by Zoe Carter
Trevor leaned against the credenza. “So he could be Tammy’s stalker or he could not be. But like you said, she wouldn’t have willingly ridden a bike to her stalker’s house.”
Lauren nodded. “The Carlingtons might have been the last people to see her alive. At the very least, they’ll tell us why she was there.”
Trevor glanced away. He hated those words, that phrasing. The last people to see her alive. The regrets built up inside him every time he heard that. Those regrets must have shown on his face, because Lauren stood up.
“Oh, God, Trevor,” she said, coming around the side of her desk to where he stood. “I’m sorry for being so insensitive. I sound like my family. Talking about a victim of a crime as though she weren’t someone’s sister. Someone’s loved one.”
“You get a pass, Lauren. Without you, I’d be nowhere.” She was standing so close he could smell her shampoo.
He caught the shift in her expression—he’d touched her again—before she closed him off and was all business.
“I checked with the PD,” she said, glancing at her notes. “A dark blue Trek with white lettering was not found abandoned in town. It has to be somewhere.”
“Maybe it’s at the Carlingtons’,” he said. “Maybe Tammy rode there and never left.” A chill slithered up his spine.
She stared at him. “Jesus. Let’s go find out. We’re meeting Mrs. Carlington at four.”
For all Trevor knew, he was on his way to the house where Tammy had been killed.
* * *
The Carlington mansion sprawled on the lakeshore, the grounds beautifully manicured. As she drove her car up the long driveway, she edged to the left to look at the side path. A stone walkway started at the end of the driveway and stopped just before the back of the house. Nothing else.
“Let’s get this over with,” Trevor said, getting out of the car.
They had to ring the front doorbell twice before it opened.
“Come in,” Maris trilled, opening the door wide. “I’m so sorry we’re meeting under such sad circumstances.”
Maris Carlington had answered the door herself. No housekeeper or butler? Lauren was surprised.
Maris, petite and thin, had white-blond hair in a precisely cut bob, hazel-green eyes, and wore a blue-and-white shift dress in a chevron pattern with a white cardigan draped over her shoulders. She had a kind, attractive face, but seemed distracted. And a little bit drunk, if Lauren wasn’t mistaken.
Lauren shook Maris’s hand, then Trevor did, and they followed her inside a marble entryway to what appeared to be Maris’s “parlor.” The room, facing the front of the house, was very feminine, with three large paintings of the Carlingtons at various ages.
“I commissioned those when we got married in our twenties, then one for every decade,” Maris said, looking up at the paintings. “We’ll soon be adding a fourth. Now please sit and tell me how I can help. But first, would you like a drink?”
Trevor and Lauren declined, but Maris fixed herself a scotch on the rocks, then slowly lowered herself onto one of the two hardbacked chairs across from the sofa where Lauren and Trevor sat. She seemed to sway just a bit, putting down her free hand to steady herself.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Carlington?” Lauren asked.
“Oh yes, don’t mind me,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.
“Mrs. Carlington,” Lauren began, “as I mentioned on the phone, a friend of Tammy’s recalled seeing her bike at your house the first week of June. We’re hoping you can tell us why she was here.”
“I did glance in my appointment book,” Maris said. “Her name wasn’t there. I suppose she could have just shown up, though. Maybe she was selling something?”
Lauren opened her folder of photos of Tammy. She’d made larger versions of the recent one that CJ had taken of Tammy as a blond and a few as a brunette. “Do you recall seeing this girl at your house?”
Maris leaned forward and studied the photos. “I’m sorry, but no. I can’t say she looks familiar, either as a blond or as a brunette.” She looked at the photos again, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think I’ve seen this young lady. And I would have remembered those lovely brown eyes. My mother had brown eyes.”
Maris swayed again. As though she’d taken an extra Valium.
“Mrs. Carlington,” Lauren said. “You mentioned your husband would be home at this time. Is he available to stop in? Maybe he might remember seeing Tammy.”
