Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “What else?” Her chin quivered.

  “The girl driving your car was badly injured and people blamed you.”

  Tears shimmered in Sloane’s eyes. He wished he could reach for her and tell her it was okay. But it wasn’t. How could he ever be okay with this?

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked, wiping at a tear before it could fall. “That it’s a lie? Well, I can’t. I was drunk that night. And too many nights to count before that.” Sloane hugged her arms around herself. “I got involved with a man who ended up putting me in more trouble than even I could imagine—and believe me, I’ve seen some trouble. I messed up. Really bad.”

  Micah tried to think of something to say, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Those people in San Diego,” she said, her voice thick with unshed tears, “can’t blame me any more than I blame myself. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been sober since they cut me free from that Jetta. That I’ve dragged myself to meetings for more than six months, stacking up those AA chips like . . .” Her voice broke. “Like pennies from heaven. It still doesn’t change who I am. Does it?” Sloane met Micah’s gaze, tears streaming down her face. “Does it?”

  “Sloane . . .” His heart ached. Why couldn’t he do this? Why was it so impossible? “I need time to think. It’s a lot to take in. It’s—”

  “Like Stephen.”

  Her words kicked him in the gut.

  “I’m no different than the drunk who killed your cousin. Say it, Micah.”

  “I . . . can’t.”

  “Then deny it.” Her voice was a raw whisper, her eyes riveted to his. “You can’t do that either, can you?”

  The answer wouldn’t come.

  “I’m going,” Sloane said, rising to her feet.

  Micah let her go, walk out his door. It made him feel worse than anything had in his life. Since Stephen.

  How Sloane got back to the cottage, she didn’t know; she didn’t remember a single traffic light or turn. She only knew she couldn’t look into Micah’s eyes for a moment longer. It was too much like looking in the mirror.

  “We see our scars and our flaws . . . God sees the child he’s always loved.”

  She’d been foolish enough to hope it might be true. Today proved it wasn’t.

  Micah knew about Paul. Not all of it, but enough. He knew about her connection to that horrible crime syndicate—not all of that either. She groaned aloud as she stood in her kitchen, thinking how ironic it was that Micah had learned so much about the surreal drama of her past, but it was her drinking that hit him the hardest. Ironic, because it was the one thing she was free of. Paul had intruded into her life, grotesque and ranting, only last night. The mobsters were here, hunting for him. But the alcohol, her all-destructive thirst, was no longer a part of her life.

  “I need time to think. It’s a lot to take in.”

  Micah wasn’t going to take it at all. He’d given it enough thought to cancel their plans for today and avoid her attempts to contact him. He’d already decided she wasn’t worth his time, certainly not his “love.” Sloane plucked the florist envelope from the rose bouquet and dropped it into the waste can under the sink. She couldn’t bring herself to throw out the flowers. At least not yet. Right now all she wanted to do was curl up on the couch with Marty. . . .

  She was awakened by the sound of her phone ringing on the coffee table and glanced toward the window before picking it up. It was dark outside. She retrieved her phone and saw it was Harper calling. Not Micah.

  “Hey,” she said, sitting upright and stretching her neck. “What’s up?”

  “Apparently you—over a cliff,” Harper said. “Chased by Russians?”

  Sloane wished she could laugh; it sounded too much like a Road Runner cartoon.

  “It’s totally crazy,” the nurse continued. “You had to change your name and everything? Is it true?”

  Who’d spread it around? Hospital admin? Micah?

  Sloane’s stomach sank. She was still on probation.

  “What are people saying?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded casual.

  “Just what I said. The people who saw the Times article and think maybe it’s you. A lot of folks don’t. About fifty-fifty, I’d say. Someone said Cooper Vance was hanging around, asking questions.”

  Sloane squeezed her eyes shut. Coop. She should’ve known.

  “Your hiring records are private, of course,” Harper added.

  Right. Privacy.

  “So . . . ,” Harper said. “Is it true?”

