by Lyla Payne
“He’s a fighter.” Her smile is soft, real, as she rubs the bump. “The OB on call said his heartbeat and movements are stronger than ever. Maybe he’ll be a swimmer.”
“He’ll be whatever he wants.”
“Who will?” Mel’s voice tinkles from behind me, and she sweeps into the room, dropping a giant bouquet of daisies into the vase beside Millie’s bed. “How are you?”
“I’m good. The baby’s good.”
Mel nods and smiles. “Since we know it’s a boy, I think we should figure out his name. It will be fun to talk to him.”
“What about you?” I ask, curious. I’m glad she’s here; the room has brightened at least fifty watts since she walked in. “Have you found out what you’re having yet?”
“I’m not supposed to tell.” She bites her lip, and Amelia and I wait, knowing it won’t be long. “Okay, you pried it out of me. It’s a girl.”
In a normal world, where Mel wasn’t married to my ex and Amelia wasn’t in a hospital bed, maybe we all would have squealed. The way it is, smiles have to suffice.
“That’s perfect,” my cousin breathes. “A boy and a girl, and now you never have to do this whole pregnancy thing again unless you want to.”
“Amen to that. You’d have to be crazy—er, you know what I mean.” Her cheeks flush pink and her eyes dart around the room as though they can actually land on a change of subject. “We’re going to name her Mary. After Mary Read.”
A lump crams in my throat and tears prick my eyes. It’s unexpected, from my history-scoffing friend, but sweet. Mel’s a descendant of Mary Read like Amelia and I are of Anne Bonny—and Mary and Anne were the best of friends. For pirates.
Amelia’s eyes light up, her long fingers kneading her belly. “He’ll be Jack. That’s his name.”
The three of us sit there grinning at one another, pleased with our own sentimentality, for several minutes until I start to get uncomfortable with all of the feelings in the room. Mel takes one look at my face and shakes her head. “Gracie, Detective Travis is waiting to talk to you.”
“To me?”
She nods. “Yeah. He’s out in the waiting room.”
I spring to my feet, ready to take off running, but Mel puts out a hand.
“Is it about Beau? About what Clete told you?”
“I hope so.”
“Me, too.”
“What are you two talking about?” Amelia asks, her eyes snapping to mine. “I hate being left out.”
“Mel will fill you in.” I grab my purse and head for the door. “I’ll be back with dinner.”
I escape before she can insist that I stay and fill her in myself, practically skipping down the dingy white linoleum hallway toward the waiting room. This has to be the break we’ve been waiting for—there has to be something connecting Wellington to this case so we can save Beau.
Travis paces back and forth in front of the windows, his hat clutched between his hands and his polyester pants swishing when his legs brush together.
“Hey,” I say, wanting to scream at him to tell me what he found but trying to keep my shit together, to keep false hope out of my heart.
“Hi. Amelia seems better.”
“She’s getting there. Melanie said you wanted to see me?” I prod, unwilling to wait another moment. We don’t have time.
“Yeah. I found out a little more about what happened at the boarding school. I talked to the dean at the time, and basically, everyone said that Wellington was the one running the drug business. But when they called in Caruso, he claimed it was all him. Chandler had nothing to do with it, the whole nine yards.”
My eyebrows pinch over my nose. “Why would he do that?”
“Why, indeed.” Travis shrugs. “The cynic in me would say because, even as a seventeen-year-old kid, Robert Caruso knew what his future looked like and he probably figured that having a lawyer in his back pocket would pay off.”
I let that turn over in my head for a minute, chewing on my bottom lip. “How could he have known Wellington would go to law school? Or work in the DA’s office?”
“He wouldn’t have, for sure, but Wellington’s granddaddy owns a massive firm, and he’s fourth generation. Only son. So there was a good chance. And the Caruso family didn’t get where they are without placing a few long-term bets.” Travis’s gaze drifts over my shoulder toward the door, and he straightens his shoulders. “Miss Thompson. How are you?”
