Paranoid

by Lisa Jackson

  She wanted to close her eyes and her mind to the night before, but couldn’t. What’s done is done, her grandmother used to say. Deal with it.

  She rolled out of bed, threw on last night’s jeans and a long-sleeved T, then made a quick stop in the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Afterward she downed a cup of water and snapped her hair into an unruly ponytail.

  Now or never.

  She found McVey right where she’d left him, lying on his back, his body half out of the rumpled sheets, his eyes closed, dark lashes lying against bladed cheekbones.

  God, she was a fool.

  He was naked, of course, his one bare leg exposed, one of his arms folded over his bare chest.

  Oh, geez.

  What were you thinking?

  That was the trouble. She hadn’t been.

  “Hey, McVey,” she said, poking his shoulder. “Rise and shine.”

  “Wha—?” He blinked his eyes open, stared up at her, and smiled widely, then, as the situation hit him, the grin disappeared. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”

  Neither one of them had ever expected they’d wake up in the same bed again. But last night things had changed. She remembered kissing hot and hard, their tongues colliding as they’d fallen onto the couch. Her hands had slipped beneath his shirt to touch rock-hard muscles and she’d let go, wrapping her arms around him, feeling his hands on her buttocks. A zipper had hissed down and then suddenly he’d stopped. He’d wrapped his arms around her, held her close, and whispered into her mussed hair, “I don’t think I can do this, Kay.”

  “What?” she’d murmured.

  “You’d hate me forever.”

  “I already do,” she’d teased and had kissed him again.

  “No, that’s the problem. You don’t.”

  “So you’re rejecting me?”

  “Never.” He’d stared at her a second. “Go to bed, Kayleigh.”

  He’d been right. She’d known it then just as she knew it now. Even though the effects of the drinks hadn’t worn off last night, the weight of his words had gotten through. “I don’t care,” she’d said, and she’d meant it then.

  He’d groaned, held her tight, and carried her into her small bedroom. They’d tumbled together onto the covers and she’d thrown all caution to the wind, crossing a bridge she’d thought was long broken.

  Now, as more light made its way into the room, his gaze locked with hers as he, too, remembered, one big hand rubbing the beard shadow of his jaw. A strong jaw. In a handsome face. That she’d once thought she’d loved. A long, long time ago.

  Before Cade.

  “What were we thinking?” he asked, raking stiff fingers through his hair.

  “Thinking didn’t have much to do with it.”

  “Seemed like the right idea last night.”

  “Lots of things did.”

  “Amen to that.” His eyes, deep set and intelligent, held questions that he didn’t voice. But he obviously noted that she’d pulled on her jeans and shirt and had picked up her jacket, found on a hook near the door. “Looks like you want to get going.”

  “Lots to do. Big case.”

  “Yeah.” He stood up then and she turned away as she caught a glimpse of his long legs and tight buttocks.

  She felt a little catch in her throat. Which was just plain ludicrous. “I’ll be in the living room.” Was that even her voice—so breathy? What the hell was wrong with her?

  As she walked into the living area, Kayleigh heard the metallic sound of a zipper. She went directly to the front door, where her bicycle was propped against the wall, to wait. When she turned and saw him, dressed and carrying the running shoes he’d kicked off with such force one had hit the closet door, causing it to rattle, she felt her throat go dry.

  She had loved him and a bit of her heart cracked.

  But she didn’t want to remember their short period together, so she pushed any memories far into a dark corner of her mind as he sat on the edge of the couch and tied the laces, then slapped his legs and stood. His hair was still rumpled, the edges of his mouth remaining hard as he said, “Okay. Let’s go get your car.”

  “Good idea.”

  Minutes later he was driving her through the awakening town, a handful of cars rolling down the streets, headlights and taillights glowing through the heavy mist oozing in from the sea.

  “I could buy us coffee,” he said, nodding toward a kiosk where cars were collecting near the corkscrew ramp leading to the bridge that seemed to disappear into the mist.