At the sound of footsteps in the hall, Maris called out, “Dear? Is that you? Will you come into the parlor for a moment?”
Marcus Carlington poked his head in the room. He was tall and thin with a narrow face, a receding gray-brown hairline and dark brown eyes. “Ah yes, Maris mentioned the both of you would be stopping by today.” He tilted his head at Lauren as though he recognized her from the news the past month, but he didn’t say anything.
Lauren smiled at Marcus to set him at ease. “I’m Lauren Riley of TownsendReport.com. I’m working on an article about the murder of Tammy Gallagher.” She gestured toward Trevor. “This is Tammy’s brother, Trevor.”
She watched Marcus Carlington’s face for any change in expression. Nothing.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Marcus said, sitting down in the chair beside his wife. “Was she identified as that skeleton found in the boathouse some weeks ago? Ghastly.”
“No,” Trevor said. “The skeleton hasn’t been identified, but the ME believes it’s decades old. My sister was found in the woods about four weeks ago, strangled. I’m trying to understand what happened to her.” He explained about someone seeing Tammy ride up to the mansion on a bike.
“Ah,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t help. I don’t recall that at all. Maris, were you able to offer any information?”
Maris shook her head. “I looked at photos,” she said, gesturing at the file open on the coffee table. “But she doesn’t look familiar. Poor dear.”
Carlington looked at the photos. “No, I can’t say she looks familiar. Well, outside of seeing her on the news.” He shook his head, compassion in his eyes. “She was so young.”
“Such pretty brown eyes,” Maris Carlington said, looking at the photo. “My mother had brown eyes.”
Yes, you mentioned that. The woman was definitely medicated. For the meeting? Because Carlington was Tammy’s wealthy older stalker, and maybe his wife had seen Tammy in the house, Carlington coming on to her? So he’d slipped a Valium in her morning scotch so that she’d be too off balance to tell them anything? Anything was possible.
But the questions had been answered and it was time to figure out next steps. Lauren stood. “We appreciate your time.”
“Yes, thank you,” Trevor said. “I knew it was a long shot coming here. I’m thinking the woman who mentioned seeing Tammy coming in must have been mistaken.”
He was baiting, Lauren knew. And Carlington relaxed. Visibly. Lauren saw his shoulders drop.
Because Tammy had been in his house? Because he knew more than he was saying?
As they left the mansion, Trevor turned slightly to see Carlington watching them through the window.
“Something’s off,” Trevor said as they got inside Lauren’s car. “Did you see the way he relaxed when I said the friend had to be wrong about seeing Tammy here?”
“Yes. But I don’t get it. Neither of them acted nervous about us being here or asking them questions. Grr, this is so frustrating! Maybe Carlington was just relieved we were leaving because we saw his society-maven wife totally stoned out of her mind. I am a reporter.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. But something is off. I feel it, Lauren.”
She stared at him. “Let’s do a little deeper digging into Marcus Carlington’s life. Maybe he is the rich older stalker that Sophie McDonner talked about. We can check rec
eipts again at Catch of the Day and see if he ate alone in her section right before she was killed. At least we’ll know he’s definitely lying about knowing her—even if we can’t be one hundred percent sure he’s the stalker.”
“God help him if he is,” Trevor said, his voice deadly cold.
Chapter Twelve
Lauren spent the next three hours trying to dig into Marcus Carlington’s life and got nowhere. If he was Tammy Gallagher’s rich older stalker, he hadn’t paid by credit card while dining alone at Catch of the Day; there were no credit card receipts under his name in the last few months at that restaurant. Neither the manager nor Sarah Maitland, Tammy’s fellow waitress, thought he looked at all familiar. That didn’t mean he hadn’t paid cash and simply hadn’t been memorable enough for the waitress or manager to remember. Carlington had fade-into-the-woodwork looks; he didn’t stand out. According to Lauren’s sister Nova, who did a quick background check as a favor, he’d never been arrested and had filed no complaints.
