by Connor, Eden
Tinny sounds buzzed in Eric’s head. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lila unfold her hands. To Eric’s surprise, she laid one hand over his clenched fist. Her normally-slender fingers looked like sausages. Her palm felt hot, but her tone was cool. “He’s not finished, Eric. Mr. Hammond has plans to run for Congress next term. If he lets a professed member of the KKK get off with a three-year sentence for the death of a young mother who grew up in this community, he couldn't get elected to run a garbage truck. So let the man talk, because I doubt he’s gonna be the first lawyer in history with fewer than twenty words to say.”
Dan’s woman was all heart and smiles and honest passion. Eric adored Cynda. She wore her emotions right on her face. What you saw in her dark eyes was what you got, but Lila was a horse of a different color. Widow of a respected insurance agent and former daughter-in-law of a well-known Baptist minister, she’d seemingly shunned the social position and privilege of her past to be with Colton, but this wasn’t the first time Eric had seen her slip on her high-and-mighty act like an expensive fur coat. Whenever she did, she used words like ice picks and drove them into a person’s bones. Lila made Eric downright uncomfortable at times. Even the fact she wasn’t intimidated by this fancy room, or the powerful man at the head of the table, was part of why he wasn’t sure whether he even liked the woman having his brother’s baby.
At the moment, however, he wanted to hug her neck, because monotone-man began to turn red around his starched white collar. The rusty blotches crept up his neck and pooled on his gaunt cheekbones. The lawyer’s eyes locked on Lila’s blue ones. Neither blinked. Eric saw the corner of Lila’s lips turn up. She’s laughing at this guy?
Lila didn’t get it. She didn’t have the respectability of the Walkers backing her up here. The De Marcos were farmers and mechanics. To this stuffed suit, they probably weren’t much better than poor white trash. A generation ago, maybe they’d been more, before Eric’s birth. Before Cammie disa—was killed. But now, what’d once been the largest commercial peach farm in the state was just untended land. Eric wasn’t even registered to vote. For that matter, he hadn’t known this asshole’s job was an elected office.
“I’d like to charge him with second-degree murder”—Hammond broke Lila’s gaze, turning toward Cynda—“or a hate crime, but all I have to go on is what he confessed to. And that’s involuntary manslaughter.” He cut steely eyes back to Lila. “Without a witness or evidence to contradict his story, my hands are tied.”
Eric felt like someone let the air out of his spine. John Carpenter was going to do three-to-five and stroll out of prison a free man. Would the sonofabitch return to his farmhouse, practically in Eric’s back yard, and pretend nothing ever happened? After all, he’d done that for most of Eric’s life.
“That’s an interesting point.” Colton spoke. “Why would he confess? Why not wait and see if any evidence tied him to the crime?”
“Are you saying the crime lab has completed all its tests? There’s not one shred of forensic evidence to contradict Carpenter’s assertion Cammie fell and hit her head, as opposed to say, being knocked down and hit with a rock? Surely you aren’t closing the investigation?” Lila’s tone sounded like cracking ice.
Cynda’s soft voice was thick with tears. “I mean, the whole world’s watching. Took you twenty-seven years to find the body. No, you didn’t even do that, did you? We found her body. You can’t spend more than five months investigating the crime?”
Mr. Hammond flipped through the file on the table. “The police state there are no records available on the migrants. The ones they talked to at the time gave no home addresses. I’m forced to assume De Marco Farms used illegal immigrants to harvest their crops. Everyone we could find who was interviewed in 1984 was re-interviewed.” He leveled his gaze at Eric. “A lot of people who spoke to the police initially are now dead. Your grandmother. Both grandfathers.”
Eric felt the man’s censure like a punch to the gut. So now it was their fault the police couldn’t find evidence to use against Carpenter?
“It’s a hate crime!” Cynda insisted. Eric had the crazy thought that his brother’s tight hug pushed the tears off her chin. The drops splattered the table.
“I need evidence to prosecute him. He’s asked for a plea bargain and invoked his right to a speedy trial.”
“Maybe I need to return that call from Oprah.” Cynda’s chin trembled, but she held it high.
