Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “Well now.” Paul smiled the smile she hoped she’d never see again. “That’s kind of abrupt. I’m not hearing any ‘Thank you, Paul,’ or ‘Good to see you, Paul.’”

  “It isn’t.” Sloane reached for Marty.

  “Not so fast.” Paul turned away; there was a backpack slung over his shoulder. “I think I should carry him inside. For safety. I know you don’t want anything bad to happen to your cat.”

  “Give Uncle Phillip some sugar, Angel. . . . Don’t tell your mom. Something bad could happen to your cat.”

  “Let me come in,” Paul said. “For a few minutes. That’s all. Then I’ll go. Promise.”

  Promise? Paul? Sloane wished she could laugh.

  “Five minutes,” she said, reminding herself that he was a liar, a player, and a cheat—and one of her biggest mistakes—but he’d never once been physically abusive or violent. On the other hand, this man was totally capable of taking her cat hostage. “Bring him in,” she instructed. “Then say what you came to say and go away.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Anything to please my lady.”

  Sloane turned and reached for the door handle before Paul’s smug smile could register a win.

  “This is a first,” Coop said, lifting a foil-wrapped chocolate from the dash of Micah’s SUV. His grin was as effective as an elbow jab. “And fancy. You don’t need to try so hard, buddy—I like you just fine.”

  “Very funny.” Micah shook his head, feeling his neck grow warm. He forced himself to concentrate on the traffic; if he started remembering the taste of those chocolates on Sloane’s lips, he’d wind up on someone’s bumper. As it was, he didn’t want to be here at all. But Coop had sent him an SOS text after his battery died in front of Fatburger, asking Micah to drive him to Pep Boys to get a new one. He gave his friend a sideways glance. “Almost as funny as a guy who limps along in a fifteen-year-old car and won’t spring for an auto club membership.”

  “Addicted to risk,” Coop slurred around a mouthful of chocolate. He flicked the rolled candy wrapper at Micah. “And you’re avoiding the real question.”

  “There was a question?”

  “Implied. Who’s the woman?”

  The incriminating warmth flared again. Along with a nudge of anger at Coop’s intrusion. Sloane had clearly been uncomfortable with her landlady and Rhodes seeing them together; she wouldn’t like him discussing her with Coop. But Micah didn’t like the idea of secrets. It felt too much like sliding backward to that lousy, lonely year.

  “Back-alley deal?” Coop joked.

  “No.” Micah shot him a look, a sudden image of Jane Doe making his tone sharper than he’d intended. “It was Sloane Ferrell.”

  “Seriously? The nurse with fire in her eyes?”

  Micah laughed. “That would be the one.”

  “So,” Paul said after Sloane had tucked Marty away in her bedroom. He’d set his backpack on her kitchen table, pulled up a chair. His green eyes flicked over her. “When did you start dressing like a nun?”

  She wasn’t going to answer him. Marty was safe. She’d cut the extorted five minutes to three, then toss him out. She wouldn’t deal with all that was Paul Stryker; it was too much like facing a row of fun-house mirrors. Everything changing, nothing real. Except physically he looked pretty much the same. Clean-cut, smoothly handsome, and cocky-confident, tanned from his months in Mexico and dressed, surprisingly, in casual business attire.

  “But you’re still gorgeous,” Paul added, his gaze lingering on her face in a way that made Sloane remember his touch. “Even with those plain-Jane clothes and . . . that scar there, by your eye. The accident, right? I heard it was a bad one. I was really worried about—”

  “Don’t,” Sloane warned, heat rushing to her face. Was he really going to pretend his dangerous associations hadn’t directly led to that horrible event? Self-serving con man. She should have called his bluff and never let him in here. Sloane crossed her arms. “Stop with the phony concern. You’re here because you want something.”

  “Ouch.” Paul tapped his fist to his chest, feigned a grimace. “You wound me.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Okay. I hear you. But please . . .” Paul held her gaze for a moment, his eyes softening. “Sit with me, Sloane. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “I don’t have any money, Paul. I know that’s why you’re here. But I don’t have any.” She almost smiled, remembering the rooster canister sitting empty exactly where his backpack lay now. “There’s nothing to get from me.”

