and came across these. They were from her 50th birthday. Ten years ago,” she added.
“I can do the math.”
She tapped the picture on top of the stack. “These were from that birthday.”
“Okay.” I glanced back down at the photos. “I don’t really see what this has to do with anything. So Bryce used to be an exotic dancer. A stripper. Whatever you want to call it. Who cares?”
Anne straightened. “I care. Because you’ll never guess where he did this.”
She was right. I wouldn’t. “Where?” I asked wearily.
Her smile was one of pure triumph. “Jacksonville.”
I still wasn’t sure why that mattered.
In fact, I was beginning to suspect I knew the real reason why she’d printed out the photos.
“Are you…?” I cleared my throat. “Are you trying to blackmail him?”
The surprise that registered on her face was genuine. “Blackmail? Why would I do that?”
“Because he called corporate on you,” I said. “Because you think your job is on the line.”
“Of course not!” She sounded as insulted as she looked. “I’m trying to prove why he wants my job…and why he doesn’t want to go to Jacksonville.”
I wasn’t following.
She must have sensed this because she shook her head and said, “Because he used to strip for money there! To a demographic who very well might be moving into the facility he is supposed to manage.”
Looked at that from that perspective, I could see where she might jump to that conclusion. But still…
“I don’t know,” I told her. “Jacksonville is an awfully big city.”
“The world is an awfully big place,” Anne pointed out. “And yet I still managed to stumble upon these pictures of Bryce.”
She made a good point.
I mulled over what she’d just told me, doing my best to not let my gaze stray to the stack of photos on the table. I’d already decided I had no romantic interest in Bryce but even I had to admit that his body was very easy on the eyes.
My conversations with Bryce over the last week or so were also front and center in my mind. He’d said on at least one occasion that he wanted to stay in Niceville. I’d originally thought his reasoning might have something to do with me, but what if it was tied to his former job instead?
“Alright,” I said, nodding. “It very well might be a motivating factor for wanting to stay here.”
“And take my job.”
“And take your job,” I echoed. “But…”
She looked at me.
“It doesn’t mean he was the one who cut your brakes.” I nodded at the photos. “Those aren’t really proof of anything.”
Her eyes flashed behind her glasses. “He did it,” she growled. “I know he did. I brought you these to prove to you that he’s in on it. Now it’s your job to tie him to it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who’s the amateur sleuth.” Her gaze hardened. “You figure it out.”
I'd held back on one thing I wanted to say, but I was done holding back.
“You lied to me,” I said.
She frowned at me. “I did no such thing.”
“You told me you'd never taken a sleeping pill in your life,” I said.
She glanced away for just a moment. “That's right.”
“Actually, you said you'd never taken an entire sleeping pill in your life,” I said. “It was a clever way to say it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There are sleeping pills in your medicine cabinet,” I told her. “I saw them. And I saw they were cut in half. You have taken pills before.”
“What were you doing in my medicine cabinet?” she snarled.
“Looking for floss, but let's stay on track,” I said. “Why did you lie?”
“I didn't. You just said so yourself.”
I stared at her.
She threw up her hands. “So I take a sleeping pill on occasion! So what? I didn’t take one the day of the accident!”
“But if you'd taken one recently, that would've explained the traces found in that drug test,” I said.
She didn't say anything.
“Why did you lie?”
“Because I didn't want anyone thinking I was an addict,” she said, frowning again. “Because I'm not. I didn't need to be grilled about them. And I hadn't taken one that day!”
“Had you taken one the day before?”
She paused. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I can't recall,” she said. “And it's neither here nor there. The brakes were the cause of my accident and that's what I want you to focus on!”
I still wasn't sure what Denise had given her, but I was more confused than ever about what happened. And none of it changed my current stance.
“There is nothing to go on,” I said.
“Take care of this, Sunny. Do what you promised.”
“I didn’t promise anything.” I was getting angry. “I offered to look into it. That’s it. And I have. And that was all because you basically forced me to do it.”
“Well, I did promise you something,” she spat. “And if you don’t take care of this, if you don’t find who was responsible, I’m pulling my recommendation. Do you hear me?”
