by Jo Crow
Jerry shifted back and forth in his seat. He stared at his hands, visibly uncomfortable. Struggle turned his gaze murky, and when at last he lifted his head, I wasn’t sure if he saw me or not—it was like he was looking right through me. “I’m sorry I put you in harm’s way. I hope you understand it wasn’t my intention.”
“I know it wasn’t.” How was I supposed to stay angry when Jerry was so genuinely apologetic? I saw the hurt in his eyes. I’d overstepped my boundaries by flinging the door open and demanding he see me. “I just… it’s… I need to know what you know about my father. You two were friends, once, but-but he’s gone, and now it’s my life on the line.”
Jerry looked me over, his eyes coming into focus as they scanned my face. I waited for him to collect his thoughts and studied him in turn. All these years, had Jerry known the truth about my father? My mother? Their relationship? Had he stood up for a criminal?
Could I trust him?
I’d always thought my father a kindly man, but I’d obviously been wrong. Appearances could be deceptive. Maybe I was wrong about Jerry, too.
“Your father led a charmed life, on the surface but, beneath it all, he had… problems.” Jerry frowned and looked to the side. He tilted his chair back and rested into it, lifting his head so he could gaze at the ceiling while he spoke. Dark stubble lined the underside of his chin, scattered with gray. “There were choices he made I wasn’t proud he made, and choices he made he wasn’t proud he made. But that doesn’t mean your father was any less of a man.”
“You don’t need to cushion it. I already know.” I didn’t want to say it. Saying it would make it real, and I didn’t want to give the horrible things my father had done that kind of power. “I went to talk to Rothford and Neuman today, after discovering the name Gino Hunt in my father’s old Moleskin notebook.”
“God.” Jerry scrubbed at his eyes and shook his head. The chair straightened with a sharp clack. “Clara, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had anything of his that would have pointed you back to Rothford and Neuman. I didn’t think there was anything left from that time. I was trying to find a way to break the news to you gently—to give you back the boxes of your father’s belongings so you could sort through it all slowly and with an open mind.”
“How long was it going on?” I asked, pained. The emotions I’d held back in Charlotte were starting to bubble to the surface. Tears clustered in the corners of my eyes. “The affairs, the lying, the-the scandals that never broke the light of day.”
“For a long, long time.” Jerry frowned. “Your father knew what I thought of his affairs. I threatened to go to your mother directly about them, more than once, but your father was nothing if not persuasive, and I always kept my mouth shut. It’s a shame he went into business—he would have made a fantastic lawyer.”
I dropped my gaze to stare at the woodgrain of the desk. “Was he cheating on my mother before I was born?”
“Yes.”
The news tore me apart. I blinked away the tears that had formed, determined to get through this round of questioning. Jerry had the answers I needed. I didn’t want to walk away without knowing exactly what had happened all those years ago. “With how many women?”
“Six, I know of.” Jerry shook his head. “It was one of the darker things your father did. The addiction to the chase, the risk, and the reward. I offered him help, but he refused.”
“And when did my mother find out?”
“Seven months before she disappeared.” Jerry shook his head. “She was devastated. She came to me begging for help, but my hands were tied, and I pointed her to Rothford and Neuman.”
“Then Gino Hunt was your doing?” I lifted my head to search his expression, eager to see if his sincerity would waver. “My father knew about him. Did you tell him who Gino was? What he was doing?”
“Your father pieced it together himself and started tracking Gino’s comings and goings.” Jerry reached for a glass that wasn’t there. His fingers curled around nothing, then he drew his hand away. “He was on the verge of confronting your mother about it, and he was coming to me for advice on what to do. Of course, I didn’t have much to tell him. I’d been advising him to quit being unfaithful for years, but… no luck.”
Did I believe it? I searched Jerry’s face and couldn’t find anything to suggest he was lying. He looked just as sincere as he always did.