Model citizen. Seemingly. But something didn’t feel right.
She picked up her phone and tried Mackenzie Wattman’s cell phone again—for the tenth time since the woman had canceled their appointment to talk about her missing friend, June Gissler. Straight to voice mail. Mackenzie had obviously blocked her number. Lauren called her home phone—Mackenzie had gone as far as to change that number. Who had gotten to her? And why?
She glanced out the window of her office at the intersection of Main Street. Throngs of people were walking around, shopping, heading to dinner, without a care in the world. She wasn’t one of them.
She needed to get out of here. She needed to think, figure out where to go from here on Marcus Carlington, how to connect it all. She could just hear her sister or father or Nova telling her that the girl who’d reported seeing Tammy going into the Carlington residence had been mistaken. They’d point out that Cathy Planter had been in the neighbor’s driveway, which was an acre away from the Carlingtons’ driveway. They’d point out that eighteen-year-old girls with long blond hair were everywhere in Thornwood Heights. Right. On a Trek bike, exactly like one that Victor had owned. They wouldn’t be able to explain that away and neither could Lauren.
She stared at her laptop and her pile of notes, which weren’t leading her anywhere. She needed to be at the Double G ranch, breathing in that fresh country air so she could think more clearly. She needed to be away from here, the center of town, where that dark underbelly was at work; she could feel it.
And somehow, the scent of horses and cattle and bulls had become the loveliest scent of all to Lauren, who’d been the furthest thing from a farm girl there was. Lauren liked spa treatments and luxury and chai lattes.
And now wide-open spaces where you could see green and trees for miles. Wooden fences and cattle and new furry sheep and white-maned horses. A sweet black-and-white dog chasing after a butterfly.
And Trevor. Trevor was there.
She needed to see him. Somewhere along the way, Lauren had started recharging by drinking in the sight of Trevor Gallagher, that six-foot-two-inch muscular frame, the thick, wavy dark hair and those intense blue eyes that made her feel like there was no one else in the world but her.
So, Jen, the answer to your question is yes, there is something between us.
She needed to see him. And they needed to figure out their next steps on Marcus Carlington. She collected her laptop and notes, locked up the office and drove the ten miles out to the ranch, relaxing the moment she turned up the mile-long drive to the Double G.
Until a gunshot split the air.
What the hell?
Lauren’s little car spun wildly out of control. Oh no, oh no. The car suddenly tilted toward the left and was veering toward a narrow gulley. Another shot sounded and the car spun again, then landed hard in the deep ditch, Lauren’s head slamming against the driver’s-side window.
Hurts, she thought numbly, a sticky wetness on her temple. She slowly brought her fingers to her head. Blood.
Get up, get out of here, her brain was saying. But her limbs felt so heavy. She was so tired all of a sudden. If she didn’t move, her shoulder didn’t hurt.
“Hurry—shoot her and let’s get out of here,” she heard a deep male voice say as she faded in and out.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Wake up, Lauren, she ordered herself. A short burst of adrenaline kicked in, but because her car had fallen in the ditch on the driver’s side, she couldn’t open the door. And the footsteps and voices were getting closer. She climbed over the center console and tried to open the passenger-side door, but a shotgun appeared in the window.
Lauren screamed and ducked, covering her head.
She heard the sudden honking of a horn as another car came toward them.
“Company,” one of the voices snapped. “Let’s get out of here.”
A shot fired wildly into the car, shattering the driver’s-side window.
“Did you get her?” the man asked.
“Let’s go,” the shooter said.
As a car sped away, the honking one got closer and closer.
“Lauren!” That was Trevor’s voice.
Trevor. As relief flooded her body, she gave in to the call to blackness and let herself go.
* * *
Trevor had been stacking hay bales with CJ and Mack when the sound of a gunshot broke the silence on the ranch. Before CJ’s attack, he might have chalked it up to a truck backfiring.
