by Susan Rohrer
“What about the next guy they jump?”
“You know, that’s exactly what you said last time, Joe. And I spent a year and a half of my life being poked and prodded and questioned and humiliated and—”
“—and you got Zoring off the street. At least for a long while.”
Clay grabbed a tissue. “And now, lookee. Turns out there’s like a scabillion Zorings. Knock one down and fifty morph right out to take his place. There’s no shortage of abusers in this world, Joe. I thought you knew that.”
Defeated, Joe set his coat down. In his cockeyed way, Clay was right. And there was no way that Joe was going to pummel Clay any more, not after the beating he’d just taken.
“Look, Clay. Lemme...” Joe glanced around, at a loss for what to do. “I think I’ve got some hydrogen peroxide back there.”
“I already used what you had to get the blood out of my dress.”
All Joe could do was to shake his head. “Could you have saved some for your actual injuries?”
“I can’t afford to lose another costume, Joe.”
“Like you can lose an eye?”
Clay whirled. “Don’t help me, okay? I’ve got it. Just go to bed and let me deal.”
Conceding, Joe threw up his hands. Who was he to stand in the way of Clay dealing with his own problems? Without another word, Joe traipsed back to his room.
Joe ran a weary hand through his hair. First the hearing, then Debra, then Laurel, and now Clay. What a roller coaster of a day this had been. And sleep—sleep was the only way that he would ever be relieved of it.
Shana Fischer steadied her steps on the rail as she descended the winding marble staircase that led into her foyer. How she had longed to indulge herself that morning. She was, after all, so freshly bereaved. She should be able to sleep in on a Sunday without guilt nagging at her over everything that had to be done in the wake of Frank’s murder. Instead, she’d been awakened shortly after dawn by an incessantly ringing phone.
Helen was at the foot of the stairs, dutifully organizing the paperwork she had requested for the day. “Almost ready, Mrs. Fischer.”
“Thank you, Helen. Howard assures me this will be quick, but you know probate. Even with an iron clad will.”
“Surprising that Mr. Berg is working on the weekend at all.”
Shana flipped through the folder. “Howard said he wants to get a jump on it. That way he can get everything filed first thing tomorrow.”
“Don’t you worry about the phones,” Helen said. “I’ll cover them for you while Mr. Berg is here.” Helen winced a bit. “And I’m afraid to tell you that Laurel called again. It was while you were in the shower.”
Shana shook off the dread that threatened her. “I’m going to have to change our number.”
“She said it’s her only day off this coming week,” Helen replied, “and she was hoping to see Grace.”
Shana straightened her back. “Absolutely not. Not without me.” Shana leaned to peer back up the staircase. The last thing she wanted was for Grace to overhear them. She lowered her voice. “It’s not your fault, Helen. I’ve already taken half a dozen calls this morning, all over some ridiculous spread in a tabloid about her.”
Helen’s eyes widened. “About Laurel?”
“She sold her story to them, for a pretty penny I’m sure. Told them about some dream she had about Frank with another woman. It seems she claims that was what all their phone calls were about.”
Helen rested a hand on Shana’s arm. “Oh, no... Oh, Mrs. Fischer.”
As hard as she fought it, Shana’s eyes misted. The betrayal was still so fresh.
Helen reached into her pocket and extended a tissue. “It’s clean.”
Shana dabbed at her eyes. “Of course, the masses lap this up like it was gospel. I can’t believe she’d even talk to a tabloid. They’re heartless bottom feeders. I know. They were all over me when my parents were killed, and I’m not going to let her do that. Not to Grace.” Shana looked toward the kitchen. “Has Grace come down for breakfast yet?”
Helen blanched. “No, Ma’am. I thought she was still upstairs. In bed.”
“No. I just looked for her in her room.” Shana darted by Helen, her heart suddenly racing. She rushed to the kitchen’s bay window, overlooking the yard.
