Tell No Lies

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Josh shook his head. “Like I said . . . give her time. Anyway, it’s not like you and Mom had any real relationship, did you? If you’re worried your socks won’t get folded, hire a maid.”

  Augusta rocked back on her heels, feeling as though he’d slapped her across the face. Josh more than anyone knew how she felt about Sadie’s employment at Oyster Point. It was Augusta who had taken offense over the incestuous relationship his mother had with this relic of slavery. She couldn’t even find her voice to speak to defend herself. “Are you angry at me, too, for some reason?” she asked him directly. “It seems you’ve kept your distance, and I told myself it was because of Caroline, but I feel like you have a bone to pick with me.”

  He shook his head again. “Nope. Not angry. I learned a long time ago that everything in life takes a backseat to your crusades, and it seems you’ve made Ian Patterson your latest campaign.”

  Augusta moved toward him, the ruins forgotten now. “So that’s what this is about?” she asked angrily. “Ian Patterson?”

  He shrugged again.

  “Who I help—who I care about—is none of your concern, Josh!”

  He stood his ground, his look dark. “So you care about him now? Is that right?”

  The question took her by surprise, and she halted in her step. “I didn’t say that!”

  His hands went back into his pockets and he gave her that “attorney look” he had mastered so well. “I would argue that you did.”

  Jesus, she had, hadn’t she?

  That simple fact stilled her tongue faster than anything else could have. Her hands shook. She might consider herself a woman of the world, able to sleep with a man without consequence, but that obviously wasn’t the truth.

  She did care about Ian. But it couldn’t be love. It was too soon for love! Wasn’t it?

  Her head spun. There was too damned much going on. Tears stung her eyes.

  Josh’s dark brows narrowed over bright blue eyes. “The math is pretty simple. You don’t pay one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for some guy you don’t give a shit about, Augusta.” He was angry now and apparently wanted her to know it. “Donating ten grand to help find a missing kid is one thing, shelling out one hundred and fifty Gs for a suspected murderer is another matter entirely. You can’t explain that one away without a little exchange of body fluids. Fuck me! Did you ever consider Caroline in this? Or Jack?”

  He’d left himself out, she realized. She knew he didn’t give a damn about Caroline or Jack. Josh had always been Josh’s greatest concern. Augusta’s chest constricted with anger. She wanted to rail at him, tell him it was none of his business whom she slept with.

  He made it sound so clinical, sordid and ugly.

  He made her sound selfish and uncaring—things she strove hard not to be. On the day she finally closed her eyes, all she really wanted to be remembered for was giving.

  She wanted to tell Josh that she could never love him—ever—no matter what their history. She wanted to say that she had run away from him—from his expectations and hurt puppy dog looks—as much as she had from her mother and this dysfunctional house. She couldn’t help that her heart didn’t feel what his did.

  “Go to hell!” she said, and stormed past him, hurrying toward her car. She knew he wasn’t following, but she couldn’t get away fast enough.

  Josh simply stood and watched her go, the wedge between them deepened to what seemed an irreparable rift. Sadie drove up as Augusta reached her car, but Augusta couldn’t find her voice to speak, much less reason with her about Savannah. She pulled open the car door as Sadie got out of her vehicle and stood there staring at Augusta, mouth agape, while she started her mother’s Town Car and peeled out in front of her.

  “What was that about?”

  Josh shrugged. “She can dish out the truth,” he said. “Apparently she can’t take it herself.”

  Ian spent the greater part of the day putting his place back in order—literally. It wasn’t as though he had all that much to his name, but everything he owned had either been rifled through then discarded once it was determined to be useless to the investigation, or confiscated. The only real loss here was the notebook he had kept to chronicle his investigation. Far from incriminating him, that one piece of evidence would have served to validate his story.

