by Elise Noble
She managed to make leaving for the city sound like a disease, something to be cured before the symptoms could take full effect. And since I went to high school with Randy Bose, I knew he was a nasty piece of work. Not a day had passed without him pulling a prank that crossed the boundary from funny to cruel.
“He’s not my type.”
“But, Pippi, you’ve never dated, so how would you know? Randy’s got lovely manners.”
That was Mom all over. She meant well, but her execution made me want to thunk my head on the table. The easiest thing to do in these situations was to change the subject and hope she forgot.
“These pancakes are delicious. Is it a new recipe?”
“Funny you should say that. Marnie at the diner was watching one of those cooking shows, and…”
Mom was off. I blocked out her chatter as best I could and concentrated on forking in my food. Only one question plagued my mind: what should I do now?
CHAPTER 6
“DO YOU USUALLY shampoo your hair once or twice?”
I’d run out of excuses and willpower, and Mom had taken it upon herself to speak to Darly. Monday to Friday, ten until four, I was the new shampoo girl. Of course, I didn’t only shampoo. I got to sweep up hair clippings, take bookings, and make the coffee as well. And gossip. I’d forgotten how much small-town ladies liked to gossip.
“Just the once, honey. But did ya hear about Bobby down at the feed store? He got seen in Hartfield last week with a girl who didn’t have his ring on her finger.”
Oh, the scandal. Three years ago, I’d have been as interested as every other visitor to the shampoo chair, but I’d seen more of life now, the bad and the good. Mostly bad, being honest, and that meant Bobby cheating on his girl no longer held the fascination it once might have.
But for the folks of Hartscross, set in their ways and loyal to home, the next town over, Hartfield, was a world away.
“No, I didn’t hear.”
“He took her to a restaurant. No shame. None at all. And foolin’ around while poor Betsy sat at home with their baby. Some men have no appreciation of a good woman.”
Now that she’d got started, she happily rambled on about people I knew vaguely and cared about even less. What were they saying about me behind my back? Poor little Stefanie, she tried to make it in the big city and couldn’t cope? Around here, people were sweet to your face then sour behind your back.
When I returned to Hartscross, I’d told Mom I felt homesick, and since she’d never understood why I wanted to leave in the first place, she’d taken it at face value. Chester knew something was up, though. Two days after I got home, he’d called me into the parlour while Mom baked cakes. The room always did have an air of loneliness. Mom insisted on having a formal room for the visitors she rarely got, and the family lived and ate in the kitchen with its old pine table and benches and squashy sofas, the air kept warm and fragrant by her constant cooking.
“Couldn’t help noticing you came back here a bit sudden, Stef.” His rich southern drawl sounded relaxed, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of his words.
I’d tried damn hard to lose my own accent while I was away, but every so often it popped out. Even though Virginia wasn’t exactly northern, they still talked mighty different up there.
“I got homesick. Who wouldn’t miss Mom’s cooking?”
He shook his head and dropped onto the uncomfortable sofa. Blue-and-white flowers covered the fabric, clashing with the drapes, the carpet, and everything else in the room.
“She might believe that, but a girl doesn’t turn her back on her home of three years then come crawling back to Hartscross because she misses her mom’s sweet potato pie.”
I couldn’t look at him. Instead, I headed for the window and stared out across the dusty yard. “I had a couple of problems.”
“What kind of problems? Man problems? Money problems? Trouble at school?”
Try all of the above. “Man problems.” Everything could be traced back to a man in one way or another.
“Do I need to do anything about him?”
Aw, Chester. I missed my real daddy, but in the years since he passed, Chester had made a reasonable replacement.
“No, it’s over. I just want to forget what happened, heal up, and carry on.”
He stood, walked over, and squeezed my shoulder. “Well, if that changes, you let me know.”
“It’s over,” I repeated. “It’s over.”
“Pippi!” Mom yelled up the stairs. I’d gotten used to hearing her every morning, only today she broke from the norm. “You’ve got mail.”
Great. That meant a credit card bill or a grumpy letter from the bank. They were the only two places I’d notified of my new address. And during my last few months in Richmond, I’d had to pay Chrissie’s share of the rent as well as my own, even for the weeks I wasn’t living there. My credit card hated me.
“Be down in a minute.”
“It looks important.”
Mom thought everything printed looked important. But today she was right. As soon as I flipped over the heavyweight cream envelope, I bit back a curse, because embossed on the back were the words “Rhodes, Holden and Maxwell.”
What the hell did he want?
Mom looked at me expectantly, her lacquered hair unmoving as she tilted her head to one side.
“It’s nothing. Just an old friend from Richmond. Probably catching me up on the news.” I stuffed the envelope into my pocket, nauseated at the thought of calling Oliver Rhodes a friend. “I’ll open it after breakfast. Did you make pancakes again?”
She took hold of my arm and led me to the kitchen. “Always do, Pippi. They’re your favourite.”
The letter burned away in my pocket through every mouthful, but I forced half of my food down, even though I’d lost my appetite.
“Not feeling so good?” Mom asked, gesturing at my leftovers. “I don’t want you wasting away.”