Grace’s swing drifted, desolate in the breeze. Her favorite doll lay abandoned on the grass beneath it. A horrible feeling sank into the pit of Shana’s stomach.
Grace was gone.
Howard had been a godsend. He helped Shana search the estate top to bottom, but it was no use. Grace was nowhere to be found.
Shana did her best to keep her mind from running absolutely amok, her heart from beating out of her chest. But what could have happened? When she finally returned to the kitchen, she found Helen concluding a call.
Helen glanced at Shana as she spoke into the receiver. “Yes, well, could you give me a ring if you see her? Thank you.” Helen hung up the phone. “No sign of her there.”
Howard emerged from the front of the house. “She’s not at her friend’s next door.”
Shana caught her breath. “Anything from the security log, Howard?”
“No entrances or exits during the night.”
“Oh, dear,” Helen said. “I’d disarmed the system first thing this morning, like always. She must have gone out to the yard after that. I’m terribly sorry, Ma’am. I couldn’t have turned my back on that kitchen door for a minute.”
Shana covered her face, fighting to focus. This was beyond horrifying.
“Time to call the police,” Howard said.
Shana picked up the house phone.
Howard pulled out his cell. “Ask for McTier. I’ll get my P.I. on it, too.”
Helen went ashen. “You don’t think—”
Furiously, Shana dialed. “Wealthy children who are the subjects of custody battles don’t just wander off, Helen. They get abducted.”
Joe made his way to the neighborhood newsstand. After the way Lou had dodged his texts on Saturday, all Joe could do was hope against hope that they’d run the photos he’d actually selected to go with his Sunday story. If they hadn’t, this could be it. It could be the beginning of the end of what was left of his lame career.
From half a block away, the newsstand clerk spotted Joe. The clerk waved a copy of Kickerton’s Sunday edition. “Hey, ya, Joey-boy. Doin’ all right, ain’t ya?”
Joe picked up his pace. He snatched a copy of his rag off the top of a dwindling stack. There on the cover, big as life, was Lou’s photo of him with Laurel, kissing at the harbor. In all caps, the headline blazed:
KISS AND TELL.
He’d half expected it, but still Joe reeled. Underneath was his usual byline, but strangely, Adele Stedler had also been credited. “What?”
The clerk grinned widely. “Front page and everything. Pretty hot, too. Paper’s moving like mad.”
As quickly as he could, Joe skimmed the story. His blood boiled. What was left of his writing had been heavily edited. There were whole paragraphs that Adele had replaced, things he hadn’t written at all, anywhere but on his notepad.
Joe pounded on Debra’s brownstone door. It wasn’t his normal inclination to cause a public scene, but somehow, he didn’t care anymore. Let Debra explain to her neighbors why he was so furious.
Debra peered out the window flanking the entry, then opened the door. Apparently, she’d been working out. She was wearing gym clothes.
Joe pushed past her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Debra shut the door behind him. “Exercised my first amendment rights?”
“Half of this was supposed to be off the record.” Joe gave the paper a backhanded slap. “I promised her. That was the deal. Plus, you let Adele call her a psychic, which she expressly forbade.”
Debra combed her hair with her fingers. “Since when does that matter?”
“Since when do you root through my desk? Since when do you swipe my notes?”
“Company notepad, pen, desk drawer, and company dime you’re working on...” She quacked her hand like a duck as she strode toward her kitchen.
Joe dogged her steps. He flashed the issue in her face. “She could lose her child over this.”
“Maybe she should.” Debra added some protein powder to the fruit in her blender and hit the start button. “You know, you’re the one who called her a spook.”
“Which you took completely out of context.”
“Really, Joe.” She chose a large glass from her cabinet. “You think some uber wack-job who quite possibly murdered her ex ought to get her child back?”
“Debra, you don’t know her.”
An impish smirk curled on her face. “Yes. And I totally forgot how intimately you two have become acquainted.”
