Second Chances (Nugget Romance 3)

by Stacy Finz

  “It was a milestone, Colin. What you did took guts.”

  “Yeah, I’m not really into talking about it, but I feel shitty about how we left things.”

  You mean when I told you that I loved you, and you said . . . uh, nothing?

  “You were disappointed,” Harlee told him, knowing disappointment was a mild way to describe it. “Look, I know you think you had a climbing-the-walls freak-out. But the strides you made tonight were huge, Colin. I’m serious, you’re on your way to kicking—”

  “Not tonight, Harlee. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she reluctantly agreed.

  “Thank you,” he said. “And Harlee?” Long pause. Then his voice went low and raspy. “I’m really sorry I ruined our first real date.”

  “We’ve had lots of real dates, Colin. We don’t need restaurants to make them real. You do get that, right?”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he said, avoidance being his middle name. “I’ve got to get up early, so I’m turning in. Goodnight, Harlee. I . . . I . . . look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  “’Night, Colin.” She thought that maybe he’d been about to say those three little words and felt a little more optimistic than she had an hour ago. She stuck the phone on its charger stand and got ready for bed.

  The next morning, she noodled around on the Internet, first sending Bix information about Nervino Airport, a small runway just a few miles from Nugget. Then she ran a partial background check she’d been hired to do.

  She was about to make herself some lunch when she decided to research Colin’s tattoo. The five-dot geometric symbol intrigued her, mostly because Colin had been so resistant to talking about it. Maybe the quincunx represented a lost lover he didn’t want her to know about. Or maybe it stood for a religion that he no longer believed in.

  She punched in a few search terms and pages upon pages came up. According to the World Wide Web, the ancient pattern represented everything from fertility to close friendship. Crazy enough, even Thomas Edison had had one tattooed on his forearm.

  But what made the hairs on the back of Harlee’s neck stand up was that lots of inmates wore the tattoo to represent time in prison.

  The outer four dots denoted the prison walls and the inner dot symbolized the prisoner. Years of honing a sixth sense as a reporter told Harlee that she was on to something.

  And then suddenly she knew.

  As fast as her fingers could move she began scrolling through databases, starting with Los Angeles County Superior Court criminal records. Colin Burke was a fairly common name, but from her time working on his furniture books while he’d been sick, she’d memorized his social security number. Pages and pages of court transcripts came up. By the time Harlee finished reading them all, she’d gone through an entire box of tissues. Nearly a third of his life had been spent in prison for a liquor store robbery in which three people were killed.

  Colin, how could you have kept this from me?

  When she finished with the court records, she Googled every newspaper article she could get her hands on. And there were plenty. Although Colin had been a minor during the shootings, he’d been tried as an adult. And the media had had a field day.

  Reading the articles gave her perspective, but in no way allowed her to understand how he could’ve deceived her.

  She grabbed her jacket, purse, and keys and headed for the only person who could help her make sense of this horrible revelation.

  By the time she sat in Rhys Shepard’s office, Harlee was pretty sure she’d gone into shock. She couldn’t even remember making the drive, her head too filled with the stories she’d read about Colin.

  “You talk to Bix? What did he have to say?” Rhys asked, his feet propped up on the big oak desk.

  “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “Harlee?” Rhys sat up straight and assessed her. “You’re not talking about Bix, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. I just got done reading the transcripts from Colin’s triple-murder trial.”

  Rhys sat quiet, contemplating. “This is something you ought to talk to Colin about, Harlee. Not me.”

  “I would’ve, if he’d told me. But he didn’t. Not one word. But you knew. Police chiefs know their resident parolees, don’t they?” It was a rhetorical question. Of course he’d known.

  Rhys let out a breath. “Talk to Colin, Harlee.”

  “Do you believe his defense . . . that he didn’t know? That he was merely the unwitting driver?”

