Reign of Error (The Worst Detective Ever Book 2)

by Christy Barritt

  I smoothed my hair back, feeling slightly self-conscious. I’d seen my reflection, and I looked hideous. Not even a high bun and some mouthwash had helped.

  “Thanks for showing up, Jackson.”

  “What happened, Joey? What’s going on?”

  I told him. His expression grew more and more stormy with each detail.

  “If I hadn’t shown up . . .” His jaw flexed, and he shook his head.

  I swallowed hard. “Believe me—I’ve thought about that too. I thought about a lot of things while I was in there.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, but the action felt heavy and uncertain. I’d had a little too much time to examine my life while I was locked up. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  He stepped back but looked unconvinced. “There’s a video playing downstairs on your TV. It’s looping over and over.”

  I froze, trying to comprehend that new fact. “What?”

  “A video of your challenge to whoever killed Max Anderson.”

  My face paled. “I see. I actually got an email of that video a couple of days ago.”

  Jackson’s face darkened. “You didn’t report it to the police?”

  “I figured you’d write it off.”

  He drew in a long, controlled breath before speaking. “Have I ever written off something you’ve said, Joey?”

  I kicked my foot at nothing. “Well, no.”

  “Then why would I now?”

  I shook my head, realizing I’d made yet another poor decision. They came naturally to me. “I don’t know. The throw down was my stupid mistake, so I figured I should pay the consequences of it.”

  “And now the person who killed Max Anderson has broken in and locked you in a closet. What if I hadn’t come by? How long would it have taken someone else to find you?”

  Tears pushed to my eyes again, and I looked away, desperately not wanting Jackson to see me like this. But it was too late. He reached for me and pulled me into a hug.

  “I’m glad you’re okay, Joey.”

  I wanted to melt in his arms, but it wasn’t that kind of hug. And as deep as my thoughts were at the moment, the superficial side of me also reared its head. Because I couldn’t help but wonder how I smelled.

  Which was so stupid.

  But I had been locked up all night.

  I pulled myself together and stepped back, determined to appear stronger than I actually felt. “Speaking of which, how did you get in?”

  Jackson’s stern gaze had morphed into something warmer, more compassionate. “I called your Realtor and asked for the key code. I came by to get you. You didn’t answer, and your car was out front. There are many things you’re not, but you’re usually pretty responsible.”

  “Thanks . . . I think.”

  “Listen, I’m going to send a team out to see if this man left any evidence.”

  “He didn’t. He wore gloves.” I’d tasted them. Smelled them. Felt them.

  “I’d still feel better if I got a team out here.”

  “I understand.” I smoothed my hair again, trying to focus my thoughts. “Jackson, I think that Max Anderson was killed because he took pictures of something he wasn’t supposed to see.”

  Jackson froze. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I think he took photos and captured something illegal on film. Something worth killing over. Maybe not even something in connection to me. I think those punks who’ve been breaking in all over town stole that camera, and the bad guys wanted it back because it had evidence on it.”

  He shook his head, nearly looking flabbergasted. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I saw Hal from Hal’s World selling it to a very suspicious woman dressed in combat gear.”

  “Wait. Start over, Joey.”

  So I did. I told him about my day and what I’d seen and what had happened and the notes my stalkers had left me.

  “You’re going to get yourself hurt, Joey. How many times do I have to say that?” Jackson asked.

  “I just wanted to take a boat ride. And I found the place my mother’s picture was taken. It just doesn’t make any sense why she’d be on a beach in the middle of nowhere.” I looked up at Jackson and rubbed my arms. “Can you confirm that anything I’ve said is accurate?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Your theory is right. We believe Max did see something he wasn’t supposed to see while in the process of watching you. We believe it got him killed. What we still don’t know is who killed him.”

  Well, at least I now knew motive and means. I just had to figure out who and what they had to do with my father.

  Then I had to figure out who my stalkers were who insisted on making my life miserable.

  Most of all, I needed to locate my dad. Slowly and surely, more and more clues were coming to light.

  “Do you want me to call Phoebe and let her know we can’t make it?”

  I thought about it a moment. Part of me wanted to stay here and investigate. The other part of me knew I needed to get out. Get away from this house and this craziness. Most of all, I knew if I stayed alone too long, I’d only end up beating myself up again and replaying all of the poor choices I’d made that had led me to this point. I couldn’t do that. Not now.

  “I still want to go,” I told Jackson.

  He stared at me another moment before nodding. “Okay. Let me just let her know that we’ll be running late.”

  Excitement pumped through my blood when Jackson and I took off down the road a few hours later. Not only was I excited to finally see Phoebe’s place, but the weather today had turned out to be perfect. Sixty-four degrees. In February. Never mind that last week had a high of only thirty-two. Apparently, the motto around here was that if you didn’t like the weather, wait a couple of days. It was proving to be true.

  Plus, doing this was the perfect distraction from what had happened. If I dwelled on last night too long, I might be tempted to run. To hide. To do anything other than try to find any more answers.

  Ripley hung his head from the backseat window. I gave him an affectionate rub and did some doggy talk before sliding onto the passenger seat. I noticed two cups of coffee waiting in the console.

