Tell Me No Lies (An Ava Logan Mystery Book 1)

by Lynn Chandler Willis

  “I’m glad he’s gone.” He continued to unburden himself of things unsaid. “And it just burns me up to go over to Grandma’s and she thinks he was a god or something. Pictures all over the place like a shrine. Sometimes I just want to ask if she even knows what a mean sonofabitch he really was.”

  “Oh, Cole…no, you can’t ever say that to her. Let her live with the fantasy. Has Emma ever said anything about your dad?” She wasn’t even two when he was killed. She still thought of him as a hero. It was hard to know what, if anything, she remembered.

  He shook his head slowly. “She never talks about him to me. She’s never even asked.”

  For so many years, we had walked around carrying words we wanted to say but never did. We raised silent questions, hoping to never really know the answers. Grayson Ridge wasn’t the only one who had been living in limbo these last few years. We all were. We tiptoed around the ugly truth because it was so much easier than dealing with it. The grief we carried wasn’t for Tommy; it was for ourselves.

  CHAPTER 26

  The next morning was pure chaos, but in a good way. Helping Doretha get breakfast for the horde of kids in her house was as loud as a daycare center and as busy as a school cafeteria.

  Cole and I had talked until five a.m., and here it was at seven and I was scrambling eggs. Surprisingly, Ivy was happy though it had been after midnight when Doretha finally got her down. Cole was the only one not up, and I had given him a pass for the day. I had told Emma she didn’t have to go to school either if she didn’t want to. After the events of last night, I felt they may need some time to rest and regroup. Emma, however, would have nothing to with missing a day of school. Missing a day with Mason.

  Like an assembly line, I handed over plates filled with eggs while Doretha added a piece of jelly toast and slice of bacon to each. Emma carried them into the dining room two at a time, perfecting her future summer waitressing job. I sipped on a fresh cup of coffee while I oversaw the process, instructing Emma to pour the milk or orange juice once the plates were set.

  Ivy tugged on the leg of my borrowed pajama bottoms then reached up with her chubby little arms. I lifted her and propped her on my hip. She turned her face to me and puckered her lips, wanting a kiss.

  She was such a beautiful baby. The blond hair that fell in waves, the hypnotic green eyes. Slightly upturned little nose. We rubbed noses, giggling and kissing. But I kept going back to those green eyes.

  Green eyes were rare. Trish’s eyes had been the color of warm chestnuts, her hair auburn. I remembered she had told me her hair had been blond, like Ivy’s, when she was a child but turned darker over the years.

  The longer I studied Ivy, the more I saw a resemblance I didn’t want to see. I remembered one thing that had struck me so much with Brady O’Reilly—his emerald-colored eyes. Could Brent be this child’s father too?

  She had all but leapt out of my arms into his at Minnie’s Cafe. He played it off, but thinking back on it now, I was certain Ivy knew him. The flowers he brought to the studio after Trish’s death. He seemed almost embarrassed that I’d walked up on him while he was there. I had told him I would be running notices in the paper about Ivy’s father.

  But was a little embarrassment worth an attempt on my life?

  “Earth to Ava.” Doretha waved her hand in front of my face. “You still with us?” She laughed as she took Ivy from me and carried her into the dining room. Emma pulled the highchair up the table, holding it steady while Doretha dropped Ivy onto the plastic-covered seat.

  “Are you going to take me to school or is Doretha?” Emma asked, looking from me to Doretha.

  “I will. I have an errand I need to run this morning,” I said.

  Doretha looked at me and raised her brows.

  “I need to run by Trish’s and pick up some of Ivy’s stuff. All of her winter clothes, her coat, toys……they’re all still there.”

  “And don’t forget her stroller,” Emma reminded me. “She gets heavy after a while.”

  I smiled. “And her stroller. Just for you. Go on and brush your teeth. I don’t want to get tied up in the car rider line.”

  Once Emma was out of the room, Doretha asked, “You sure it’s safe for you to go back to Trish’s? Especially alone.”

  “It’ll be fine. I won’t be there long.” The truth was it wasn’t Ivy’s clothes or a coat, or even a stroller, I was going after. If he was her father, there had to be something in that house linking Brent O’Reilly to Ivy. Especially if Trish was ready to expose her own truth. A truth that may have gotten her killed.

  After a quick sip of coffee, I hurriedly pulled on the dirty jeans and Cole’s sweatshirt from the night before, combed my fingers through my hair, then brushed my teeth with Emma’s toothbrush. In the Tahoe, she shoved her overstuffed bookbag into the front floorboard, proud she would arrive at school in the front seat and not have to crawl out from the back like a child. She talked about everything and nothing on the short ride and I couldn’t repeat a word of what she had said.