  Unfortunately, he was going to have to put his life into the hands of a jury who, after following Caroline Aldridge’s witch hunt in the papers, couldn’t possibly be objective. He hadn’t been lucky enough to have had the charges dismissed; for the time being, the court was moving forward with a trial, though his attorney was filing a motion to suppress evidence. The police claimed his door had been left ajar and that suspicious articles had been left in plain sight. But that was impossible. Ian didn’t have anything to hide, but he wasn’t stupid enough to leave his house unlocked—nor did any of the “evidence” found in his home belong to him. If the house was open, it was left open by whomever had planted the hit bag. The police had probably dusted the entire house for prints, so he was certain that hadn’t yielded anything, or he would have heard by now. Despite the fact that they had gone after the wrong man, they were thorough and diligent.

  So where exactly did that leave him?

  He sat on his bed—because that was the only true piece of furniture in the house—a fact that probably hadn’t helped his case much. He was a transient as far as everyone was concerned—an ex-priest with a record. He fell neatly into their profiling net. He got that. In retrospect he supposed most of his decisions were suspect.

  He’d chosen this rental house because it was near the ruins, because that was the last place he could track Jennifer to. The fact that now at least two of the possible victims had visited that site as well, and Caroline Aldridge had been lured there, too . . . led him to believe there was some significance to the place. But what it was exactly, he didn’t know.

  There was such a thing as being in the right place at the wrong time. Maybe the fact that all three women had been there previously was a coincidence? Until the fire, it had been a private place, concealed from view. It had taken him more than a few forays into the surrounding area to locate the spot he’d seen only in a photo.

  The shot had been taken close up, with only a blurry view of the ruins of a chimney at her back. Judging by the smile on Jennifer’s face, she had not only been familiar enough with the photographer to hand him her cell phone, but she obviously admired him. There was that look in her eyes—the same one she had given Ian—the same look that had compelled him to send her home with a lecture and a note for her mother, a plea for her mom to seek help for Jennifer.

  He pulled out a new notebook and made a list of people connected to the Aldridges. He wrote the names of all three sisters, stopping to underline Augusta’s—not because he suspected she was involved, but because he couldn’t stop thinking about that look on her face as they’d cuffed him and shoved him into the police car.

  Confusion. Anger. Hurt.

  She wasn’t alone.

  He added Joshua and Sadie Childres to the list—the Aldridge housekeeper and her only son, an ambitious attorney with his sights set on both the solicitor’s office as well as a mayoral desk if James Island managed to keep its newest incorporation status. Josh had an impeccable reputation—graduated egregia cum laude—a distinction he’d earned by pursuing a rigorous political science curriculum along with his law degree.

  As for Jack Shaw, Caroline’s fiancé, apparently the investigation had brought those two back together. Awfully convenient—especially considering that one of the dead girls was Jack’s ex-girlfriend . . . the other was an employee of the Tribune. It was feeling like a very incestuous crime, except that at least half the supposed victims had no connection with the Aldridges at all: Amanda, Jennifer, Amy.

  He stared at the notebook, mulling that over.

  At the bottom of his list were Florence and Robert Aldridge, both dead. Then there was Sam—the son who drowned back in 1989. No
t much to go on there. As far as Ian could tell, the kid had gotten into his little inflatable boat and sailed away into the great unknown. These things happened—especially around Charleston, where the currents were strong.

  The father apparently died the same year—heart attack; the mom four months ago—accident. She fell down her stairs. According to the paper, the housekeeper found her the following morning. Nothing out of the ordinary there. For all intents and purposes, the Aldridges seemed to be a decent family, if maybe a little too far up their own asses. If one of them tripped, the world read about it—and now the oldest sister was at the helm of the nation’s eighth oldest paper. He really felt sorry for Jack Shaw. That woman could be a ballbuster.

  He put question marks by Jennifer Williams’s and Amanda Hutto’s names. Like Jennifer, Amanda was still missing.