  “Partly.” Sloane took a breath. “I did recently change my name. I had a very bad car accident in San Diego. But I’m not being chased by mobsters.” They’re chasing Paul.

  “Oh, good.” Harper’s breath escaped in a whoosh. “I didn’t want to believe the mafia part. These local guys are so scary. Ruthless. We’ve got like eight police officers guarding the SICU and the hospital entrances tonight. Because of Oksana.”

  “Oksana?”

  “Jane Doe. Her real first name is Oksana.” Harper sighed. “It’s Ukrainian. Which is close enough to Russian for me, thank you.”

  “She can’t be talking—speaking,” Sloane said, cringing at an image of the girl’s horrific wound. The damage to her larynx could be permanent.

  “She’s writing. Or that’s what they’re saying. The FBI was up there most of the day. There’s supposed to be a dual press conference tonight. The information from Oksana and a statement regarding the identities of the girls killed in the fire.”

  Sloane squeezed her eyes shut. Zoey?

  “Anyway,” Harper said, her voice warm, “if word gets out and you get pestered by the media, or you want to get away or talk, anything, I’m home. You’re always welcome to come here. But then you’re probably seeing Micah.”

  “No.” Sloane glanced at the once-hopeful roses. “He’s with the crisis team tonight.”

  “Well then, call me if you want to get together.”

  “Sure.”

  They said good-bye and disconnected. Then Sloane heard her stomach rumble and went to check the fridge. Nothing much there except a carton of milk. She’d planned on being out tonight. No fresh food, but there was always . . .

  She opened the pantry doors and glanced down at the shipping cartons from General Mills. She’d forgotten to put the newest box—the faded one—on the bottom of the stack to keep the expiration dates in line. But then again, nothing else in her life was in line either. She stooped down to open the new carton, then caught sight of the cereal box she’d opened for Piper. Lucky Charms, of course.

  Sloane poured the cereal into a rooster bowl and carefully picked out all the marshmallows. Then added milk and reached for her spoon.

  “This is what you won, baby. For your whole life—that’s quite a net worth.”

  32

  “I SAW YOUR LIGHTS,” Celeste explained, “and thought maybe your plans had changed. If you’re free after all, you’re still welcome to join us. We probably won’t sit down to the table for another twenty minutes or so. Jerry’s wife, Ann, is here too—she’s really a delight. Piper asked them to bring Gibbs and McGee.” She caught her breath, laughed. “So the more the merrier. We’d love to have you.”

  “That’s nice.” Sloane made herself smile. “But I really have to pass this time. There are some things I need to take care of.”

  “I understand. No problem.”

  “Thank you, though,” Sloane told her, guilt jabbing as she remembered her landlady’s worried expression this morning. The concern that she’d seen Paul. Sloane was glad Celeste hadn’t asked directly if she knew him. It was true she hadn’t seen his car near the house, so . . . I told a half-lie. Somehow that didn’t help the way she felt.

  Sloane told Celeste to give them all her best, then walked back to the living room, battling her own nagging worries. Micah had never said whether Coop revealed her name and her whereabouts to the authorities; she’d been half-expecting a squad car to pull into the driveway since
her arrival home.

  “We’ve got like eight police officers guarding the SICU and the hospital entrances tonight.”

  Mercifully, it seemed law enforcement was busy with bigger problems than Sloane Wilder Ferrell. They were expecting serious blowback from the press conference and were preparing for it. To the point of having the crisis responders on call. An official notification of death would be made to the families of the motel fire victims prior to the conference, but the news would undoubtedly have a ripple effect on many other people. A tragedy, especially such a gruesome one, always had unexpected effects.

  Sloane glanced toward her muted TV. They were already showing clips of the media gathering for the press conference, interspersed with several shots of Los Angeles Hope. Fiona was there. Alone. Interesting, and telling, that Micah chose to be with the crisis team instead. To support the survivors.

  She hugged her arms around herself; she should turn the TV off. She’d hear the news tomorrow—from Harper, if not Celeste first—revealing the victims’ names. The press conference would be a sickening finish to this regrettable day. If what Sloane feared about one of those dental records was true, she’d feel like a survivor too.