  “You know him better than I do, Harlee. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Three people . . . dead . . . a baby, for God’s sake . . . all because two rich boys wanted beer without having to pay for it. Three, if you count Colin.”

  “Are you counting Colin?” Rhys cocked his head to the side.

  “A jury did.”

  “Juries are sometimes wrong—unless you believe O. J. Simpson was innocent,” Rhys challenged. “No one ever accused Colin of being inside that liquor store or pulling the trigger on that poor family. But under California’s felony murder law he was held accountable for driving the car.”

  “Because the prosecution said Colin was part of the plot to hold up the store,” she said, trying to keep from getting hysterical.

  “Harlee?” Rhys said. “I’m asking you again. Knowing what you know about Colin, do you think he was in on the robbery or that he conspired to kill the bodega owner and his family?”

  “No,” she said softly, embarrassed that tears had started trickling down her face, but powerless to stop them. “I think he was the awful casualty of politics. A drunken boy, hoodwinked by his so-called friends into believing that he was going on an ordinary beer run, only to be caught up in what was to become a major murder case. Jeez, the case had as many racial overtones as Rodney King’s.”

  Harlee had read how the owner of the liquor store was a revered leader in the black community. The killers, spoiled Hollywood brats.

  “What I think,” Rhys said, “is that the justice system needed to make examples of these kids and that Colin was doomed before he ever walked into the courtroom.”

  Harlee agreed. It was a travesty for Colin, for his family, and for the family that had died. At least the two boys, the shooters, had gotten life in prison without the possibility of parole. But how could Colin have lied to her? She was angry with him, but even angrier with herself. She’d let herself believe that he was honorable, so much better than the cheaters and deceivers that she investigated every day.

  “Harlee,” Rhys said, reading her face as easily as a newspaper, “give Colin a chance to explain.”

  “Do other people know?” Translation: Was she the last one in Nugget to know that Colin was an ex-con?

  “I don’t know what other people know.”

  “Does Maddy know?” Harlee asked a little more forcefully than she had meant to, but he was purposely being elusive.

  “No. I don’t think she does.” Which more than likely meant that it wasn’t common knowledge. But this was Nugget, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. “What I do know is that people here admire and trust Colin. I don’t think this would change their opinion. But clearly”—he looked at her pointedly—“this is very private to him.”

  What, did he think she’d sell the story to the Nugget Tribune? She loved the man. “It shouldn’t have been private to me.”

  “That’s between you two,” he said, but not unkindly. “All I’m saying, Harlee, is you can see why something like this would be a man’s deepest and darkest secret.”

  Well, she uncovered secrets for a living. Apparently, she wasn’t as good at it as she had thought. “Thank you, Chief, for taking the time.”

  He stood up, walked around the desk, and gave her an awkward pat.

  Three hours later, she found Colin in his wood shop. Harlee found it appropriate that he had Lucinda Williams’s “Ugly Truth” playing on his iPod. He turned it off when he saw her come in.

  �
�Hey, I’ve been looking for you.” He regarded her tearstained face, puffy from crying. “What’s wrong?”

  “I know, Colin.”

  He stood there for a few seconds, weighing what she’d just said, then closed his eyes, resigned. “A dozen times I wanted to tell you.”

  “And a dozen times you didn’t.”

  “No,” he said in a voice so low Harlee could barely hear him. “I should have, but I knew I’d lose you. And I wanted you more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. More than freedom from that goddamned cage I lived in. More than—”

  “Stop!” She held up her hand. “Just stop. You lied, Colin. I trusted you and you lied.”

  He staggered back a little. “I kept it from you, Harlee. But I didn’t lie.”

  “And you think there’s a difference?” she shouted. “Do you know how stupid I feel? You were convicted of murdering three people, Colin. Don’t you think I deserved to know that before you let me fall in love with you?”