  Amy Jones was the first victim. The girl had been a senior at the College of Charleston, and as far as Ian knew, had no known connection to the Aldridges. He had helped her put gas into her car the night of her death and what he got for his trouble was a murder charge—even though he had an alibi that was sticking.

  Unlike Pamela Baker and Kelly Banks, she had no connection to the Aldridges. There seemed to be no pattern there . . . but somehow, Ian knew in his gut the deaths were all connected.

  What did a seventeen-year-old runaway, a twenty-two-year-old college kid, a thirty-year-old police dispatcher, a six-year-old girl and a twenty-three-year-old reporter have in common?

  Then there was Cody Simmons—still another connection to the Aldridges, although with a history in the city older than God, who wouldn’t know the Aldridges? Cody had nothing in common with the rest of the list of possible victims. Maybe the kid was just unlucky enough to have seen the murderer?

  He jotted down Cody’s name, tapping his pencil. He knew exactly which cemetery the kid was nabbed from, because he’d been there a few times while scouring the area. At least for a while, getting in there would be impossible, because the police would have the place cordoned off. The paper claimed Cody hadn’t been alone, but they wouldn’t disclose the name of his friend. Smart move, but good luck keeping that one a secret. Twelve-year-old boys liked to talk. So did angry mothers.

  The doorbell rang, an annoying chime that thankfully didn’t go off often.

  Frustrated, Ian tossed down his pencil. He had few acquaintances in Charleston—mainly his old high school buddy who owned the Wash ’N’ Shine out in Mount Pleasant. It was his sister-in-law who had given Ian his alibi—the same girl he’d gone to watch perform the night Augusta showed up in his life.

  The house he was renting was a throwback to the seventies—a ranch house that butted up to the water. The only thing that saved him from having to pay a high-dollar rent was the simple fact that this property hadn’t been maintained. Despite the fact that the owner didn’t live there, he apparently didn’t want to give up his land to another of those million-dollar homes. All Ian cared about was having a clean place to lay his head—especially after having spent three weeks on a cum-stained cot in a jail cell.

  In the living room, there was a folded beach chair in one corner and a few books stacked beside it. The walls were bare and still looked freshly painted, aside from a few scuffs.

  Ian unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the door, fully expecting to find another reporter lurking outside. They were like roaches congregating around a crumb.

  Her face pale, Augusta Aldridge stood on his porch, clutching her purse, looking too much like an innocent girl, not like the temptress he knew she could be.

  His eye was drawn to the car parked about thirty feet behind her vintage Lincoln Town Car—a dark black sedan with tinted windows that could be police issue. “Hi,” she said, and the greeting was tentative, as though she thought he might send her packing.

  Despite his earlier resolve to keep her out of his life, he opened the door wider, letting her in. “You shouldn’t be here, Augusta.”

  Those stark blue eyes appealed to him.

  She looked as though she’d been crying. He turned away, letting her close the door, leaving it open wide in case she felt like running. He half-hoped she would, half-hoped she would come in and stay.

  “Wow,” she said, peering around. “Talk about living sparse!”

  “I never planned to stay this long,” Ian admitted, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “Want a glass of water?” She was dressed in one of those long skirts that fell around her calves and a simple white tank top. The top hugged her breasts, revealing the texture of the lace border of her bra. After weeks without seeing a woman, he felt his cock stir like an errant child intent on defying his wishes.

  She threw her purse down on the floor since there wasn’t any place else to put it. “Please.”

  Ian tore his gaze away from her breasts. He couldn’t forget the way it felt to be inside her, that sweet velvet heat of her body. Simply knowing she was within arm’s reach, he could feel the tension building inside him.

  The house was uncomfortably silent as he retreated to the kitchen and grabbed a clean glass from the kitchen shelf. He turned on the tap water, and felt guilty as he watched the glass fill. The water here tasted like shit, but he hadn’t had a chance to get to the store, and everything that had been in the fridge had had to be tossed out. But, hell, the woman lived here so she must be used to the water by now and he hadn’t invited her. He took the glass to her, handing it over as he inspected her again.