  “You didn’t?” I said.

  “I did. Fresh and hot from Sunset.”

  “Maybe you do like me, just a little bit,” I teased.

  He said nothing, which was just as well. Leave it to me to be awkward.

  And leave it to Jackson to look fabulous wearing a deep-blue henley and ragged jeans. Simple but very effective in showing off his very defined arms and chest.

  Not that I’d noticed. Except that I had. And I wanted to keep noticing. But I forced my eyes away and picked up my coffee instead.

  We’d started down the road when Jackson said, “Tell me what your life was like as a famous actress in Hollywood, Joey.”

  His question took me by surprise, but we had at least thirty minutes to kill, so I did as he asked. I told him about celebrities I’d met, parties I’d attended, how grueling it could be to shoot a one-hour TV show with twenty-four episodes per year. By the time I finished that, we’d crossed over the Bonner Bridge, a structure that arched high above the water and gave a magnificent view of the area.

  But it was what came afterward that really took my breath away. Sand dunes on either side of me and water on either side of the sand dunes.

  “We’re driving on a sandbar, aren’t we?”

  Jackson chuckled. “Well, if we want to be scientific, this whole stretch of islands is just one big sandbar.”

  “That’s a little unnerving. Sandbars don’t last forever.”

  “Which is precisely why some people don’t want to move here. However, these sandbars have been here for centuries.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “The problem is that they naturally want to shift and move. When we build beaches and houses, we don’t allow for that to h
appen. So all of this is really just man versus nature. We’ll see who wins a hundred years from now.”

  “Fascinating.” Ripley nuzzled me before lying down. I reached my hand back to pet him, when my hand connected with some kind of paper. Before I could stop myself, I sneaked a peek at what it was.

  I let out a small gasp. It was the Instigator. The copy of me looking like a streetwalker.

  “Joey, I can explain—”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Before Jackson could, I glanced back and saw at least ten copies of the rag mag.

  “What . . .” I couldn’t even finish my question.

  “It’s not what it looks like. Not everything is what you assume it to be at first glance.”

  I swerved my gaze toward him. “Then what is this? Why would you buy all these copies? To humiliate me?”

  His jaw flexed. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I thought that article was disrespectful, and I knew it wouldn’t make much difference—not nationally, at least—but I figured if I bought all the copies at whatever store I was in at the time, at least that many people wouldn’t be seeing it.”

  My heart, which had felt tight, now melted in a pool of warm goo. “You did that for me?”

  He shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I just hate how newspapers like that twist the truth, you know? It should be illegal.”

  “But because I’m a celebrity, they can get away with it. Somehow that makes it okay.” I glanced down at my hands. “Thanks, Jackson.”

  “I’m sure you’d do it for me . . . if I was a famous TV star.”

  I glanced behind us and saw the same car there, a black sedan following a good twenty feet back.

  “There’s really nowhere for cars to go. No turnoffs. This is a straight stretch from here to Rodanthe,” Jackson said, as if reading my thoughts.

  “I guess I’m paranoid.”

  “You should be. Fame makes you a target, unfortunately. It’s better you’re paranoid than lackadaisical.”

  “Living paranoid isn’t a way to live.”

  “In your case, it might keep you alive though.”

  I pulled an arm across my chest, suddenly chilled. “That whole fan-club thing Adam told us about is weird.”

  “I have our cybercrime guy looking into it, if it makes you feel any better.”

  “I suppose it does. It’s just . . . so creepy.” I remained quiet a moment, contemplating my next words. I was going to share some information, I decided. And that was that. “I know that Douglas Murray is really a PI named Max Anderson. I’m pretty sure my father hired him.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You do your homework.”

  “Can you confirm that my father hired him? I’m sure you’ve looked into Max’s financial records.”

  Jackson didn’t say anything. I waited. And waited a little bit longer.

  Finally, he drew in a long breath. “I can tell you this. We found no records in his financials from your father. We were able to look on his calendar, and two weeks ago he had a meeting with someone with the initials LS.”

  “Lewis Schermerhorn.”

  “That’s what we think.”

  “My dad is involved in this somehow. He must have hired him to follow me. But why?”

  “We don’t know, Joey.”

  I had to wonder if that was the truth.

  Phoebe’s house was located on the sound and, like most houses in the area, it stood high on stilts. I was surprised at how large it was, considering she worked at a smoothie bar and walked dogs in the summer. It turned out she rented the first story of the place and oversaw things here while the owner left for the winter.

  Jackson kissed her cheeks as we walked in. “Good to see you, Phoebs.”

  “You too, Jax.” She smiled and gave me a quick hug. “I’m so glad you made it here. You’re going to love Hatteras Island and want to move here. I promise you.”

  “I thought I was already living in paradise.”

  “It’s really like the next step after paradise, especially in the summer when it gets super busy up on the northern beaches. It’s quieter down here.”

  “And more likely to be wiped off the face of the earth if a major hurricane ever hits the area,” Jackson said.

  “Minor details.” Phoebe slapped his arm. “Okay, enough of that talk. You’re going to mommick her.”

