“Smart,” Tate murmured.
Dad shrugged. “When I approached, they got out of the car and surrounded me. Bailey started talking to me about our last conversation in the courthouse. He said I needed to learn what happened when people didn’t mind their business.”
“He outright threatened you,” Tate mumbled, shaking his head. “This guy is out of control.”
“It gets worse,” Dad said. “I warned them that I’d make sure the police chief knew about their behavior, but he didn’t care. We were all going to pay, he told me, starting with my daughter and me. He started saying all these disgusting things… things he would do to you, Bellamy… and I just lost it.”
Tate stiffened at my side, his jaw clenching so tight I was afraid he might grind his teeth into dust. “They threatened Bell?”
Dad nodded. “I’ve never been a violent man, but in that moment, all I could think about was that you were on your way home, and if they were still there when you arrived, something terrible might happen. They took me down, smashing my face in the concrete, and cuffed me. Everyone in town knows I’m crazy, they said. No one would take my word against theirs if they said I had a psychotic break and attacked them. Next thing I know, they’ve called backup, and another car shows up. They put me in the back of it and drove me here, where I’ve been since last night.”
Eyes wide, I turned to Peter. “We have to get that phone. Do you know where it is?”
“Bailey has it, most likely. Along with any other belongings Mr. McGuire would have had on his person at the time. Right now, it looks as if they’re going to file charges for assault on a police officer. They have dashboard camera footage of the incident, but there’s no audio due to the distance they stood from the squad car.”
“They’re going to try to portray him as some kind of cop hater,” Tate spat. “In a town like this, the sheriff’s word will be taken as the truth. I wouldn’t put it past them to delete the recording either.”
“No worries there,” Dad replied. “Everything I save to that phone gets uploaded automatically to a cloud. The app I used automatically ends the recording at one minute, then saves what’s been captured. Whatever was recorded is already out of their reach, even if they wipe it from my phone.”
Peter nodded. “That’s why I intend to contact the D.A. myself. She’s building her case against Canton Haines, and the local police are cooperating in collecting more evidence. A search warrant has been obtained for Haines’ home, and it won’t be long before a connection is made between him and the sheriff. Since it will be the D.A.’s office that will bring the charges against Mr. McGuire, I intend to inform her about the cell phone recording and urge her have the police get a search warrant for the phone, which will allow them access to what’s on it. It’s my hope that we can use the recording to coerce the sheriff into dropping the filed charges, and cooperate in our investigation against Canton Haines.”
“Wait a minute,” Tate argued. “That means he might get off for all the dirt he’s done over the years. Testifying against Haines could give him a free pass.”
“Or a reduced sentence,” Peter agreed. “It’s the same sort of deal I’m working on for your father. It’s unfortunate, but if we want those charges dropped against Mr. McGuire, we have to play the game. Sheriff Bailey will lose his position and be forced to plead guilty to whatever charges the D.A. finds appropriate. It’s the best we can do when we have bigger fish to fry. Canton Haines and the Atlanta crime syndicate are those fish, and we can’t afford to let them off the hook.”
I nodded in agreement. “Whatever it takes. So, what now?”
“For now, you don’t need to do anything but wait,” Peter replied. “We have a little more than forty-eight hours before Mr. McGuire is arraigned, and that would be when the charges are formally brought. It is my intention to have this put to bed before then, so that no charges are brought at all and your father is released. If you’ll trust me to get this done, I won’t let you down.”
“If the Baldwins trust you, then so do we,” Dad declared. “Tate, you’ll have to convey my gratitude to your mother for me. I can’t thank her enough for sending Mr. Beck. I didn’t know what I was going to do.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her,” Tate promised.
Peter stood, adjusting his tie. “I’ve got to get to work on this, so I’ll leave you folks to visit. Mr. McGuire, I’ll be back tomorrow to update you.”
Dad rose to his feet, and the two men shook hands. “Thank you.”
Crossing the room, Peter made a quick exit. Turning back toward the table, I caught sight of the large television in the middle of the room, where several people sat watching the news. The headline grabbed my attention, and I grasped Tate’s arm.
“Look,” I murmured, pointing to the set. “They’re talking about your dad on the news.”
The sound was too low for us to hear from across the room, but the headline stated that Douglas was to be released on bail pending a trial—his charge being accessory to a felony, which might carry up to three years in jail.
“You all right, son?” Dad asked, placing a hand on Tate’s shoulder.
Tate nodded. “Yeah. That he’s out on bail is good. If the D.A. can cut him a deal like Peter said… well, it’ll be more than he deserves.”
“This will all be behind us soon,” Dad assured him. “Now, you guys better go. Visiting hours will be over soon, and I’m sure Tate needs to be with his family right now.”
Glancing at a clock on the wall, I realized it was already eleven-thirty. Visiting time would end in half an hour.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “How are they treating you here?”
Dad shrugged. “As well as they can. The food is not half bad, and I’m getting to catch up on some much-needed sleep.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that. My dad was his usual self, even when life had dealt him a harsh blow.