  “You’re wrong, babe.” Paul reached for his backpack and slid it closer. “I’m here because I have something for you.”

  Sloane’s pulse quickened as he unzipped the pack. He’d never been dangerous . . .

  “Your favorite.” Paul grinned as he produced a large bottle from the pack. “Tequila. Not that cheap stuff, either. I had to fork over mucho bucks at customs for this. But you’re worth it.” He twisted the bottle to show the label. “Gran Patrón Platinum, top ten list. Get us some glasses, babe.”

  “No.”

  Paul cocked a brow. “Pigs must be flying. You’re saying no to tequila?”

  “I . . . I don’t want any.” The quaver in Sloane’s voice proved that, in less than five minutes, Paul Stryker had taught her how to lie again. She did want that tequila; she suddenly wanted anything, expensive or skid-row cheap, that promised to make all of this go away. “I quit drinking.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. “Well, well. Another step through the convent doors. Okay, your loss. But you don’t mind if I have a glass.”

  “I do.”

  He scraped his fingers through his hair, sighed. “Oh, boy.”

  “Get out of here,” Sloane told him. “I don’t want your tequila. I don’t want you here. Do you understand?”

  “Sure. I’ll leave. After I give you what I really came to give you.” Paul reached into the backpack again. “You’re going to want to sit down for this.”

  “I’m not buying the drama, Paul. I just want—”

  He set two hefty stacks of hundred-dollar bills on the table.

  Sloane sank onto the chair.

  His lips quirked. “I thought that might get your attention.”

  “What . . . ? How . . . ?”

  “Returns on a business investment. I haven’t been sitting on my rear end all these months, babe. I’m no Trump, but I’ve made enough to be comfortable.” Paul held her gaze. Then took a slow breath. “I want to pay you back. I know I can’t make up for the bad times between us, but at least I can give back what I took—and then some.” He thumbed a stack as if it were a blackjack deck. “Money for the ring I should have picked out and paid for. A bigger diamond because you deserved that. Enough to repay those credit cards I ran up. Cash to make up for the hit you took on the sale of your house and—”

  “Stop.” Sloane stared at the money, struggling to take it in.

  Paul laughed. “That look on your face. Makes it all worth it.” He held out one of the stacks, his eyes lighting. “Count it if you want. Toss it in the air. Roll in it. It’s all yours.”

  “I can’t,” Sloane rasped. “I can’t take that money.”

  “You can, babe. You need it. And I need you to take it.” Paul glanced at the tequila and sighed. “Man, I sure wish you’d change your mind about that drink. I make a much prettier speech when I’m buzzed.”

  Sloane almost smiled; she’d bet there was an AA slogan for that one.

  “I need you to forgive me.” Paul’s voice had gone earnest, soft. “I need to show you that I’m a different man now. A better man. I wouldn’t treat you the way I did before. I’d make you happy. Really take care of you this time.”

  “Paul, hold on . . .”

  “No,” he said, grasping her hand. She’d never seen him look so intense. “Listen, please. I’m putting money down on some beach property in Mexico. You’ll love it there, Sloane. You wouldn’t ever have to work again.” He smiled. “You could put one of those trop
ical flowers behind your ear and spend every day swimming in the ocean, lying in the sun, and getting an all-over tan. We’d get that scar taken care of too. It would be like all that stuff never happened.” He gave a small laugh. “Hey, I’ll bet the plastic surgeon could even add some enhancements if you want.”

  “Enough,” Sloane said, reeling with the absurdity of this conversation. She drew her hand back and stood up. “Take the tequila. Take the money. I don’t want it.”

  “C’mon, you can’t fool me. I saw that look in your eyes.”

  “I don’t want it,” Sloane repeated. “I don’t want you. The only thing I want is for you to go. And never come back.”

  She headed for the front door.

  Paul packed up his things in silence and met Sloane in the entryway. She didn’t look at him as she opened the door. He hefted the backpack and stepped onto the porch. The light switched on.