Eric wanted to crawl under the table. The farm used illegal immigrants?
The lawyer shifted in his chair and steepled his fingers. His silence made Eric’s chest fill with dread, making it hard to expand his lungs.
“What I’d like you to do is look for anything that would help us locate a witness. Do you have records on the farm workers? Pay stubs, perhaps? Anything we can use to identify the people who were around then who might’ve been overlooked? If you’ll do that, I’ll stall on this plea agreement for another thirty days. I want to lock this man up and throw away the key as much as you.”
Huh. Lila might be onto something with her election theory. Something had shifted this man off his high horse. Had to be the threat of negative publicity.
Still, it rankled to know he was expected to keep his damn mouth shut, but Lila and Cynda felt free to speak and Dan remained quiet.
Lila took her hand off Eric’s fist. “I certainly want the chance to tell Cammie’s grandchildren her murderer was punished to the fullest extent of the law. It’s a disgrace the police haven’t offered us much time to track these records down, but I’m delighted to hear your office will rectify that oversight.” She shoved her chair back. Colton jumped up to help her to her feet. Her baby bump rose over the table. Eric noticed the Hammond guy staring. He almost wished the lawyer would try and touch her tummy, for the fun of seeing her fillet his hand.
“Call my investigator with anything you find. Here’s his card. I’ll notify him to be expecting your call. Thank you all for coming.” The lawyer extended the card to Dan, who slid it into his shirt pocket.
Filing out the door, Eric could tell from the expression on his oldest brother’s face, there weren't any records on those migrants. All they’d done was buy Carpenter more jail time to count toward his prison sentence.
Illegal immigrants? Eric felt the acid slosh inside his stomach. The garage paid their employees a decent wage. Too late, he wondered if there’d been any law against working undocumented migrants in 1984. The lawyer followed them out of the conference room, but when Eric looked, he’d already disappeared.
He had to stab the elevator button three times to make the soft orange light come on. Cynda took charge, plucking the card from Dan’s pocket and sliding it into her purse. “We’ll take the farm apart if we have to. Starting with the attic at the farmhouse. Can all y’all come Saturday? I’ll be tied up with Grams’ cataract surgery till then. No, make it Sunday. They say she’ll be fine in three days.” Glaring at the elevator indicator, she grumbled. “C’mon, c’mon. Grams’ appointment’s in less than two hours. Now that I have her talked into this, I want to get her butt there before she changes her mind.”
In the back of his brain, Eric knew it was only a matter of time until he’d do something stupid. He pictured Amy’s face. Haven’t you already? He had no trouble imagining Lila’s cool tone when she found out Amy had moved in.
He was helping Amy, not hurting her. Their deal benefitted them both. He’d make sure of that. So why not tell them, while we’re all together?
He kept his trap shut because Amy belonged to the world Lila refused to let go of. Despite her lack of perfume and make-up, the short brunette reeked of middle-class respectability, while he smelled of grease. He didn’t need any sharp words from Lila to drive that point home.
Mr. Hammond’s condescending tone had done that well enough.
Chapter Eight
Amy filed out of the classroom beside one of the few guys in the class. “How’d your mock interview with Dr. Reston go?”
“I hope that bitch suffers in Hell,” he muttered, glancing back to be sure their professor wasn’t in earshot. “She threatened to run my resume through her shredder. I have to redo that. Marked fifteen points off my interview score because I didn’t get a haircut, and three more because she thought my damn tie was ‘too bright’. Another five because my pants were wrinkled.” He gave Amy a plaintive look. “Of course they were wrinkled. I had to sit down to fucking drive here for the interview.”
Clutching her books, Amy felt her heart drop. Her mock interview was scheduled for next Wednesday.
“Seriously, she’ll pick anything apart. I felt about three years old when I walked out of her office,” the guy stated.
“That sucks,” Amy sympathized. She and her classmate parted outside on the walkway. “Fine,” she grumbled at the sky, hiking across campus to her car. “I’ll go buy a fucking dress. And get a damn fifty dollar hair cut.” She pictured her mother waving pom-poms, and leaping into the air, wearing the white go-go boots Alice had treasured since high school.