  “Mommick?”

  “Ignore her. She likes to talk like a High Tider.” He paused. “Or as it’s so often said, Hoi Toider.”

  “A High Tider? I’m so confused.”

  “Some of the natives here on the island talk with a slight, almost British accent. Some people call it Old English. It’s especially noticeable down in Ocracoke, but you can hear it here too. Don’t be deceived though. Phoebe is not a High Tider.”

  “But I think it would be fun to be one and have that cool accent.”

  “I love cool accents,” I added. “I used to always want to be British, just so I could sound sophisticated.”

  “You should talk Spielberg into doing a movie down here.”

  As if Spielberg listened to me. “You obviously didn’t hear about Tweet Gate.”

  “Tweet Gate?” she questioned.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  She threw her shoulders back. “Anyway . . . welcome to my home! I’m so glad you’re here. But before I try and be overly hospitable, Jackson, could you help me put a picture up? It’s a two-person job.”

  “No problem.”

  “Joey, make yourself at home. There are drinks in the fridge. We’ll be right back.”

  As they disappeared down the hallway, I lingered by the bookshelf in the living area. I stared at the pictures there. I knew I was being nosy, but I just couldn’t stop myself.

  Because there were pictures of Claire here. I stared at them.

  Claire looked exactly as I’d imagined. She was slender, blond, and beautiful, but not in an overblown way. In a very natural way. Her face and hair both looked sun kissed, and her smile was bright and easy.

  And there were pictures of her and Jackson here. A different Jackson though. A happy Jackson who had warmth radiating from his eyes. Who smiled. Who kissed his wife’s forehead as they sat on the beach, looking cozy and happy.

  Claire’s death had changed him, I realized. Death usually did that. I wasn’t surprised by that fact. I just hadn’t expected the difference to be so dramatic.

  When people like Claire suffered an untimely death, they tended to be immortalized as perfect. I’d seen it before. No one could ever live up to them.

  Not that Jackson was taking applications or that I was tempted to apply. But this was just one more reason why I had to keep my growing feelings for Jackson under control.

  I would never measure up.

  “All done! Okay, lunch is ready, and then we’re going paddle boarding,” Phoebe announced.

  I jumped away from the bookcase, afraid for a second that she’d been able to read my thoughts. I cleared my throat, keeping my gaze away from Jackson’s. “In February?”

  “Just don’t fall in the water, and you’ll be okay!”

  Comforting. Or not.

  Paddle boarding had been fun. Phoebe had even been brave enough to let Ripley sit on the edge of her board, and the two had formed quite a picture together. The sun had just begun to sink on the horizon as we wrapped up our time on the water. We returned to the house, where Phoebe had left some eastern North Carolina–style barbecue in the crockpot. Normally I wouldn’t eat pork, but this time I’d make an exception.

  In truthfulness, I made a lot of exceptions. Unfortunately.

  We ate and talked about life on the island and problems with beach erosion. Phoebe talked about some sea turtles that had been rescued from the sound recently. It was all nice. Casual. Normal.

  I didn’t realize how much I’d craved normal until now. Normal was good. Normal kept you grounded.

  After we finished eating, Ja
ckson’s phone rang, and he excused himself. I picked up my own phone to check my text messages. I’d missed a call from Rutherford. No surprise. My best friend, Starla, had also texted me. Then there was one from a number I didn’t recognize.

  It’s Shawn. I’ve been doing some research. Call me. You’ll want to know what I learned.

  Interesting. I’d given him my phone number before I left Sunset that day we met and asked him to let me know if he heard anything else. Apparently, he had.

  I texted him back, anxious to hear what he’d learned. Just as I finished, parts of Jackson’s conversation drifted over to me.

  “I understand,” he said. “I’ll send you the pictures from his condo. I took some of my own, just for reference. Okay, got it. Thanks.”

  He punched in a few things and then set his phone down as Ripley jumped in circles. Jackson grabbed his leash and spoke in soothing tones to the canine.

  “I’m going to take Ripley on a quick walk before we head back,” Jackson said. “You want to come?”

  I did want to. But I didn’t. “I’m going to help Phoebe clean up some.”

  “Got it. I’ll be back.”

  As he stepped out the door, I saw that he’d left his phone. I remembered the conversation. I’ll send you the pictures from his condo. I took some of my own, just for reference.

  My heart pounded erratically in my ears. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

  But he had photos from Douglas Murray’s/Max Anderson’s place. What if there was some kind of clue in those pictures? Something that would give me the answers I so desperately craved? Answers about my father.

  Phoebe was distracted with a phone call in the other room. Jackson was gone. And his phone was here on the TV stand, beckoning me.

  My hands shook as I picked it up. I glanced around one more time before hitting the button. The screen flashed on.

  I needed a code.

  My throat went dry. I’d seen him punch in some numbers earlier today. I hadn’t meant to watch so carefully. Not really. But I had. And I knew it.

  So I used it.

  A picture came up on the phone.

  It was a picture of a gold cross with a rose twisted around it. A chain was stretched through a loop on the top. A necklace. A broken necklace.