  “It won’t work,” Paul said, all gentleness gone from his eyes. “Here’s the deal: you can change your name and the way you dress, you can even play at being sober, but you’re still the same. Anybody who really looks will see that. You’re Sloane Wilder. A very beautiful, very naughty woman who never learned to draw the line. And never will. You’ll do it all again. Go after someone’s husband, get sloppy drunk, get yourself fired, and—”

  “Go away,” Sloane hissed. “If you come back, I swear I’ll call the police.”

  “The police?” Paul’s laugh was sharp as the glass that scarred her face. “Have them digging around in your past?” He smiled slowly, watching her reaction. “Strike a nerve?”

  “It was all you,” Sloane breathed, despite her rising anxiety. “Not me.”

  “Right. I forgot.” A sneer twisted his lips. “You’re just the innocent cereal tycoon.” He hiked the backpack over his shoulder. “Well, I can take a hint. Worth a try, but I’ve got a small fortune that needs enjoying. If you change your mind . . .”

  “I won’t.”

  Sloane slammed the door and locked it. Then crossed quickly to the living room to switch off the lamp and latch the window. She’d fix the screen in the morning. If she couldn’t do it herself, Celeste would probably have Jerry repair it.

  She thought of when Micah pulled into the driveway tonight, how Celeste and Jerry had been there. It was only minutes afterward that she’d discovered Marty missing. And then Paul came out of the shadows.

  She sank onto the couch and hugged a pillow, trying to get past the sense of invasion. Questions whirled. How long had he been out there? How did he find her address? Her phone number before that? And where did that money really come from? Paul had been up to his eyebrows in debt and then on the run in Mexico because he’d defaulted on those gambling loans. The calls she’d received from “business partners” trying to locate Paul had been more than frightening; she could only imagine what it had been like to feel the full brunt of their harassment. Paul had been living under that shadow for more than a year.

  But now he was back and flush with money from an “investment.” Confident, comfortable, and planning a future—with her? It was crazy, out of nowhere. And suspicious. Even if Paul had looked the part of a legitimate businessman, Sloane didn’t trust it. She was right to send him away and sever that connection. Be free of him finally.

  “The police . . . digging around in your past? Strike a nerve?”

  Sloane glanced toward the window, the broken screen. If Paul thought he’d scare her with that threat, he was dead wrong. She was safe now. And he was gone.

  “Ahh . . . hear that?” Coop closed the hood of his Honda with one hand, sparing the other for the order of chili cheese fat fries he’d begged off Micah when they returned to the fast-food parking lot. “She’s purring like a kitten.”

  “Considering your history with cat litter, you might want to avoid that comparison. Though with the oil spots you’ve left in my parking space, maybe it fits.”

  “Go ahead, disrespect my ride.” Coop patted the hood. “She’ll do till I’m rolling in the big bucks. I’ll buy myself a Tesla. Or maybe just hire a limo to take me from TV interview to TV interview.”

  “When you replace Anderson Cooper?”

  “Has a certain ring to it.” The reporter wiped chili from his chin. “Out with the old Cooper, in with the new?”

  “Maybe,” Micah conceded; he’d never doubt Coop’s willingness to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. “If audacity scores points.”

  “Great stories are the slam dunk, my friend,” Coop said. “And I’m all over that. In fact . . . What time is it?”

  Micah checked his phone, eager to get out of here. “Almost 10:00; why?”

  “Meeting my source.”

  “The woman from the prison? That’s getting to be a habit. Is this more than a work thing?”

  “Nah. She’s old. Like forty-five. And not my type at all. But . . .” He glanced toward Micah’s car. “Got any more of that fancy chocolate?”

  Micah stared at him. “Really?”

  “Hey, cut me some slack. I’m on to something big with this story. I haven’t been on my surfboard in weeks. But playing the angles is totally worth it. And it’s not like this is hurting anybody.”

  “There’s my boy.” Sloane chuckled as Marty reached up and batted at a shower-damp clump of her hair. The yellow eyes fixed on hers as he settled against her sleep shirt, his purr rumbling. She stroked his glossy fur. “You’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you? My handsome escape artist. Testing those nine lives.”