  “Maybe another time.”

  But they both knew it would never happen.

  “Okay.” He pulled into the near-empty parking lot of the riverfront mall and parked. As she reached for the door handle, he said, “It was good to see you again, Kayleigh.”

  “Yeah. You too.” She stepped outside before she said anything further, anything she might regret. “Thanks.”

  He, too, had gotten out of the car, letting it idle. “Bye.”

  She managed a quick wave, and as she unlocked her car, she wondered what the hell she was doing. What she’d done. What she’d wanted to do. She and McVey were long over; that romantic ship had foundered before it had ever really set sail. So why did she still feel a distant yearning? Why the hell had she so willingly—no, make that so urgently—made love to him?

  Before the thought took root, she turned on her wipers and glanced in the rearview mirror, but his image was clouded by the condensation on the window.

  “A good thing,” she decided. She could only make out his silhouette as he leaned against his car, watching her drive off. She caught a glimpse of her own troubled eyes in the reflection. “God,” she told the woman staring back at her, “for a smart woman you’re an idiot when it comes to men.”

  Forget Travis McVey.

  Oh, and while you’re at it? Forget Cade Ryder, too.

  * * *

  The downtown block seemed as lifeless and tired as Rachel felt late Saturday morning as she strode toward the newspaper office, determined to straighten out one thing in her life.

  Time to face Mercedes and deal with the stupid articles she was running on Luke’s death.

  God, why now?

  Couldn’t Mercedes just let the past lie?

  Of course not.

  As the sky darkened, Rachel steeled herself, then pushed open the door to the newspaper office, on the first floor of a two-story downtown building. Some of the buildings on this block had been refurbished, but not the offices of the Edgewater Edition. The same gold logo was emblazoned on the glass window, and inside the faded wood floors and oversized desks that had been there when Rachel was a kid, visiting for a class field trip, were still in place, the large room separated by half walls of cubicles.

  “Can I help you?” asked a girl working on a laptop at her desk. Her brown hair was cut short, her face round, and she smiled as she looked up.

  “I’m here for Mercy,” Rachel said, not breaking her stride as she passed the young woman’s desk.

  “Wait. You can’t go back there.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re friends.” At least, we used to be, before she cracked open my worst nightmare and served it up to the whole damned town.

  “But you’re not supposed to go back there.”

  “It’s okay. Really. She wants to talk to me.”

  “No worries,” came a voice from behind a screen. “I’ll handle it, Alexa.” Mercy’s head arose from the divider, a bland expression on her face as she tucked her reading glasses into her hair and motioned Rachel into the cubicle. “I’m surprised you came in.”

  “Me too.” She eyed her once-upon-a-time friend. “I felt like I had no choice. That you backed me into a corner.”

  “We all have choices, Rachel.” Mercy waved her into a single visitor’s chair and Rachel sank into it as Mercy sat behind the desk. “I just want the truth.”

  “You just want to sell papers.”

  “Okay. Tha
t too.”

  “And it doesn’t matter that a lot of people are upset about it.”

  “News is news.”

  “Even if it’s old news?”

  “Not so old now,” Mercy said. “Violet was there that night, and now someone’s killed her.”

  “So?” Rachel said, stunned at the obvious track of Mercedes’s thoughts. “You’re trying to link the two deaths?” That didn’t make any sense.

  “I’m just saying it’s a coincidence, that’s all.”

  “You’re pissing a lot of people off.”

  Mercy let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, I know.” She retrieved a newspaper from the stack on her desk. “Lila’s decided to be outraged. It wasn’t evident at the reunion meeting, but you must’ve got her going or else she stewed on it and got pissed. Anyway, she’s called me and demanded that I stop writing about it. And she got her husband to send me a ‘cease and desist’ e-mail. And that’s just for starters. Then there’s Annessa. She might not have come to the reunion meeting but she’s damned certain that the articles about Luke’s murder will have a negative impact, bad publicity for the building that she and her husband now own. She sent me a furious text and threatened legal action.”