Now the sound of gunfire meant someone was on his land, armed and dangerous.
Trevor had jumped in his truck and driven toward the sound, his windows down, CJ beside him, Mack on horseback behind them in case he needed to go off-road. He’d pounded on the horn to make some kind of scene, to ward off the intruders from shooting again just in case.
From some distance away he’d seen two men standing over a ditch, a rifle in each hand.
And then voices.
“Did you get her?”
Her? His heart pounding out of his chest, Trevor had driven closer and finally saw half of what looked like Lauren’s silver car, sunk in a ditch. He’d pounded the horn and screamed her name and driven one hundred miles an hour, the men suddenly fleeing. He’d heard a car peel away and saw in his rearview mirror that Mack was giving chase on horseback.
“Lauren!” Trevor screamed again.
He slammed the truck in Park and raced toward her car, CJ right behind him. Lauren was slumped to the side, the door wedged in the side of the ditch.
“While I break the rest of the glass, you call 911,” Trevor told CJ, wrapping his flannel shirt around his hand and dusting out the edges of the blown-out window.
CJ pressed numbers into his phone, his voice frantic as he made the call. “They’re on the way. Oh, God, is she alive?”
From where he kneeled, Trevor couldn’t see if she was drawing breath. “Let’s get her out.”
When he had her on the ground a good distance from the car, he pressed his head to her chest. She was breathing. Her pulse was strong. Her limbs looked strong, nothing bent at an awkward angle. She’d just been knocked unconscious.
Did you get her?
He had no doubt they were hired thugs, like the ones who’d attacked CJ. And whoever had thrown that rock through the window of the Townsend Report. Suddenly, a tossed rock with “MYOB” scrawled across it seemed like child’s play.
Shooting out someone’s tires, running them into a ditch, coming after her with a gun. Trevor closed his eyes. Carlington?
Who the hell else? A rich older stalker who didn’t want to take no for an answer. They’d come from Carlington’s only a few hours ago. Enough time to send his hired goons their way. Maybe they’d followed Lauren from her office. Or maybe they’d been on their way to take out Trevor and had ambushed Laur
en en route.
As red-hot rage swirled in his gut, Trevor heard the blare of sirens in the distance, coming closer. Mack came galloping back, his rifle slung across his torso. “I couldn’t keep up or get a plate, but it was a small black car.”
Before Trevor could respond, Tommy Riley and his two daughters burst out of one patrol car, Lewton and Paretti from another. The ambulance was a second behind them, the paramedics rushing over with a gurney.
“She’s breathing,” the female paramedic said. “One, two, three—lift,” she said, and both medics had her on the gurney and loaded into the ambulance. Nova jumped in the back while Jennifer glanced around the ditch at Lauren’s car.
“What the hell happened?” Chief Riley demanded, his angry, worried gaze moving from the ambulance doors closing to Lauren’s car in the ditch and back to Trevor.
“I’ll tell you en route to the hospital,” Trevor said, turning to go to his car.
Chief Riley extended his arm. “You’ll tell me now. At the scene.”
He quickly described what he’d heard and seen and done. “I’m going to the damned hospital,” he said, rushing toward his car.
“I assume you have a permit for that weapon,” Lewton called to Trevor. “You too, cowboy,” he added to Mack.
“You assume correctly,” Trevor muttered, not bothering to turn around. “This is my property. I heard a gunshot. I grabbed my rifle and followed the sound.” He got into his car and slammed the door shut.
Lewton stepped closer to Trevor’s car and stared him down. Trevor stared right back.
“Everyone calm the hell down,” Riley shouted. “Right now we’re going to the hospital. Pat, head to the station with Mack and CJ and take their statements. I’ll get Trevor’s at the hospital. Jennifer and Paretti, see what you can find here, then come to the hospital. I’ll keep you informed in the interim.” He glanced at Mack on horseback. “Ride back and get the horse settled. Lewton will drive down and pick you up.”