  She turned at the sound of insistent knocking on her front door.

  “Sloane! Let me in. Please.”

  Who . . . ?

  She walked to the foyer, opened the door, and stared, mouth gaping. The pink hair was gone—dyed raven dark now—as was the brow ring, but it was the same battered newsboy cap, the same blue eyes.

  “Can I come in?” Zoey asked, pulling up the collar of her denim jacket. She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I know I’m the last person you’d want here, but I had to see you.”

  “Yes . . . here.” Sloane stepped back to let Zoey inside. Relief flooded through her, a thousand dollars’ worth.

  “Thanks. And,” Zoey said, glancing back at the door, “maybe lock it?”

  “Of course,” Sloane assured. There was fear in the girl’s eyes.

  Zoey jammed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans, looking around like she was refreshing her memory of the place. “I guess you notice I’m not in Bakersfield.”

  I thought you were on a medical examiner’s table.

  “Want some coffee? Something to eat?” Sloane asked, then frowned. “Except all I have is cereal.”

  Zoey went so pale, so fast, that Sloane grabbed hold of her arm. “Hey, come sit down. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I . . .”

  The girl was shivering as Sloane eased her onto the couch. Marty jumped up beside them and Zoey tried to smile. “Hey, little buddy.”

  Sloane draped a throw blanket around the girl’s shoulders.

  “I have to tell you something,” Zoey said, the pallor still there. She licked her lips and uttered a small moan. “Everything’s so messed up.”

  “I messed up. Really bad.” Sloane’s words to Micah only hours ago. There was no way she’d judge this girl.

  “If it’s about the money you took . . . ,” Sloane began gently.

  “It’s not.” Zoey’s teeth sank into her lower lip. “I’m sorry about that. And for grabbing those things from the hospital. But it’s worse now. Way worse.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “That day in the hospital parking lot wasn’t real.” She nodded at the look on Sloane’s face. “I faked that whole bit. To get you out there and . . . to get myself here, I guess. At least it worked out that way.”

  “I don’t understand. So you could steal from me?”

  “I did what I was told.” Zoey pulled her cap off, began picking at the stitching. “That’s how we work things.”

  “We?”

  “Me and the guy I hooked up with. A sort of business deal after he saved my skin.” Zoey flinched. “More than my skin. I’d run away from home for this modeling job, but . . .” Her eyes filled with tears. “That girl with her throat cut? She’s a friend of mine. And the others who burned up in the fire.”

  Sloane winced.

  “Anyway, this dude and I ran cons, I guess you’d say,” Zoey continued. “Stack was always—”

  “Stack?”

  “The guy I was working with. That’s his name. He was always saying it was temporary, ‘chump change,’ he called it, to tide him over until his big payoff came in. Something he’d been waiting for. For a while, I guess. Before me, anyway.” She picked at the cap, her expression anxious again. “He said just one more job and that would be it, and he’d give me some money if I wanted to go home. But I guess some stuff happened that messed with the timing. And then it all went really bad, really fast.”

  “You got caught?”

  “Stack did—beat to a pulp.” Her pupils went wide. “I thought he might die.”

  Sloane fought a wave of uneasiness. “When was this?”

  “Yesterday afternoon sometime. Stack looked freaked out. He gave me a wad of money. Said catch a bus, hitch a ride—disappear.”

  “If you’re still as smart as you were, you’ll join my vanishing act . . .”

  Sloane tried to tell herself there must be thousands of con men in LA, that violence happened every hour of every day.

  “I guess he knew you . . . from before, somewhere,” Zoey said, her tear-smudged eyes on Sloane’s. “He set up the con at the hospital so he could be sure it was you. You looked different, he said. I was supposed to find out your name and anything else I could. We’d been watching for a couple of days, waiting. Stack said if we played it right, you’d run to help me. Because you were that kind of person.” Her voice choked. “You were, you are. Helping me like you did. He was right.”