  “She could have a point.”

  “Maybe, but this is the type of story that will bring subscribers to the paper. This next week I’ve got several other articles about the Sea View cannery. The history, including the heyday of the plant when it was a primary source of income in the town, and the decline of the industry. And now I’ve got the Violet Sperry murder angle, as well. I can tie her to the cannery. These are solid pieces, and together, they’ve got everything readers want: drama, tragedy, survivors. And it all happened right here in Edgewater.”

  “You sold out the friends you grew up with.”

  “Oh, come on, Rach. None of us are really friends anymore. Acquaintances, yes. And we share a history. But, really, I’m not out to hurt anyone, and I didn’t publish anything that I can’t back up with my notes. My goal is to bring out the truth from that night. That’s the mission of a journalist: the quest for the truth.”

  “I call BS.”

  Mercy lifted a diet cola can on her desk, and then, realizing it was empty, tossed it into a blue bin. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

  “Don’t dismiss me. I have two kids in high school who have already heard that their mother is a murderer, thanks to the last article. How do you think they feel? You’ve got a kid, Mercy. Are you going to let Daisy read your account of that night in the warehouse? How’s it going to go down when her friends ask her if her mom was really an accessory to murder?”

  “I was never formally charged with anything.”

  “And I was acquitted of all charges. And yet, here I am.” Rachel jabbed a finger into the stacks of freshly printed papers. “I’m the killer who got away, in the world according to Mercedes Pope. What am I supposed to tell my kids?”

  Mercy sighed. “What you’ve always told them. Look, I’m sorry if this embarrasses you.”

  “You think I’m embarrassed?” Rachel’s voice rose, indignation burning through her. “That’s not even close.”

  Mercedes lifted both hands. “Okay, so now, here’s your chance to tell your side of it. I’ve wanted to interview you for days, so let’s get down to it. Tell me everything you remember about that night. And since I’m doing a piece on the victim, on Luke, I’d like to hear what your home life was like. How you all got along, that sort of thing. Luke wasn’t Ned’s biological son, so there must have been some tension there.”

  “What? No!”

  “His real father is a felon, right? Didn’t he beat his wife, your mother, Melinda Hollander? And I heard that your dad was the cop who put Bruce Hollander away.”

  “That’s . . . that’s ancient history. No one’s interested in it.”

  “Let’s get this on the record.” To Rachel’s horror, Mercedes actually turned, found her phone, and hit the record button.

  “No!”

  “I just want some perspective,” Mercedes insisted. “To tell the story of the boy who lost his life in the cannery. Who, exactly, was he?”

  For a second Rachel was stunned into silence as she thought about Luke as he truly was: complicated. Popular but secretive, an athlete who stood toe-to-toe with his stepfather if need be, a kid with a great sense of humor, a boy who loved to tease and taunt, though he always, always had his sister’s back.

  “I’m not talking about Luke.”

  “Then talk about that night. Let’s hear your side.”

  Rachel stopped short, shaking her head as she stared down at the phone. “My ‘side’ is in my statement to the police. From twenty years ago. It hasn’t changed and I’m sure you’ve got a copy.”

  “But I’d like your perspective now and how you look back on it. Maybe you remember some details that weren’t in the original report. You know, tell me what you think, what you remember, now that your dad isn’t a cop and looking over your shoulder.”

  “My father had nothing to do with it. What I said was the truth.”

  One of Mercedes’s eyebrows cocked a fraction. “We’re all more careful when our parents are around. Especially as children.”

  Rachel stood then. “My story hasn’t changed.” Placing both hands firmly on Mercedes’s desk, she looked squarely into the other woman’s eyes. “And if you print one word that differs from what I said in the original police report, I’ll sue you, Mercedes, and you can quote me on that.” With that she turned and left.

  “I’m quivering in my boots,” Mercy called after her, and even had the audacity to laugh.