  Fucking gorgeous.

  He shook his head, an errant gesture. He hadn’t been able to resist her that day on the beach and didn’t think he could do it now.

  He willed her to keep her distance.

  She took the glass and their fingers touched for the briefest instant. The beast inside his pants stirred again.

  Christ.

  She had some kind of power over his body. If she said the word right now, he’d carry her to his bed and strip every piece of clothing from her body. That was how much he wanted her.

  “Why are you here, Augusta?”

  Straight and to the point.

  People who had things to hide skirted issues, Augusta thought, and she had never met someone more straightforward than Ian Patterson. It was part of the reason she believed in him so resolutely. It had nothing to do with the need to justify the fact that she’d slept with him, she reassured herself. Right now, there were far more important matters to worry about—like a missing child and the fact that her sisters were probably going to disown her forever for everything she had done.

  He deserved honesty, she decided. “I didn’t know where else to go.” Hungry for the sight of him, she inspected him over the rim of her glass as she took a tiny sip, glad to have something solid between them, even if it was simply a glass of water.

  He made her dizzy.

  His gaze assessed her, from her toes to the top of her head and back down, but it was something more than sexual, Augusta sensed, and she fought a wave of unexpected emotion that seemed to throttle her words. She took another sip of water and cleared her throat.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” he said.

  Tears pricked at Augusta’s eyes, but thankfully, she held them back. “Like I said, I didn’t know where else to turn. I told you I didn’t believe you were guilty, Ian . . . I still don’t.”

  His blue eyes pierced her. “You sure about that?”

  She didn’t blame him for doubting her. She had stood by without a word while they had arrested him the night of the fire and she still hadn’t even told her sisters—or the police—that she’d been with him the night Kelly Banks’s body was discovered. Though she fully intended to once the opportunity presented itself. “Dead sure.”

  His lips curved a little ruefully. “Nice choice of words.”

  “Unintended,” Augusta assured him, smiling wanly. “Will they drop the charges?”

  Ian shook his head. “Not at this point. For all they know—for all you know, Augusta—I’m working with an accomplice
. In their shoes, I would play it the same way.” His blue eyes studied her.

  “So . . . are you?”

  His brows lifted. “Do you think I would tell you if I were?”

  Augusta lifted a shoulder. “I suppose not.”

  “Then why bother asking, Augusta? Either you believe I’m capable of cold-blooded murder, or you don’t. It’s that simple.”

  “I paid your bail,” she reminded him. “Would I do that if I didn’t believe in you?”

  Their gazes locked and held. He narrowed his eyes at her and that sexy mouth thinned as he regarded her. Augusta had the impression they were playing some mental game of chicken, and if she passed . . . well, maybe then he would believe her?

  “Coming here was stupid,” he told her suddenly. “Even if you believe I’m innocent, you have to also believe someone framed me, and if that’s the case, do you honestly think I’m just suddenly going to drop off their radar? If anything, my being out on bail simply means they have their scapegoat back.”

  “I need your help to find Cody,” she said.

  He gave her an incredulous look. “You’ve got to be kidding! Who the hell put you in charge of saving the world?”

  He’d hit a nerve. Augusta handed him the water glass back, uncertain what else to do except to empty it in his face. Anger surged through her. “He’s a family friend,” she explained.

  “That’s too bad.” He shrugged, as though he couldn’t care less and took the glass from her, then turned and walked into the kitchen. “I’m done,” he told her as he walked away. “My involvement in this case has only brought me a load of grief.”

  Augusta followed him. “What about Jennifer?”

  He set the water glass down on the counter and turned to stare at her, expressionless, though his eyes revealed something different. “What about her?”

  After everything, he couldn’t possibly just be done. The simple fact that someone out there might still be ready to use him as scapegoat seemed a good enough reason in itself to pursue the truth. But more importantly, a little boy’s life was at stake.