Slinging her books into the passenger seat, she used her phone to check her bank balances. The wheelchair tournament paid officials in cash before each game. She dug out her copy of the schedule and counted the games she was scheduled to referee. Eight games meant she had no excuse not to buy a dress and heels before she went to talk to Eric’s cousin. It was only ten-thirty. She’d already planned to cut her class that started at three, so she could be at the tournament before it started. She had time and the money to run to the mall.
Tina...who? She tried to recall the name Eric mentioned.
Not that she was in the mood to see another of his drop-dead gorgeous ex-girlfriends, but the idea of letting someone else hunt through endless racks of dresses held some appeal. At least, if she had to do this, she could tell him to mark her rent paid. But just...fuck my life. Gall bladder surgery sounded like more fun.
Her mom would be glad to meet her at lunchtime, but she had no intention of trying on dresses only her grandmother could love, or the hippie-dippy things Alice liked. Finding shoes promised to bring more pain. Lila didn’t answer her phone. She didn’t know anyone else who might share the misery, not this time of day.
Growling aloud in annoyance, she drove to the mall and picked a space near the large department store anchoring one end of the mall. She scuffed her shoes along the pavement and blew her bangs out of her eyes. If Dee could cut her hair like that picture, she could kill two vampires with one trip, because coming back here wasn’t high on her list of things to do. Would that pay her rent for next month, too? Likely not, since Dee had already seen her with Eric. But she’d find a way to mention they’d moved in together, in case he was feeling generous.
Dodging the circle of picketers waving signs, Amy stepped through the doors.
Tina... Tina... Bridwell? Bridgewell? No, too many letters. To her relief, a lady working in the shoe department knew who she meant. “Her department’s just past the luggage, on your right. I saw her this morning, so she should be there. She’s wearing a lavender sweater.”
Wondering how the hell to drop the tidbit about living with Eric into a conversation with a stranger, she made her way through the store, hoping for a sudden attack of appendicitis.
Tina had green eyes and wore too much eye shadow for Amy’s taste, but the other woman nodded when she explained her problem. “Eric De Marco recommended I talk to you,” Amy added.
Lifting her brows, Tina gave her a questionnaire to fill out. Amy listed her sizes and anything else she knew the answer to, including the “wardrobe goals” section. Life goals she had by the bucketful. Her wardrobe goal was not wearing her lunch. She doubted that was what Tina expected to see on the form.
Tina then yanked on Amy’s shirt, urging her to turn in a circle. “Definitely a size twelve petite,” she announced in a piercing, size-two voice that made Amy want to slap her, “not a ten.” Her eyes narrowed and she lowered her gaze to Amy’s chest. “You do know a ten dollar bra is the ruination of a two hundred dollar dress, do you not?”
Every hair on the back of Amy’s neck was standing at attention. “Since I can’t afford a two hundred dollar dress, I think my bra’s just fine.”
Tina introduced her to a gray-haired lady with a tape measure draped around her neck. Pins bristled from a cushion strapped to her wrist. Tina ordered the seamstress to take a few measurements—mostly of her bust—asked what Amy’s budget was, and told her to come back in an hour.
Forty-five minutes later, Dee turned off the blow dryer. Before Amy could blink, the stylist covered her eyes with her palm. Coughing, she fought to get her hand from beneath the plastic cape, waving uselessly against a sudden fog of hairspray. At last, Dee spun the chair toward the mirror. Amy squinted, trying to see through the chemical stinging her eyes. When her vision finally cleared, her mouth fell open.
Running her fingers through her shorn locks, Amy marveled at the way Eric’s former girlfriend had turned her cowlick into an asset. The cut seemed to spiral around her head, in the direction dictated by the hated whorl.
“I don’t own a hairdryer,” was all she could think to say. The difference in her appearance was too enormous to absorb all at once. She kept staring, feeling light-headed, in every sense of the word.
“You can just wash it and let it air dry, if you like.” The beautician tugged the abbreviated bangs on Amy's forehead. “I wish I could see Eric’s face when he sees you.” Amy glanced at Dee. What a nice thing to say. Dee whisked the cape from around her shoulders. “She’s all yours, Dani.”