  It could have been far different, considering her cat’s history—he and his littermates shoved into a Save Mart bag and dumped off a pier. Their lives had been worth nothing to some heartless creep.

  Sloane winced, remembering the visits she’d made to see him at the animal shelter. Small, runny-eyed, with that weak little meow. His more colorfully marked littermates were adopted one by one, leaving Marty’s life ticking toward a kill date. Sloane had felt that way herself back then. Sad, angry, hopeless, scared of tomorrow. But all that was changing now. For Marty and for Sloane.

  Her phone buzzed on the arm of the sofa. She reached for it, battling a twinge of anxiety.

  Then she laughed aloud at the text’s photo. The Hollywood sign, lit up in full color.

  Micah’s message was short:

  You put the stars to shame. Red carpet AND galaxy. Thx.

  Sloane closed her eyes, letting the feeling wash over her. Sweet as those foil-wrapped chocolates.

  “You’re special, Sloane. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

  Paul was wrong. She wasn’t the same and she wouldn’t make those mistakes again. She was moving on with her life and becoming a new person. Tomorrow she’d start putting one more part of her old life to rest. With her visit to State Prison.

  23

  “IT’S COMING TOGETHER,” Sloane observed, stopping by the garden on the way to her car. She glanced at the redwood frames with tidy mitered corners and reinforcements. She gave the eager doxies, Gibbs and McGee, each a pat. Then met Jerry’s gaze. There was a fine sprinkle of sawdust on his cheek. Or maybe crumbs from his ever-present bag of chips. He’d kept his radio down low but was already at work when Sloane awakened. “You’re here early this morning, Jerry.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” A speck of cheesy orange dotted the handyman’s front tooth, settling Sloane’s speculation about the sprinkles on his face. “Ms. Albright wants to get a fall garden going. I told her I could put in some extra time. Saturdays, Sundays after church. And evenings, after my shift at the hospital.”

  Evenings like last night. Sloane itched to ask him if he’d seen a man hanging around the guest cottage. But that wasn’t a good idea.

  “Wife’s back in Florida for a while visiting her mom,” Jerry explained. “So I have the time.”

  “Ah.” Sloane recalled something Celeste had said. “You’re hoping to move your mother-in-law into the hospital’s senior housing facility.”

  “That’s right. And .
. .” Jerry hesitated. “I’m sort of working on an idea. About the new hospital wing. Something I think might be good.” He half shrugged and seemed to decide against saying more. “That’s me, I guess. Always thinking on projects.”

  “And helping people,” Sloane heard herself say. “That’s you too, Jerry.”

  “I try,” he said, modesty in his voice. He slid the pencil from behind his ear and reached for one of his several rulers before it became McGee’s chew toy. “Following the best I can after that other carpenter. Long time ago.”

  Sloane guessed he meant someone Celeste hired in the past.

  “Mighty big work boots to fill there,” Jerry added, then grinned. “I said something like that to little Piper and she set me straight right away. She said Jesus always wore sandals.”

  “That other carpenter.” “Ah.” Sloane had no problem imagining the little girl saying that. With the same confidence she had that her picture was on God’s fridge. It must be nice to be that certain about anything. Or that naive.

  “You’re going in to work?” Jerry asked.

  “No, I’m . . . I guess it’s more of a project I’ve been ‘thinking on.’”

  He nodded. “Helping folks. That’s you, too.”

  Sloane said good-bye and headed for her car. She wished she had even a small certainty that her morning’s “project” would help. She still planned to be at the parole hearing, but suddenly it seemed important to meet with her stepfather beforehand. Without the formality—and audience. At the very least, a face-to-face meeting with Bob Bullard would allow her to say, without necessary censorship, things she should have said long ago. The hearing would be the finale. Today was her star performance.

  “Fill me in?” Micah addressed the LAPD officer after taking a look around the vacant store being used as a safe area. Across the street, firefighters were still attempting to battle the motel blaze that had begun just before dawn. Even here, the air was acrid with the scents of smoke and burning plastic. “How many victims?”