“What about Blake Harwood?” I asked. “I know my father was… seeing Rachel Harwood.”
“Blake Harwood?” Jerry cocked a brow. “What about him?”
“He was following me after I left Rothford and Neuman’s, and he was armed.”
Jerry leaned forward, suddenly much more engaged with the conversation. “Blake Harwood?”
“Yes. I’m certain.”
“He disappeared, must be almost twenty years ago. Are you sure it was him you saw? After all this time, I imagine he would have aged. He wouldn’t have been the same man you remember from your childhood.”
The short blond hair and the massive build were too similar to be coincidental. Blake Harwood had been in Charlotte, and he’d been following me. On a logical level, I knew what Jerry was saying was right—but apart from that? My heart told me there was no way I’d mistaken who I’d seen.
“I don’t know what to tell you other than I saw who I saw.” Convincing Jerry wasn’t important. I needed to get to the heart of the matter. “Even if it wasn’t Blake Harwood, is there anyone who would have wished my father ill? My mother? I know he had… shady dealings. Why would they come after me?”
“Ah.” Jerry sighed. The lines in his forehead grew bolder. “I was hoping Rothford and Neuman would keep their mouths shut on topics they don’t understand, but it seems as though that isn’t the case. That’s unfortunate.”
“You’re going to have to explain. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” All of it was coming on too fast; I was constantly shifting my understandings, trying to keep up with the revelations. “What did you mean when you said they don’t understand what they’re talking about?”
“They’re divorce lawyers. They have their noses so deeply buried in he-said-she-said they can’t see for all the lies and excuses. The things your father did weren’t exactly reputable, but their accusations were baseless. There were no deals made with disreputable people. How your father handled his money was questionable, but never once did he meddle in dirty money like that.”
“So, on that score, there shouldn’t be anyone out for me, then?” I licked my lips, nervous. “I mean, Blake Harwood—or whoever that was—wouldn’t have been a member in a gang, or a mob, or whatever else?”
“As far as I’m aware, your father had no connection to any organized criminal activity.”
Organized criminal activity. I almost laughed. That Jerry had to qualify criminal activity was telling.
“Then who would be after me, and why?” I met his eye, determined to seek the truth. “There’s got to be something… someone… a motive.”
“I don’t know, Clara.” Jerry sighed. He returned my gaze for a few minutes, then looked away. “The things your father did, he did to keep this town afloat. Every crooked practice was made with the heart of the community in mind. He didn’t want this town to fail, and he was well-loved for it. Those that were wronged along the way… I feel like they knew. There was animosity, but none of it was ever of the lethal kind. It’s not like in the movies where tempers boil over and bloodbaths begin. Largely, the arguments your father had were conducted through certified mail and passed from my hands to the hands of the lawyers employed by the distributors he worked with.”
“Then what?” I wanted to bury my head in my arms. Hopelessness and uselessness welled inside of me as one, and no matter how hard I fought to push it out, it held firm. I was running out of leads, and that meant I was running out of time. The threat was real, and if I didn’t take steps to protect myself against it, I shuddered to think what would happen.
“I don’t k
now. I’m sorry.” Jerry reached out and squeezed my arm. There was genuine sympathy in his eyes. “I wish I could help you more than this, but that’s really all I know. Your father may not have been the outstanding man you thought he was, but I know he loved you very much, and he loved this town enough to fight for it in whatever ways he could.”
“Thanks.”
So that was it, then. I’d found out an unfortunate truth about my family, but I was no closer to understanding who was after me or why. Blake Harwood, a ghost from my past, was back to haunt me, but I couldn’t explain his role in this. I was out of ideas, and I would be until I could get my head back on straight and reevaluate what I’d learned.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know,” Jerry said softly. “Francine adores you as much as I do, and we’d be happy to have you in our home if you need somewhere to stay. We do still owe you that roast, after all.”