Miss Thompson?
I spin around to find Hadley Renee, whose last name is apparently Thompson, slinking past the waiting room. Her long hair is tied up in a high ponytail and her lips are painted the same bright pink as her nails.
“I’m just fine, Detective, thank you for asking.” Her gaze flicks down the hall. “I’m just here to visit Mr. Lassiter. He had an episode last night.”
“That’s too bad,” Travis responds.
I’m trying to figure out why she felt the need to share why she’s here when no one asked, but the girl is a gossip and a half. She learned it from Glinda, maybe, or it could just be a requirement for hairdressers in general.
Hadley eyes us, me in particular, and sniffs. “Well, gotta go. Your hair’s lookin’ real nice, Graciela.”
She flounces down the hall and I snort. “That was a compliment for herself, not me, since she cut it. And it looks stupid.”
“It looks the same as it did before. It’s long and straight. What’s to mess up?”
“What do you know?” I snap, cocking my head. “You’re a guy, and it’s hard to say the last time you’ve had a trim.”
It’s true that his jet-black style is too long, dangling over his ears and flopping over his forehead. Travis’s haircut has never matched the rest of him, which is all buttoned-up, first-class cop with no time for messing around.
He cocks an eyebrow. “I have a girl in my hometown who I trust. Just haven’t made it back in a while.”
I shrug, dismissing the subject. “What else can we do about this Wellington guy? I mean, we can prove they were friends, and maybe even that Chandler owes Robert Caruso big-time, but not that he’s the one who put the screws to Lindsay and let Daddy Caruso walk.”
“I don’t know, Miss Harper, but I’m going to keep looking.” He points a finger at me. “You don’t do anything stupid.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Travis is probably right about me not doing anything stupid, but the approaching trial ticks in my ear like a time bomb. If we don’t find some way to prove that Robert Caruso’s pulling Wellington’s strings, then Beau is sunk. The suggestion might be enough to cause a shadow of a doubt, but a shadow of a doubt isn’t going to wipe my boyfriend’s slate clean enough for a political career.
There’s still that place deep in my middle that rejoices at that thought. That revels in the idea of a future where he and I stay here in Heron Creek, fall deeper in love, and carve out a life that’s like the one I always envied my grandparents for, even as my mother disdained everything about it. But even if he’s cleared 100 percent, I don’t see how that fledgling little dream can ever come true, no matter how we nurture it. No matter how much I want it.
I may be the queen of fucked-up relationships—or at the very least, co-chairs with my cousin, God love her—but even I know that those feelings aren’t going to form a foundation for anything good. They’re devilish, selfish little things blackening the edges of my soul, and if nothing else, I’m going to honor what Beau and I have by always trying to think about what’s best for him.
He does that for me, even when it feels as though he’s being bossy or more worried about the rules than what’s right in a situation. We see the world differently, but that doesn’t mean anything more than just that.
But his black-and-white worldview isn’t going to save him this time. My shades-of-gray one has a fighting chance.
“Whoa, hey, Gracie,” a male voice says. “Where you headed? To break into the church? Rob the collection plate? Trap a raccoon and set it loose at th
e Moose Lodge?”
“They’re not Moose, you idiot, they’re Masons,” an almost identical voice corrects.
The hand that reaches out to stop me from smacking into him is beefy and freckled, pale except for fine, reddish brown hairs. There are only two people those voices and hands could belong to, and there’s no use attempting to tell them apart.
“Officer Ryan,” I say, unable to keep a grin off my face. These two are twins, they’re annoying and boisterous and the most genuine sweethearts in the entire world. I look at his brother. “Officer Ryan.”
They hoot over me using their new titles, which, given their tomfoolery as youths, are probably always going to be a big fat joke to most of us. They’re handsome in their police blues, broad chests accentuated and hair combed and gelled into place.
“If y’all are still stalking Hadley Renee, she’s in the hospital. I was just going to grab a coffee.”
“Excuse me, we do not stalk. We serve and protect.” I think that one’s Ted.