“I just have a bit of a headache. Best I rest for a minute before work.”
I headed for the stairs, slowly at first, then took the steps two at a time once I got out of sight, tearing at the envelope as I went. How dare he write to me here? This was supposed to be my safe place.
I slammed the door of my room, then muttered a silent apology to no one in particular for the noise, spread the letter out on my desk, and began to read. The page was typewritten and informed me that the commonwealth attorney’s office requested my presence as a prosecution witness. They’d helpfully put a number at the bottom for me to call and arrange an appointment.
Witness to what? I’d only been on the periphery of the mess, the murder case involving the high-profile music producer whose bed Chrissie’s body was found in. The detectives investigating the case had promised an easy win. Electronic evidence, they said. A confession on tape.
And it got worse.
Before I left Richmond, I’d watched TV and read the papers. Both were full of news about superstar defence attorney Oliver Rhodes switching sides to prosecute Chrissie’s killer. He’d done interviews, smooth-talking in his smart suit with his fan club hovering in the background. Go figure. What kind of lawyer had a freaking fan club?
Therefore, going back to the letter, the request came from Oliver, and it was bullshit. Men like Oliver didn’t request. They ordered, and I’d been on the receiving end of that once already.
He could go screw himself.
Days melded into one. I got up, I ate breakfast, I shampooed, I ate dinner, I slept. Life became a production line, devoid of any excitement or variety.
Until one day two weeks later when Darly scurried into the break room, eyes shining.
“Stef, there’s a man here to see you,” she hissed. “And he’s driving a fancy truck.”
My first thought was Oliver, but then I gave myself a mental kick. Oliver didn’t drive a truck. Oliver drove a big-ass Mercedes to go with his big-ass ego. So who the hell was it?
The stranger hovered near the d
oor, eyeing up the half-coiffed ladies with some trepidation.
“My name’s Barrett.”
He removed his cowboy hat and held out a hand for me to shake.
“Stefanie.”
“I know.”
Of course. Silly me.
“So who are you?” I closed the door behind me so we were both outside. No need for half of Hartscross to hear about my business. “Why are you here?”
Barrett shuffled from foot to foot. “Uh, I need to give you a message.”
“What is it?”
“Well, this is a little awkward.”
“Would you tell me already?”
“See, I’m supposed to give you two choices.”
I got a bad feeling about this. His words and his accent were Virginia all the way. I peered closer at his jacket, and the shield embroidered on the breast with its keyhole and its halo told me exactly where he’d come from. Blackwood Security.
“And what choices are they?”
“You can come back to Richmond with me, or you can wait for a subpoena via the sheriff’s office.”
“You mean I’m supposed to walk out of my job and get into your car, then travel across three states to a city where I no longer have a home, and all because your boss is an asshole?”
A glimmer of a smile flickered then disappeared. “That’s about it, yeah. Except there’s a plane waiting at the airport.”
Oh boy, they were really sure of this, weren’t they?
I snatched my phone from my pocket and thumbed through to the Os. Back in better times, Oliver had programmed his number into my contacts, and although I’d come close to deleting it a hundred times, I’d never quite brought myself to push the button. Now I hit dial.
One ring. Two.
“Oliver Rhodes.”
“You bastard.”
“Good morning to you too, Miss Amor.”
So formal. It was almost as if the night we spent together had never happened.
“How can you do this? All I wanted was a fresh start, and now you’re trying to drag me back again. What is this? Some sort of game?”
“As I wrote in the letter you decided to ignore, I need you as a witness.”
“Witness to what? So I nearly got run down by a car. I didn’t see who was driving it. And Carter confessed to Chrissie’s murder, anyway.”
A heavy sigh drifted along the line. “That’s not why I need you.”
“Then why?”
“Steffie, I’d rather do this in person.”
“Don’t you ‘Steffie’ me.”
“Fine. Miss Amor, I’d rather speak to you in person.”
“I don’t want to see you. And threatening to set the sheriff on me is a low blow.”
I closed my eyes as the words left my lips. I’d been the one getting the low blow last time, and it had nothing to do with a subpoena.
“So you insist on doing this the hard way?”
No, never again. “From my position, there’s no easy way.”
“In that case, I’ll be blunt. Carter killed other women as well as Christina. We’ve just found one body, and there will be more. The fun part is he’s going for an insanity defence. He claims that after having sex, he gets an uncontrollable urge to murder his partner, and as you’re the only living person I can find who’ll admit to sleeping with him, I need you on the stand to explain to the jury that he’s talking shit.”
I sat on the kerb, trying to process Oliver’s words. He wanted me to get up in front of a roomful of strangers and explain every painful detail of the night I spent with my best friend’s killer? The press was all over this case. What if the townsfolk in Hartscross found out? Or worse, my family? The phone slid from my grasp, and Barrett crouched down beside me.
“You okay?”
I glared at him. “Do I look okay?”
Oliver’s voice crackled out of the speaker. “Steffie?”
I snatched the phone up again. “I told you…”
“Miss Amor. I need you for the case. And whichever way we do this, you’ll be in Richmond on that stand, because Carter’s not getting away with what he did.”