  “God, Harlee. . . . Oh Jesus.” He leaned against the wall like he needed it to hold him up. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, if I had known what they had planned . . . It wasn’t until they got back in the car, their clothes covered in blood. You’ve got to believe me, Harlee . . . I didn’t know.”

  “I believe you.” She started to cry, for him, for her, for a situation that was more tragic than any story she’d ever written. “I read the transcripts and the news accounts, Colin.”

  He slid down the wall and sat on the cold concrete floor. “The kid was only two,” Colin said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Skip shot him because he was crying. That’s what Ari told the police, trying to get himself a deal. Who knows what really happened. But the bullet matched the gun with Skip’s fingerprints, at least that’s what my lawyer told me.”

  “Your lawyer sucked,” Harlee scoffed. As far as she was concerned, someone better, a big name like Thomas Mesereau, would’ve proven Colin’s innocence.

  “Harlee, Perry Mason couldn’t have helped me. You weren’t there, you don’t know what it was like. Threats of riots and TV commentators calling for our heads. Sure I didn’t have a family with the kind of money that Skip and Ari’s did. I got a public defender, but she was good, Harlee. Despite the lynch-mob atmosphere, she managed to get me fifteen years to life. I got out in ten with good-time credits.”

  She sank into one of Colin’s newly finished chairs, the thought of him in prison making her physically ill. “It must have been horrific.”

  His eyes downcast, Colin said, “It wasn’t the death sentence that the Weaver family got.”

  No. But Colin’s only offense had been partying with the wrong people. Sitting behind the wheel, thinking that his friends had gone inside the store to buy liquor.

  And lying. To her.

  “Did you have the demophobia in prison?” The notion of how difficult that would’ve been made her sick to her stomach.

  “Not until I got out,” he said.

  Thank God. “But it’s related, isn’t it?”

  He simply shrugged. “Come here, Harlee.” Colin motioned for her to join him on the floor.

  “Why?” She stayed put.

  “You can’t, can you, Harlee? Not now that you know what I am. Do you see why I didn’t tell you?”

  “Precisely the reason you should’ve told me.” Her voice hitched. “You spent a third of your life in prison . . . It’s the reason why you’re afraid of crowds and small spaces. My God, Colin, don’t you think it would’ve been helpful for me to understand the hell you’ve lived through?”

  She held up her hands to keep him from interrupting. “I know you had nothing to do with killing those poor people and never would have.” Harlee swiped at the tears stinging her eyes, trying hard to keep it together. But she felt eviscerated, like her insides were ravaged and raw. “But I can’t get beyond the fact that you took my heart without giving me your trust. You should’ve believed in me, Colin. God knows I believed in you.”

  A sob bubbled out of her like a hiccup and Colin quickly got to his feet. She expected him to come to her. To hold her. But he walked to the other side of the room and stared out the window.

  She wanted comfort and a guarantee that from here on in he would trust her. Confide his secrets to her, like he’d done with the demophobia. But neither came. Instead, he’d emotionally pulled away, leaving her aching, confused, and wondering how she’d ever been so blind, trusting, and stupid in the first place.

  Colin wanted to touch her. But he fought the impulse with every ounce of willpower he had. He’d become so complacent in their relationship that he’d stopped planning for this day. But here it was, in all its Technicolor horror. One look at Harlee’s face and he could see her disgust. How could he blame her? He was an ex-con on parole, only four years out of prison. The kind of guy she would only write about—not sleep with, let alone give her heart to.

  So instead of reaching out to her, he stood there, feeling lower than dirt, and watched her cry, knowing that the best thing for both of them was for him to end it. Now, before the pain became too excruciating.

  “It was a selfish thing to do . . . not telling you,” he said, resting his elbows on the window sill so he could stare outside at anything besides Harlee, because her repugnance was palpable. “But I knew you’d run for the hills once you found out. Who could blame you?”

  “I thought you understood me,” she said, her voice sounding small but angry. “Yet you completely underestimated me. How can you think I’m that shallow?”