Bile burned in his throat. He fought to tamp it down. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what, Joe?” Nonchalantly, she leaned against the counter. “Don’t point out your rampant unprofessionalism? Don’t hold you accountable as my employee?”
All he could do was shake his head. It was that or completely lose it. “Keep lying to yourself. Hide behind the job.”
She gestured toward the paper. “Show me something I printed there that isn’t true.”
“This is a spin job and you know it, Debra.”
“We’re a tabloid, Joe. Spin sells.”
Joe imploded. Was this really a woman he’d once found attractive? Seriously? And was he any better than she was, working for that hideous rag?
Barely holding it together, Joe backed toward the door. “You know what, Debra? Don’t expect me at work tomorrow. Don’t expect me ever. Spin that.”
Any doubt whether or not the wait staff at the Blackberry Grille would have known about the Kickerton Press Sunday Edition vanished the moment Joe walked in the door. That crusty cashier of theirs hadn’t been all that friendly the first time Joe had come calling for Laurel. This time, all pretense of decorum was gone. He got nothing but an icy glare.
The one with the African accent approached him head on immediately. “You got your nerve, Mr. Hardisty.”
He was tempted to leave right then and there. Still, he had to find Laurel. He read the server’s name off her tag. “Belle, just tell me. Is she in?”
Belle huffed, her guard still fully in place. “All up close and personal. And you don’t even know she’s off today.”
“Look, it’s not what you think,” Joe said. “She’s not at her apartment. She’s not picking up her cell.”
“I wouldn’t think so, after that story you ran.”
Joe slumped against a stool. “Then, you’re telling me she’s seen it.”
“Laurel doesn’t read your kind of paper. Not even in the checkout line. That’s why I took a copy over to her myself. First thing this morning when I saw it,” Belle said. “Not that I got a bit of joy from breaking that kind of news. But at least I could make sure she heard it from someone who actually loves her, instead of someone else.”
Joe rubbed his fingers against his temple. This was getting so out of control. He looked up, buckling under the weight of the world. “Please, Belle. Do you know where she is?”
She set her fists against her waist. “It’s Sunday morning. Where do you think?”
Joe leaned against a tree outside a modest-looking community chapel. Absently, he twirled a three-stranded set of pine needles between his fingers. Strains of what he could only wish was the last worship song concluded.
Finally. People began to make their way out to their cars. Hopefully, it would be as Belle had said. Laurel would be there among them.
A woman seemed to recognize him. She tapped on another woman’s arm and pointed in his direction. Joe averted his eyes. He pretended to look at the church itself.
Everything about the building was non-descript. There wasn’t even a hint of a denomination on the sign. In no way did it compare to the cathedral where he’d been raised as an orphaned child. No statues, no stained glass, and no vaulted ceilings reaching toward the heavens. There was no robe or headdress on the minister. Instead, this parson stood at the door in a white oxford shirt and khakis, greeting his departing congregation, a gregarious smile on his face. It was all friendly enough looking. Still, just the sight made something sour in Joe’s stomach.
Where was Laurel?
Her car was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she had walked. He had zero desire to darken their doors, but it appeared that he would have to at least check inside. Gratefully, the minister was drawn into conversation with a family. Joe took the moment to ease through the other side of the door.
Joe peered in from the rear of the sanctuary. It was as plainly appointed as the outside had been. A simple, unoccupied cross hung on the front wall, behind a simple podium.
He scanned the few folks that remained, chatting in the aisles. There, toward the front, was Laurel. Sitting in a pew by herself. What must she think of him and all his promises?
Joe took a deep breath and made his way up the aisle. He stopped at the end of the pew. Now that he was there, he searched for words. There seemed no good way to begin.
When she barely looked up at him, he could only suppose the worst. He slid into the pew beside her. “You saw the story.”
Laurel nodded her head. She looked so very disappointed.
He didn’t dare touch her. “Laurel, believe me. That wasn’t my story they printed.”