A smile crept onto my face. In this dark time, Jerry was a shining beacon. I didn’t know what I would have done without his support. “Thanks. Really. I promise we’ll get in touch soon.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” He smiled back. “Do you have somewhere to go right now? If you don’t feel safe, you can go home to Francine. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the company, and I know she’ll go gaga over your little boy.”
“No.” There was too much I needed to sort out before I could think of putting another person’s life at risk. I still had no idea what had happened to Gino after we’d parted ways. “I need some time to think and get back to myself. I’ll be okay. Gino gave me some advice about what to do, and now I need to figure out the best way to go about following it through.”
“You know where I live. The invitation always stands, even if it’s in the middle of the night.”
The kind man I’d known from childhood still lived in Jerry’s heart. The years had changed his body, but it would never change his spirit. He was the support I needed, and although I deeply regretted I’d been forced back into Hickory Hills, Jerry lessened some of that regret.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” I promised. “Thank you for being honest with me. If there’s anything else you think of, even if it seems trivial, can you call to let me know?”
“Of course.” Jerry got up and showed me to the door. Before he opened it, he laid a reassuring hand on my back. “Everything is going to be okay, Clara. You’re a smart young woman who has the world at her disposal, even if the people here don’t believe it. You’re going to rise above this and come out on top. I know it.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, you’d better get going.” Jerry patted my back, then dropped his hand. He opened the door.
The smile he’d woken in me grew, and before it had even bloomed, I swept Jerry into my arms and hugged him. He hugged me back.
“Take care of yourself, Clara,” he whispered in my ear. “Be safe. Be smart.”
15
From Jerry’s tiny law office, I traveled directly to Chow’s, a family run greasy spoon, on the outskirts of Hickory Hills. My heart wanted to take me straight back to Amanda’s place, but my head told me that was a stupid idea. Leading trouble directly to James was the last thing I wanted to do. Besides, the thought of returning to the small house behind the McNair estate didn’t sit right with me—if anyone was looking for me, it would be the first place they’d check. Sitting at a restaurant booth wasn’t exactly laying low, but until I collected my thoughts and came up with a battle plan, it seemed like the smart thing to do was to stay somewhere public.
The parking lot outside of Chow’s wasn’t much of a parking lot at all. The lawn at its doors had been worn down by tire treads, leaving exposed dirt covered with a layer of fine, dried dust. Tufts of grass sprouted at random, despite the traffic that moved in and out of the area. Cars were lined up near the facade of the restaurant, but there were no designated spaces. People slotted in where they saw fit, and order was only enforced by conscientious drivers.
I parked off to the side a fair distance from the door. The walk wasn’t going to hurt. The summer sun meant scorching temperatures, but I’d lived in North Carolina for the first eighteen years of my life, and more recently in California. Hot wasn’t hot until I was dripping.
The door opened when I tugged on the handle, and a blast of air-conditioned air hit me like a wall of ice. I closed my eyes and stepped through the door, shivering. The smell of bacon overpowered the other meats on the grill. Lunch meant hamburgers and greasy chicken strips fresh from the deep fryer. Fat sizzled and hissed, joined by a dull but pleasant murmur of conversation from the restaurant’s patrons. Above it, was whatever country song played on the radio.
Chow’s always felt like home.
I chose to sit in a booth at the back of the restaurant, hoping to keep a low profile. As I passed other diners, they looked up from their meals or stopped their conversations. Set after set of eyes devoured me, and I did my best not to pay them any heed. I knew this would happen, but it didn’t make it any less miserable.
One day, I promised myself, they would know the truth.
I settled on the bench of the booth, the old, cracked vinyl groaning in protest as I sat. It squeaked beneath my thighs: the sound ripped straight from my childhood. I moved over until I was seated in the middle, then let out a sigh I’d been holding onto since my visit to Jerry’s office.