Amy exchanged her seat at Dee’s station for a stool in front of the makeup girl’s counter. She tried to memorize the way Dani made her eyes seem all smoky and her lips look like glazed berries, but she soon lost track of all the pots, potions, and pencils. Through the onrushing flurry of brushes and sponges, the only thing keeping her in the chair was the idea of not walking across the stage with her graduating class in May.
Right. This has nothing to do with the Eric experiment.
“Voila!” Dani finally cried, stepping back. Amy heaved a sigh of relief at having her personal space vacated.
“Eric’s flat-out gonna love the way you look,” Dee stated. “Amy’s seeing Eric De Marco,” she explained.
“Oh, I saw them together last night.” Dani nodded, cutting a glance at Amy. “You might as well know right now, the words ‘love’ and ‘Eric De Marco’ do not belong in the same sentence.”
Amy took a deep breath. She was no good at catty conversation. “He and I watched the snow fall from his hot tub last night.”
Dani rolled her eyes. “Hot tub, my ass. His idea of a hot tub is probably burning wood in a wheelbarrow parked in the middle of a blow-up kiddie pool.”
What a stuck-up bitch.
The redhead arched her brows. “Unless he’s spending that insurance money? My, what good timing you have, Amanda.”
Amy turned her attention back to the mirror so she didn’t poke Dani in the eye. With her foot.
To her amazement, her face appeared thinner. Who knew cheekbones could be painted on? They had to be, she decided, angling her head. She didn’t have cheekbones. She had detestable, apple-shaped appendages on her face, but there they were. Cheekbones. With hollows.
Running her tongue around inside her mouth, Amy checked to be sure this pair hadn’t drugged her somehow and pulled her back teeth. Stranger things had happened at the mall in the last twenty-four hours. She reached to touch those elegant bones, but Dani slapped her hand.
Her nose itched from the unaccustomed layer of goo, but a woman stared back at her from the glass, not a little girl.
Dani dismissed the subject of Eric with a wave of her fingers. “We do good work, Dee.”
“Thanks, Dani. I’ll think about which items I’d like to buy, but I have an appointment in just a few minutes.” Amy only felt a tiny bit bad about using the girl’s talent and supplies. Besides, it’d been Dani’s sarcastic off
er of a free makeover that gave her the idea. Well, that and the fact she didn’t own any makeup.
Dee moved behind her. “I always regretted Eric and I broke up. We dated toward the end of our senior year—ancient history,” the beautician confided with a laugh. She folded her arms, but not before Amy spied her wedding band.
“What happened?”
Deanne shrugged, unfolding her arms and plucking a few of the small bottles off the shelves around her station and slipping them into the pocket of her smock. “He got a job building engines for a NASCAR team when he was only seventeen, and he wasn’t the gopher, either. He’s too damn good to work in that garage, tuning up mini-vans. He worked his ass off to get accepted at Georgia Tech. When he decided not to go, we had a huge fight. I didn’t want him to quit dreaming. Never could figure out why he didn’t go to California with his sister.”
“Not everyone likes California. I love living right here. He probably does, too.” Amy felt the need to defend him while she trailed the other woman to the register. Dee rang up a ghastly amount. Her mouth fell open again.
“Wait, I haven't applied the Eric De Marco discount.” Dee chuckled and punched a few more keys. A much smaller amount appeared, to Amy’s relief. “I want him to be happy. I’m not sure he’s ever been happy.” The hairdresser accepted Amy’s money and gave her hand a squeeze. To her shock, Dee shoved some of the bottles into a bag, and pressed the samples into her hand. “He deserves that.”
How the hell did the man go from Dee to Dani? “Thank you so much. I appreciate you working me in.”
Tina towed Amy through a curtain the moment she returned to the department store, thrusting her into a dressing room. Her eyes narrowed again. “Your hair and makeup look good. Who cut your hair?”
“Deanne... um, Wilkerson?”
Tina’s lips twisted. “Another of Eric’s old girlfriends. Did he send you there, too?”