“Right. What he said.” Tom pouts. “Besides, she’s got that Sicilian boyfriend from Charleston she thinks no one really knows about.”
“The opposite of Irish, I’m afraid,” I lament, trying to look as empathetic as possible. “And why does she think no one knows about him? I’ve seen them around.”
“Yeah, but she never introduces him or anything,” Ted adds, frowning. “If she did, maybe we could dig up some dirt.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. The fact that some part of what they’ve said snags the pieces of recognition in my brain makes it even harder—I’m missing something.
“What have you been up to? Heard you got tossed in the clink down there,” Ted continues.
“You know, hazards of the librarian trade.”
That makes them laugh, and I pat them on the shoulders, taking my leave and really craving that coffee now. It’s only another block but the whole way, those fairies flicker on the edges of my vision like fireflies, taunting me.
Westies is packed with the typical lunchtime crowd. People chatter, their laughter swirling in the air incongruous to my bleak mood. Patrons nod or say hello here and there as I walk by, and one woman asks when I’ll be back at the library. I murmur back that tomorrow should be good to go and mumble answers to other questions about Amelia and how long my aunt Karen will be in town until the blessed counter is finally in sight.
I order a café au lait with 2-percent milk and slink to the end of the counter to wait, surprised to find Leo in the same place. The set of his jaw and the way he purposefully avoids my gaze promises that he’s seen me; a heavy sigh squishes from my chest.
This isn’t like Leo, the immature avoidance bullshit. We’re adults, or supposed to be, and he has to know me well enough to know I would never want anything bad to happen to Lindsay, even if it turned out Beau was guilty.
“Leo.”
“Harper.”
My lips twitch as Tom Ryan saunters in, holding the door for Hadley Renee. Poor guy can’t take a hint, apparently. They step up to the counter and Leo shifts, clearly anxious for his coffee and to get away from me. When our eyes finally meet, he sneers.
“How’s that theory going about someone else taking those bribes to put my sister away for a decade?”
“It’s still a theory, sadly, but it’s got legs, Leo.” I harden my heart against him. “It does. I can’t prove it yet but I’m going to. And even if I don’t, it’s reasonable doubt. It might be enough.”
“So who’s the bad guy now? Anyone but Drayton, right?”
“Wellington. The guy who tried Lindsay’s case. He’s got old ties to the Caruso family—”
“Leo?” the teenaged girl behind the counter calls, fluttering her eyelashes at my old frenemy as she hands over his drink. “I sprinkled nutmeg on it the way you like.”
“Thanks, Lil.” He turns to me. “I’ll see you later, Harper. Bye, Hadley.”
A glance over my shoulder reveals the hairdresser, and behind her, a sheepish-looking Tom still lingers. “I’m sure things will get back to normal with Leo soon,” she comments. “Although why you get to monopolize two of the most eligible bachelors in town is beyond me.”
“Well, you’ve got Bobby, so what’s the difference?” I say, trying to get my point across to Tom.
Her eyes narrow on my face. My mind does that clicking thing again, like something in the far back is trying to push its way to the front.
“Gracie?” The same girl hands me my drink without any fanfare or moon eyes, and I say farewell, heading for the door. I don’t get halfway down the block before I hear my name again, this time from behind me, and I pause. Small towns.
“Gracie!” It’s Hadley, out of breath and trying not to spill whatever drink I’d bet came from the goodness of Tom’s pocket and not the sense-having part of his brain. Her impractical but adorable espadrilles are going to break her damn ankles on these shitty sidewalks.
At least that’s what would happen to me. But somehow she navigates the half block in those shoes and a denim miniskirt as if she’s straight out of Footloose.
“Hey, Hadley. What’s up?” I’m so tired my eyelids feel like there’s sand underneath the lids. There’s not time to squeeze in a nap today, not with Beau’s trial looming, but Lord above, do I need one. Or twenty.