Blake Harwood was back, and he was after me in a way that had made a private investigator with no stake in my situation nervous enough that he’d put his life on the line to save me. My father wasn’t the man I’d thought he was. My mother had been planning a divorce, and my father knew about it. There may or may not have been dealings with disreputable individuals. There may or may not have been resentment toward my father from distributors he’d screwed over to try to keep McNair Furniture open.
Where was I supposed to start?
My idle hands grabbed the salt shaker, and I slid it palm to palm, watching the domed silver cap as it reflected light. Blake Harwood was the only piece I couldn’t explain. I didn’t remember very much from my childhood, but I knew Rachel Harwood had committed suicide, and he’d left town shortly after. There’d been no foul play, according to gossip at the time. As far as anyone could tell, Blake had packed his bags, drained his bank accounts, and fled in the middle of the night.
Grief, the housekeepers had all whispered, shaking their heads and talking behind their hands. I was nine at the time, Amanda just as young. While I lurked around the doorway and listened into their conversations, they’d talked liberally about Blake Harwood, and how he’d always felt grimy. It was the kind of dirty that couldn’t be cleaned, they’d said, laughing. The kind not even grief could scrub away.
Drugs. Alcohol. Sinful pleasures. With Amanda gone from the estate, I’d spent my days listening in on their conversations and learning everything I could. In the end, I only heard rumors. Blake Harwood was never seen again—his grief ate him whole.
But grief didn’t explain why he didn’t take Amanda along with him. She’d been forced to move in with her aunt. After all these years and despite my shoddy memory, I still recalled the anguish on her face and the times she’d cried on my shoulder.
Had Blake been spirited away like my parents, but pulled out of it somehow? Was he doing the bidding of a Hickory Hills serial killer in order to keep himself alive?
None of it was making sense, and the more I tried to fit the pieces together, the less satisfactory the final picture became.
There had to be something I was missing…
“Are you expecting anyone?”
I looked up from the salt shaker to find Detective Elkins leaning against the end of the bench. One arm curled over the top of the seat, his hip rested against the wooden frame, he looked more casual and approachable than I’d ever seen him.
“I’m not really in the habit of entertaining people who think I’m a criminal.” I placed the salt shaker back from where I’d plucked it, giving Detec
tive Elkins a hard look. “I came here to get something to eat. You can sit here if you want, but I’m not going to tolerate you digging into me. I’ve told you the truth, and no amount of pushing is going to make me invent a story just to placate you.”
Detective Elkins sat across from me, then scooted over so we were directly across from one another. “You know you’re not supposed to be leaving town, McNair. I can’t help but wonder what was so important it took you away from our sleepy little community.”
“I found out some troubling things,” I admitted. “Things I didn’t think could be true.”
“Things like?” Detective Elkins arched a brow. He kept his elbows on the table, plucking the salt shaker from the table to tip it side to side between his fingers.
I frowned. “Things about my father.”
The song on the radio cut away, leaving the DJ to speak. I couldn’t make out his words over the sizzle of the grill, but the timbre of the DJ’s voice was similar to every other male radio personality I’d ever listened to—deep, and rolling, and never uncertain. As the DJ spoke, Detective Elkins stretched his back and rolled his shoulders. His elbows left the tabletop, then touched back down.
“Things about your father?” he asked as if it were nothing. “What kinds of things?”
“About his affairs.” I looked away. “When you wouldn’t tell me who Gino Hunt was, I did some investigating on my own.”
“Ah. Taking the law into your own hands, I see.” Detective Elkins chuckled, his delivery dry. “You do understand information is kept private for a reason, don’t you, McNair? It’s not because we want to deceive you, or because it’s part of some big conspiracy. I know it must be tempting to think that way when you’re looking for a convenient escape from the dark truth deep in your soul, but that’s just not how it works.”
“I wish you had told me. I wish someone had.” Detective Elkins was not my friend, and he never would be, but he wasn’t my enemy. At least, not like Blake. “There’s so much about my parents I don’t know, and I had no idea I didn’t know it. It bothers me.”