  Sloane’s mind staggered; she couldn’t find words.

  “Things got messed up and I couldn’t get ahold of Stack that night, so I hung around the hospital construction site till the next day. Then you took me home. I got your phone number off Marty’s tag,” Zoey added. “I had your address. I ended up giving Stack more than he asked for.” She frowned. “All those months, and I never even knew his whole name.”

  “It’s Stryker,” Sloane said, her voice sounding like it was echoing up from the bottom of a well. “Paul Stryker.”

  “Well, there you go. Anyway, I’m sorry,” Zoey repeated. “About everything. I feel so bad. I wish I could do it all over.”

  “He’s gone.” Sloane grasped the girl’s trembling hands. “Paul’s gone. It’s going to be okay. I’ll help you get home. There’s nothing more to worry about.”

  “But there is,” Zoey insisted, the awful fear back in her eyes. “That’s why I’m here. Because in that last job, we—”

  There was a noise somewhere outside, thunderously loud.

  Sloane yanked back the curtain. Gasped. “My landlady’s house is on fire!”

  33

  “CALL 911,” SLOANE ORDERED. When she saw Zoey’s hesitation, she pulled out her own phone and heaved it toward her. “Use mine. I need to get over there.” She fumbled with the door lock. “Make that call!”

  Sloane took off running, inhaling smoke the moment she left the porch. She sprinted across the strip of lawn between the two houses, nearly falling over the garden boxes. Her gaze was riveted on the blaze. Back of the house, it looked like, and flames were already licking toward the roof, orange sparks shooting into the dark sky. The front door was still closed. Oh, please . . .

  Neighbors were coming from everywhere.

  “Is Celeste in there?” someone shouted as Sloane came to a breathless halt on the front lawn.

  “Did anyone call 911?”

  “Grab a hose!”

  “Let’s get that door open, guys!”

  Sloane started for the front door with the others, heard sirens, and then spotted Celeste and another woman emerging from the side door of the garage. Jerry was behind them, with—oh, thank goodness—Piper in his arms. The child seemed to be crying but basically unharmed.

  “We’re okay,” Celeste huffed as Sloane reached them. She was flush
ed, perspiring, breathless. “We were all in the dining room . . . except Piper. She was changing into her costume in my bedroom when we heard this sound like breaking glass. Then this awful explosion and—”

  “Gotta go back in,” Jerry interrupted, easing Piper to the lawn next to his wife. His face was soot-smudged, his jaw rigid with determination. “Got to find Gibbs and McGee. Stay put, hear?” He gave his wife’s arm a quick squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait . . . Jerry . . .”

  “Gotta go.”

  He took off running toward the house, not leaving a chance for anyone to talk him out of it.

  “They were with me,” Piper shouted after him, hands cupped around her mouth. “Grandma’s bedroom!”

  Celeste gathered her close and grasped Ann’s hand as well. Then whispered a prayer.

  Sloane performed a quick check on Piper, on all of them as best she could, considering that dozens of neighbors were crowding in. The first fire truck had just arrived, siren wailing. The two women were coughing some and anxious about Jerry but seemed okay. Piper chattered nonstop without sign of respiratory distress. The medics would be here soon.

  “Oh, thank you, Lord!” Celeste uttered as they caught sight of Jerry again. Charging like a running back headed for the goal line—one wriggling, long-haired dachshund under each arm.

  “Safe and sound,” he puffed, his familiar grin breaking through.

  The firefighters moved everybody farther back and Sloane lost sight of her landlady and guests. But Zoey was there now. Standing in the shadows near the garden boxes.

  “Here,” she said as Sloane joined her. “Your phone.”

  “Thanks—and thanks for calling.”

  “No problem. But what happened?” she asked, her voice anxious as a second fire rig arrived. “A grease fire?”

  “It started in the guest room, they think.” Sloane took a breath, willing her pulse to normalize. “My landlady said she thought she heard broken glass and then some kind of explosion.”