And no offense to Hadley Renee, but I’m tired of running into her and making conversation. She keeps popping up everywhere.
“I was wondering if we could talk for a minute over in the salon.” She bites her bright pink lip, an odd glint in her eye. Nerves?
Unease slides under my skin. “Do you think we could take a rain check? It’s been a really long couple of days and I’ve got to be back at the hospital for dinner.”
“How is Amelia?”
“I don’t know. Maybe as good as can be expected.”
She takes a step toward me. My feet push me backward. I don’t know why but her nearness pulses a wave of discomfort through me.
“It will only take a minute. It’s important.” She darts a glance over her shoulder, leaving me to wonder if it’s not her that’s making me uncomfortable but something unseen. “It’s about … it’s about Beau. And the trial, and that letter they found.”
That gets my attention. My brain clicks one last time and finally, finally shoves that nagging connection to the forefront—she’s dating a Sicilian guy from Charleston named Bobby. Lindsay sold drugs for Robert Caruso, also Sicilian and from Charleston.
Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe she’s about to tell me that she knows something about who her boyfriend really wrote that letter to. I want to ask her right now, but we’re out in the open and I don’t want to scare her off since it’s taken her this long to come forward.
“Okay. Okay, sure.”
“Thanks.” She turns and marches down the block toward her salon, leaving me half-skipping to keep up even though I’m in flats.
Halfway there, the memory of her sitting on the prosecution’s side during Beau’s arraignment floats to the surface and my steps falter. Then I stick out my chin and keep going—I can’t pass up the remote chance that she knows something that could help.
It takes me by surprise when she whips out a heavy set of keys, unlocking the door to Sonny and Shears. The lights are off inside, all the chairs empty, no hair clippings scattered on the floor. It’s eerie, deserted. There’s nothing specific that gives off that vibe; it’s just the way places you’re used to seeing full seem oddly spooky when they’re not.
“Where is everyone?”
“We’re closed,” she says, shutting the door behind us and locking it again. The snap of the dead bolt stutters a chill down my spine. “Water leak.”
She doesn’t stay in the main part of the salon, instead trekking back toward the office, a place I know because of my days helping Glinda tote things for change. It looks the same as it always has except that the desk is neat. Tidy, even. The complete opposite of the way Glinda kept house. The complete o
pposite of the way I’d have guessed Hadley would keep house, honestly.
The girl in question rustles through a filing cabinet against the wall so I sit in the chair, twisting my fingers in my lap. The question on the tip of my tongue burns like acid, begging to run away, but I hold on to it. She asked me here and I don’t want to scare her off if she’s about to tell me something, or show me something, she’s been sitting on all this time.
The crinkling of paper stops and a drawer slides shut. At that exact moment, a second piece of memory reveals itself—what Hadley said while she was cutting my hair last week. How what the detectives found in Beau’s desk must look bad.
What they found in Beau’s desk.
How would she know the letter that supposedly came from Robert Caruso was in Beau’s desk … unless she knows who put it there.
My hands tighten on the edge of the desk and I take a deep breath, ready to turn around and confront her. Angry I’ve missed it all this time, a girl right under our noses in Heron Creek that could help undo all of this for Beau.
That’s the last thing I think before a thick rag covers my mouth and nose, a sweet smell curls through my brain, and I slip out of the chair onto the moldy office carpet, unconscious.
My brain is one massive ball of pain. There’s no way to open my eyes without throwing up so I keep them shut. My body feels as though it’s floating above the floor, not quite tied to the world, but when a whispered voice tickles my eardrums, it anchors me.
It’s hard to listen, hard to focus with the throbbing in my face and head, but snippets get through. And when the second voice—deeper, angrier—joins the first, my attention snaps into place.
“What are you thinking, Had? What are we going to do with her?”
“Get rid of her! Bump her off! Make her swim with the fishes!” Hadley’s voice is familiar to me, even if the guy’s isn’t, and disbelief rings in my ears. “Isn’t this what you do, or are you all talk in that aspect of your life, too?”