“I’m going to stop by the store on the way home,” I told him. “Just to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Don’t stay long, and don’t try to open,” he urged me. “Just make a sign for the door that says we’re closed for maintenance or something. I don’t want you there alone until we know that the sheriff has been dealt with.”
“If he’s smart, he’ll leave town after he’s been exposed for the corrupt piece of shit he is,” Tate said, reaching for my hand. “Ready, Bell?”
I hugged Dad one more time before taking Tate’s hand. “I’ll come back tomorrow to check on you.”
A chill raced through me, jolting me from a sound sleep. I opened my eyes to find the room completely dark except for the television—which had gone silent, despite the white-and-black static blinking across the screen. Sitting up abruptly, I reached for Tate, who had dozed off beside me on the couch.
We’d spent the rest of our afternoon with the kids, and then had dinner with the rest of the family. Douglas had, as Tate predicted, been home just in time for the meal. He seemed a bit less reserved than usual, even cracking a few smiles as Max and Emma chattered at the table. There hadn’t been much talk about the impending trial or his time in the county jail. Douglas had simply assured us that he’d been allowed to get his statement on record concerning what happened the night Isabella died. It would seem the weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and, without a guilty conscience, Douglas could move forward with the rest of his life. He’d been assured that a plea deal would mean no trial for him, if he’d agree to testify against Canton Haines and Jameson Whitlock in court—something he seemed more than happy to do.
But now, after falling asleep on the couch with Tate, I’d woken up to a cold, dark room, and a static-y television. This was far too familiar, and fear gripped me at what it could mean.
“Hmmm,” Tate mumbled when I gave him a shake. “What’s up, Bell?”
“Wake up,” I hissed, glancing around the dark room. Even the kids’ night-lights weren’t visible, which meant power had been killed on the entire
floor.
Sitting up, Tate shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. “It’s cold in here.”
“Look at the television,” I whispered.
With a scowl, Tate glanced at the digitized snow dancing across the screen. “What the heck?”
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I slowly stood, glimpsing something red on the ground a few feet away. Following me, Tate bent as we neared the landing of the stairs, coming back up with a ruby-red rose petal clutched between two fingers.
“Camila and Isabella,” he confirmed, glancing up the stairs to where a trail of rose petals led to the third floor.
“We did what they wanted,” I replied. “What now?”
Shrugging, Tate pointed up the stairs. “Only one way to find out.”
Taking his hand, I followed him up the steps, my breath caught and held in my lungs. Were Camila and Isabella satisfied with what we’d done? Had it been enough for them?
Reaching the landing, we followed the petals down the usual path of the darkened hallway toward Tate’s room. The door hung open, though no sound could be heard from inside. Silently, Tate held me back with one arm, stepping inside first.
Near the window, the two women stood, their translucent forms glowing from the light of the moon filtering through the glass. As they turned to face us, grasping each other’s hands, I gasped at the startling difference. Gone were the shards of glass embedded in Camila’s face and neck, as well as the angry black bruise surrounding Isabella’s throat. Except for their pale glow, the two women appeared whole and healthy. They were smiling.
“What is this?” Tate whispered as they started toward us, the nerve-wracking sound of their bones snapping and popping non-existent.
“I don’t know,” I replied, fighting the urge to back away as they drew closer.
Camilla paused, but Isabella kept coming, reaching one arm out toward Tate. Drawing in a sharp breath, he backed away, but I grabbed his arm, sensing that this was a good thing, not a bad one.
“Wait,” I said. “Let’s see what she does.”
Nodding, Tate stepped forward again, his shoulders stiff as he waited for Isabella to reach for him again. She brought her hand up to his face, smoothing her palm over his forehead, down his cheekbone and the line of his jaw—touching every part of the deformed side of his face.
Tate gasped, and his breathing became labored as he closed his eyes. “I can feel her hand,” he whispered. “I can actually feel it down to my bones.”
“What is she doing?” I asked aloud, despite knowing Tate couldn’t possible understand either.
Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, and then backed away, placing both hands over her heart and moving her lips as if to say something. The same soft, breathless whisper came out. She still couldn’t communicate, but I’d watched her lips and understood what she’d been trying to say.
“I think she said ‘thank you’,” I told him.
Isabella moved back beside her sister, and the two linked hands. Looking to me, Camila moved her lips, mimicking her sister.
Thank you.
Nodding, I gave her a smile. “You’re so welcome. I’m sorry for what happened to you… to both of you.”
Camila reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder, as if to assure me that it was all right. The past couldn’t be changed, but we had gotten justice for them both. The people responsible for their deaths wouldn’t go unpunished.
Like Tate, I could feel the touch of Camila’s hand against my shoulder. It burned, but not hotly like fire… it was like the burn caused by touching ice for too long. But I didn’t pull away, wanting to remember what it had been like to stand face to face with a ghost and not feel fear any longer. My dad was going to be fascinated when I described this to him.
Backing away from us, the sisters began to fade, their glow becoming more muted. Then, I could see straight through them to the window beyond, until they were no more than smoky outlines, drifting through the glass and out into the night.