  “Shallow?” He let out a harsh laugh at the feebleness of the word. “How about realistic? For God’s sake, Harlee, do you know how hard life is with an ex-con? If this town knew about the murders . . . they’d. . . they’d shun me. And your mother? You think she’d be proud to know that her daughter is seeing a felon, a man who spent much of his adult life in a six-by-eight cell? How ’bout your dad the doctor, or your brother the cop? You think you could just tote me along to family outings? ‘Here’s my boyfriend, a convicted murderer.’ How do you think that would play with your nice, affluent, well-educated family?”

  “I don’t care,” she said. Colin turned around to find her holding her chin stubbornly, while her lips quivered. “I know who you are.”

  “Of course you care,” he said. “You love them. And they love and want what’s best for you. Shit, Harlee, if I were your brother, I wouldn’t let you date a man like me. Ever.”

  “It’s not my family’s choice. It’s my choice. So the way you handle it is to keep me in the dark? Ignorance is bliss?”

  That’s right. Because now, not only did she know that he was a filthy ex-con, but a liar too; just like all those other men she ran background checks on. Only worse. They at least hadn’t been convicted of murdering three innocent people.

  “Colin, answer me.”

  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, saying nothing. Colin would move the Sierra mountains to regain her trust, but what was the point? There was no hope for them and there never had been. The whole time he’d been deluding himself and pretending to be something he wasn’t. A regular guy with a clean past.

  Harlee got out of her chair and moved closer to the iron stove. “We need to work through this, Colin.”

  “There’s nothing to work through, Harlee,” he said, forcing himself to stand firm, because when it came to her he was weak. “I’m not the right man for you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That you and I were never meant to be.”

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Her response—and her pride—shone in her eyes.

  With anguish far worse than anything he’d ever seen, even inside his bleak prison walls, she walked out of his wood shop, closing the door on him and on any life they could have had together.

  Chapter 23

  Bix Dearling didn’t mess around. In just the five days since Harlee had emailed him about the airport in Beckwourth, he’d manag
ed to file a flight plan, book a room at the Lumber Baron, and come to Nugget.

  In those same five days, Harlee had barely gotten out of bed. Just to use the bathroom and eat an occasional meal when Darla pounded on her door, holding a Bun Boy bag, and insisted. Harlee couldn’t bring herself to tell Darla the truth. It was Colin’s secret to tell, not hers.

  The bastard hadn’t called once. Not that she had wanted him to. He’d made it clear that he was through—that she wasn’t worth the work it would take to resolve their trust issues. A clean break was exactly what she needed. If he called, she’d go back to square one, the part of the program where she played Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” over and over again, buried herself under the blankets, and cried until her well ran dry.

  Today she’d actually showered. But that was only because of her meeting with Bix. It wouldn’t look professional to show up with her hair going in twenty different directions, stinking like a wine press. She searched through her closet for something presentable. Not a suit, because, uh, this was Nugget. But not jeans either—too casual. Finally, Harlee settled on a pair of black pencil trousers, a white blouse, and a tailored camel jacket. She finished it off with a pair of nude wedge pumps.

  To accessorize, she flipped open Colin’s handmade jewelry box, which set her off on a fifteen-minute crying jag. Luckily, she hadn’t put on her makeup yet. Harlee dabbed her eyes dry and tried to cover up the dark circles with concealer stick. After she’d applied some shadow, put on mascara, and glossed her lips, she headed out the door.

  “Here goes nothing,” she muttered under her breath, doubting that the meeting would turn into anything significant. If she had to guess, Bix was on a fact-finding mission to start his own version of DataDate and wanted to pick her brain.

  Since it was the only way she currently had of supporting herself, she had no intention of giving away any proprietary information. Although she really didn’t have any. Her clients found her through word of mouth, all originating from that one article she’d written for the Call. It’s not like she had developed a “brand.” God, she hated that word, one of the most overused in the English language.