Finally, she looked up at him. “I’ll admit I felt pretty betrayed over it. At first. But then—”
“Laurel, they broke into my desk. They took my notes. I didn’t write anything you said was off the record.”
“I know,” she said.
Joe took it in thoughtfully. For a moment, he had forgotten about her gift. “You know because, uh...” Joe tipped his eyes toward the ceiling. “You know because He told you?”
Laurel’s lips barely turned up. “I know because I’m a woman.” Finally, she turned to him. “I know what happened between us, Joe.”
He checked all around them. No one was anywhere close. Still, he shifted in his seat. “Could we...maybe go somewhere else and...”
Sadness gleamed in those aquamarine eyes. “You’re not comfortable here.”
Joe scanned the place. It was just a plain old building, retrofitted as a sanctuary. Why did he still find just sitting there so completely unsettling? “I don’t know, it just...”
“...brings things back.” Laurel rose to her feet. “It’s okay. We can go.”
Joe stood, his mind flashing to a past he’d long attempted to bury. What did Laurel think she knew?
twelve
Laurel ambled along the urban street at Joe’s side. It seemed such a normal thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. But for Laurel, it was something of a first. Frank had loved to drive, but he’d never been much for walking.
She filled her lungs with the afternoon air. Life sure had been full of surprising turns for her, and whatever it was that was going on with Joe—that was certainly one of them.
Secrets rolled over inside of her, whispers that had come as she’d interceded for Joe, late into the night. Concern for him weighed heavy on her heart. She glanced over at him. How much should she tell him? It was hard to know sometimes, just when to disclose what she saw and heard. All she knew was that these were confidences that had been shared with great empathy and purpose.
Laurel caught hold of her heart. Something was growing there, against her better judgment. There was no point in denying the chemistry between them. Joe seemed to be feeling it, too. But as well as they were starting to get along, there was still such a vast spiritual gulf between them.
She drew in a breath. Joe was a prodigal, too. Just like she had been. Perhaps he’d return to the faith he once had as a boy, before human hypocrisy had alienated him so. Would he ever find his way back across that divide? When she’d inquired about that in prayer, the heavens had been decidedly silent. Perhaps not knowing was best. It rem
inded her to resist the urge to run ahead of what might be intended.
Joe was still so quiet. He seemed so content to just stroll with her down the sidewalk. They stopped to watch as some scrappy kids played basketball on a fenced-in municipal court. There was nothing left of the net on the hoop, but that didn’t seem to compromise the boys’ fun. These were the simple joys of life in the city.
Joe turned away from the game. “I quit today.”
Laurel nodded. “I heard.”
He looked surprised.
“Not like that. Not from, you know...” She pointed up, then tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I got a call from someone named Adele Stedler. She said she was assigned to take over my story. I told her my deal was with you.”
“Really.” Joe seemed pleased.
“Yeah.” A crooked grin formed on her lips. “I’m more loyal than the average spook.”
“Ooh. Busted.” An apologetic grimace cracked. “I actually did say that, you know.”
She dropped her jaw in mock disapproval.
“But,” he said. “You have to know I meant it in the best possible way.”
She returned a good-humored shrug. “That’s the problem with black and white, you know? A person can take a perfectly affectionate shot. And without the proper vocal inflection, it can be completely misconstrued.”
Joe chuckled.
How wonderful it was to see the heaviness lift from Joe’s face, to see him smile at her. He got her little joke, and he’d volleyed it right back. Was it possible that he was actually starting to enjoy spending time with her, just as much as she was with him?
Neither of their lives was perfect. Not by a long shot. The huge challenges they both faced—they loomed just as large. And there was still that spiritual divide between them. She couldn’t cross it for him, as much as she wished she could. It was something he’d have to come to himself.
What the future held for them, Laurel didn’t know. But what she drank in was the moment, the refreshing wonder of that small space in time when, in the simple pleasure of his company, a ray of sunshine peeked through.