“I hate you.”
Another sigh, this one longer. “I know, Steffie.”
CHAPTER 7
THE JOURNEY BACK to Richmond took the rest of the day. Darly was furious with me for leaving, and Mom ended up in tears, even though I promised to come back by the weekend. I wasn’t sure Mom totally believed my excuse about having to comfort a friend who’d just broken up with her boyfriend, either.
Chester stood with her on the front porch, looking unimpressed by my sudden announcement. Only Mason seemed ambivalent. He simply waved as he headed off up the street, no doubt going to visit Reggie and get into some sort of mischief.
Barrett did a reasonable job of playing my imaginary friend’s brother, then drove me to the airport, carried my hastily packed suitcase into the terminal, and waited until I got on the plane. Business class, no less. It was a whole world of difference to the bus ride I’d taken the last time I travelled from Hartscross to Richmond. On any other day, I’d have been impressed by the fancy seats, but today, as I lifted off into a life I longed to leave behind, anger clouded every thought.
And guilt.
Guilt because I’d referred my client to Chrissie and he’d ended up killing her.
And guilt because the night I realised, the night I should have been grieving for my friend, I ended up in bed with Oliver Rhodes instead.
I’d been fragile enough before I realised what I’d done with Carter. Two friends murdered would do that to any girl, and now that day, the day of disaster number four, was burned into my mind along with the worst of them.
My mind drifted back—what a way to find out I’d slept with a murderer.
I’d arrived at Riverley Hall, the luxury home belonging to one of Blackwood Security’s owners, during a discussion about the case. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Okay, I did, but nobody seemed to mind. Dan di Grassi, the lead investigator, was full of news as I’d listened in, curious and hopeful, desperate for justice. They’d identified a prime suspect. Then I’d recognised the description of the killer, and when she saw me standing there and showed me his photo, that confirmed everything.
First, I did the grown-up thing and fainted, and after I came around, I vomited everywhere. I’d been numb when Oliver wrapped me up in his arms and walked me to my room.
Until that point, he’d been nothing but nice to me. After disaster number three—Lyle—Oliver had lent me a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on, and I’d needed both.
I closed my eyes and burrowed into the plush airplane seat, first trying not to remember the way he’d touched me that night, then praying I’d never forget.
He’d been wearing a suit when I arrived at Riverley. In fact, I couldn’t remember seeing him in anything else. Except that night, he’d loosened the tie and his shirt had a few wrinkles.
“Elevator or stairs?” he’d asked, his voice low.
“Elevator.” My legs were shaking so much I’d never have made it up two flights of stairs alone.
I curled into him as the doors closed, relishing his warmth. My fingers had turned icy along with my heart. Pressed against Oliver’s chest, I felt his heartbeat, slow and steady, and it soothed me. As the elevator rose, he stroked my hair in the way my daddy used to when I was a little girl.
The room I’d been sleeping in came straight out of a fairy tale, complete with a four-poster canopy bed, only I was no princess. Oliver led me inside and lowered me onto the velvet couch in front of the window, then crouched next to me.
“What can I get you? Something to eat? Drink? I bet your mouth doesn’t taste good.”
I tried to speak but the words came out as a croak, so I swallowed and tried again. “A drink. Please.”
“Alcoholic?”
I nodded. If any night called for alcohol, that was the one. He came back five minutes later with a bottle of red, one of white, and a c
ouple of glasses.
“I don’t know what you usually drink.”
“Not much at all. Either’s fine.”
“Let’s try the red, then. This one’s a good vintage.”
To me, a good vintage was the one in the bargain bin, but I nodded and accepted a glass. Either my taste buds weren’t working or Oliver got it wrong, because the wine didn’t taste of anything. I knocked back half a glass and hiccupped.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Oliver asked.
“Not really.”
He laid a hand against my cheek. “You’re freezing.”
My teeth started chattering, and he shrugged out of his jacket and tucked it around me. It smelled of his cologne and more. Him. It smelled of him. Oliver had his own scent, a dark musk, and it only grew stronger when he got aroused. Now, on the airplane, I inhaled deeply as if I could still detect it, but all I got was the rich leather of the seats and a faint whiff of something floral. Air freshener, maybe?
But that fateful night, it was pure Oliver, and when I didn’t stop shivering, he added his arms into the mix, wrapping them around me and holding me close. I surrendered to the feeling because, for the first time in ages, I felt safe. And I thought he cared. Why would a man do that if he didn’t care?
“I slept with him,” I whispered. “The man who killed Chrissie.”
Oliver twirled a lock of my hair around his finger. “I heard that part downstairs.”
“I sent him to her. It should have been me who died.”
“It shouldn’t have been either of you.”
“But if… If I’d done the things he asked, she’d still be alive. How the hell do you get over that kind of guilt?”
Oliver closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then swirled his own wine in the glass and sipped. “I distract myself.”
Many times since that night, I’d wondered what he meant. What guilt did he need to distract himself from? But in the depths of my own sorrow, I hadn’t picked up on what he was telling me.
Instead, I simply asked, “How?”
Another sip and his eyes met mine. “Do you really want to know?”