I glanced over at Tate, who watched the window in shock, his mouth hanging open.
“It’s over?” he asked, though it didn’t seem like a question he required me to answer. He seemed more in disbelief than anything else. “They’re gone?”
Turning toward him, I smiled. “Yes, they’re gone. Look out in the hall… no more rose petals.”
Glancing out the open door, he noticed the same thing I did. The flower petals had disappeared, just like the sister ghosts had, leaving no trace that they’d ever haunted this place.
Reaching out for me, Tate pulled me against him, crushing me in a tight hug. He exhaled in a rush, the sound like sweet relief.
“It’s really over,” he whispered. “We did it.”
Clutching him back, I held on tight and buried my face in his shoulder. “No, you did it. They challenged you to step up, and you did. You confronted your dad and made things right with Lindsay. It was all you, Tate.”
Smiling, he cupped my face in one hand and lowered his head to kiss me. It was slow and sweet, with an urgency unlike anything I’d ever felt when kissing him.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he insisted. “You forced me to face what I’d become, and confront how I got there. I might still be hiding away if you hadn’t found your way to my doorstep.”
Laughing, I gave his hair a playful tug. “Aren’t you glad I never listen to anybody?”
With a chuckle, he came in for another kiss. “You have no idea.”
“Dad? Are you ready?”
Silence. I swept into the living room, carefully holding the skirt of my gown to keep from stepping on the hem. Glancing around, I found both the living room and kitchen empty, even though I’d expected to find Dad waiting for me. He’d only had a suit and tie to put on—maybe brush his hair for once. I’d had to get into a gown with all the required layers underneath and apply my makeup. Thankfully, my hair had been taken care of earlier that afternoon. I’d left the salon with freshly flat-ironed and curling-iron spiraled hair, arranged on top of my head with a few curls framing my face.
But, for some reason, he hadn’t emerged from his room yet. Fear clutched me for a moment until I reminded myself that the danger we’d been in had passed. Peter Beck had done just as he said and gotten the district attorney to obtain the warrant for the contents of Dad’s phone. The D.A., Peter, and the judge had all agreed that my father had been provoked, and an investigation had been launched into the sheriff and his deputies. Another judge had appointed a new sheriff, taking Bailey out of a position of power until the investigation was concluded. According to Peter, the new evidence found at the Haines’ house implicated the sheriff in so many crime cover-ups that he’d never get hold of a badge and gun again, even if he did escape jail time. According to Peter, the city and county officials were afraid we might sue for the way he’d been treated, so Dad had been released without bail. With no charges filed against him, he was now free to move forward.
Jameson Whitlock had been found in Atlanta and transported to Young County Jail to await trial. His mugshot had been plastered all over the news since this morning, his face still battered and bruised from the butt of Douglas’ gun. Mr. Baldwin was taking his offered plea deal in exchange for testimony—no jail time and one year’s probation for helping put Canton and Jameson behind bars.
While the spreading news of his involvement in a murder had smudged his reputation and that of his business, Douglas didn’t seem concerned. He had done the right thing, and his conscience was clear. According to Tate, he seemed happier than ever, even taking off work earlier than usual to come home and spend time with his family. Maybe almost losing them had taught him a valuable lesson.
I hadn’t wanted to go to the Founder’s Day ball, but with all the loose ends tied up, there seemed no reason not to. Dad wasn’t seriously hurt from his ordeal with the sheriff, and I had the gown hanging in my closet. So, here I stood, waiting for him to emerge from his room so we could leave.
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“Dad?” I called again, backtracking to his room. “Dad, you in here?”
I knocked softly, and a few seconds later, his muffled voice told me to come in. Opening the door, I found him standing in front of his desk. With long arms, he reached up toward his wall of ghost drawings and newspaper clippings. Pulling the thumbtacks free, he began dropping the papers into the trash.
“Hey, munchkin,” he replied without turning around.
He wore a black tuxedo and a matching bow tie, I noticed as he turned to continue his work. He’d even combed his hair.
“What are you doing?” I asked, coming closer to watch as he went about disassembling the thing he’d been obsessed with for the past two years.
Pausing, he pointed at the copy of the Wellhollow Springs Sentinel resting on the desk. “Today’s front page included a complete list of Canton Haines and Jameson Whitlocks’ victims,” he said. “Every single one of them was on this wall.”
Gasping, I came forward and bent to retrieve an obituary that had fallen to the floor. It was for Jim Barnes. There were dozens more in the trash can—more than I could count. I never could have imagined that their crimes had extended so far.
“You were seeing his victims,” I murmured. “All this time, they were reaching out to you for help. They wanted justice, too.”
Dad nodded. “Now that the men responsible for their deaths have been dealt with, I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing them around anymore. I can get back to what’s important. Like enjoying my daughter’s last year at home before she goes off to college… getting my repair business off the ground… taking care of your mother’s legacy, her bookstore. It’s time, munchkin, and I’m ready.”
Setting my little clutch aside, I began helping him, silently working to remove every single image or newspaper clipping until the wall was left bare. Once we’d finished, we stood back and stared at the white space.
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