  “You do that,” Rachel ground out quietly as she flew out the door, turned away from the shop window, and collapsed against the stucco wall. A heavy mist was falling, quickly soaking into her hair. She hugged herself, trying to stop the tremors that rose from the cold deep inside her. So much had been ruined, and she didn’t know when she’d have the energy for damage control.

  After these stories went out, would she ever find another job? Would she lose clients from her small business?

  Would the kids lose respect for her? Not that they treated her too well as it was, but she couldn’t stand them using this as an excuse to make bad choices.

  Would the kids be ostracized at school?

  The rain began in earnest, and she pressed back against the building, wondering if she should make a run for her car or wait until it blew over. Suddenly she wished she had the kids this weekend. She’d make them some comfort food—tomato soup and grilled cheese—and try to have one calm afternoon in a week of constant turmoil.

  Just then Rachel noticed a shadow moving across the street in the narrow alleyway between two buildings.

  Someone stood there, his face in shadow. He seemed to be wearing a dark jacket, with the collar turned up and a baseball cap pulled low.

  Was it just someone having a smoke?

  No. He was simply standing there, watching her.

  She glanced right and left to see if there was someone else he was keeping an eye on. Nope. She was the only person outside in the gray drizzle.

  Icy fear, cold as the rain penetrating her scalp.

  She told herself she was imagining things, that there really wasn’t anything sinister about him, that she needed to keep her cool. But her skin prickled as she wiped the gathering moisture from her face and then cupped a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes and focus her gaze on him. A passing truck blocked her view momentarily.

  And then he was gone.

  The alley empty.

  Leaving her to wonder if he had ever been there at all.

  CHAPTER 16

  Monday morning the sky was clear, a few stars fading, the air fresh as Kayleigh let herself in through the back door of the cedar and stone building housing the sheriff’s department. A skeleton crew was manning the phones and desks until the shift change, so the offices were quieter than during the day, just a few voices and footfal
ls audible over the rumble of air running through ducts overhead.

  Shedding her jacket in her locker, she was already mentally going over the Sperry case as she made her way to the lunch room. After picking up her car on Saturday morning, she’d spent most of the weekend reviewing notes and interviews on the Sperry homicide, studying evidence and checking alibis, and allowing a little time for watching football.

  So far, Leonard Sperry’s story was holding up. His fishing buddy had come through with an alibi, confirming Sperry’s whereabouts near Bend in Central Oregon. Motel and restaurant receipts had placed him 250 miles from his home. The police were still waiting for cell phone records, but Kayleigh assumed the information from the phone company would confirm his alibi.

  Meanwhile Sperry had provided a copy of his wife’s will, which indicated everything she owned was to be left to him. For good measure he had supplied his will as well, and the reverse was true: Had he predeceased her, she would have inherited all of Leonard Sperry’s worldly assets. They’d also provided a caveat that should they die together, everything was to be divided among ten charities.

  They hadn’t had children and the only sibling either of them had was Leonard’s estranged brother in Arizona, outside of Phoenix. Neither he nor their parents were mentioned in the wills, as both Violet and Leonard had assumed they would outlive them. Sperry had supplied copies of their life insurance policies, two on Violet’s life to the tune of over three hundred thousand dollars, enough for Leonard to buy out his parents, or take a world cruise or whatever.

  In the lunchroom, where Drummond, a wiry deputy with a flat-top haircut straight out of the fifties, was leaning over the sports page at one of the round tables, she listened to the hiss of the Keurig machine as it spat out her single cup. As she added cream to her coffee, she made a mental note to double-check that Leonard didn’t have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere. He didn’t seem the type and had appeared convincingly grief stricken and horrified at his wife’s murder, but really, who knew what went on behind the closed doors of a marriage? Theoretically it was possible Sperry could have hired a killer to do his dirty work, pay the murderer off out of the insurance proceeds, and still pocket a lot of cash.