  The drop-off line inched along in front of the commons area shared by the middle and high school. I wasn’t fond of the idea of my twelve-year-old sharing space with seniors but I couldn’t afford private school, so we dealt with it. She climbed out of the car, giving me a modified wave so she wouldn’t look like the child she was in front of her peers. The car in front of me hadn’t pulled away yet so I was forced to sit there a minute. I watched Emma move along the walkway with her bookbag slung over her shoulder, looking so confident and empowered. A smile slowly crept over my lips. I continued watching her for a moment when, to my surprise, Brady joined her near the front door. She turned and pointed to the Tahoe and Brady and I exchanged tiny waves. I wondered when Ridge was going to question Brent.

  The car behind me honked, jolting me out of my thoughts. I pulled away, anxious to get to Trish’s.

  I stopped at Sweet Treats on Main and grabbed a large mocha, unsure of how cold it would be in Trish’s trailer. A few minutes later, I was sitting in her driveway, afraid to go in. The crime scene tape had been removed when Sullivan finished processing the trailer. Trish’s jackass parents were waiting on a cleaning crew to clear the trailer of her belongings. Images of blood and the pulp that was once her face glued me to my seat. The stench of death aggravated my nose, although it was just a memory. I sat in the driveway and drank my mocha, trying to work up the nerve. Maybe Doretha was right. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  But Ivy did need her warm clothes and a thicker coat. And I was certain she’d be thrilled to have a few familiar toys. And, I would swear on Trish’s grave, there was something in that house identifying Ivy’s father, whether it was Brent O’Reilly or not. I’d leave it up to Ridge to find out if Brent was the one using me for target practice. But I was going to find out if he was, in fact, Ivy’s father.

  I slipped the Glock in the hand pocket of the sweatshirt, just in case, and hoped the spare key was still in the same place. I climbed the steps of the front stoop and looked under the ceramic flower pot. The key was there, buried underneath a pot of dead flowers. The whole property seemed dead. Even the air smelled like dying leaves. I held my breath as I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The air inside was stagnant, feeling thick and foul. Bloody shoe prints, mine and Cole’s, had dulled and soaked into the carpet. I moved slowly toward the back bedroom, fearing the hallway where I had found Trish’s body. Most women I knew kept their most treasured items in their bedroom. It was their private space. Whether cherished or important, items tucked away in jewelry boxes or hidden inside a birthday card carried the most meaning.

  I stepped over the blood spots now staining the linoleum and made my way to the hallway. I stood at where her feet had been and saw in my mind the ugliness of death.

  I forced myself to peel my eyes away from the reminder and went into Trish
’s bedroom. A layer of thin black powder covered nearly every surface of the room where fingerprints had been lifted. The room was small and crowded; the four walls seemed intimidating somehow, as if they wanted you to know they held secrets, but would never give them up.

  The queen-sized bed had been tossed and the sheets lay in a wad at the foot. A few dresser drawers were partially open, an indication Sullivan and his team had searched for something. A large jewelry armoire stood in the far corner. The stain-glass doors were open, exposing a necklace carousel on top and rows of drawers underneath. On the side wall was a large closet with sliding doors. One door was open, revealing clothes on hangers and colorful boxes stacked on the floor and on the overhead shelf.

  Working left to right around the room, I started at the dresser and rummaged through the drawers. If she was going to keep letters, papers, anything important, she would probably keep it in the top drawer for easier access. I didn’t find anything other than clothing so moved on to the lower drawers. Bras and panties, socks, t-shirts…nothing out of the ordinary. I moved on to the closet and scanned the labels on the boxes. Bank statements dating back five years, car title and insurance, back issues of Art Institute magazine, cards, and Ivy. I immediately pulled down the one labeled Ivy and carried it over to the bed.

  Inside, I found her birth certificate and her immunization record. I found her first pacifier and first pair of shoes, a tiny little pair of white sandals with pink bows. I found a tattered burp cloth, pink with white lace. My eyes stung with tears as I looked over Ivy’s past. A pink and green notepad with Trish’s playful script written on it indicating Ivy’s milestones. First smile: June 7th. First laugh: July 9th. Rolled over: August 21st…the dates went on and on, documenting Ivy’s life. The partially burned candle in the shape of a number 1. Near the bottom, I found a small blue jewelry box that held a tiny pearl bracelet. Staggered between the pearls were tiny pink blocks spelling out her name. Pinned to the silky inside top of the box was a small gift tag that read: To Ivy, from B.

  My breath hitched in my throat as adrenaline rushed through my veins. I leapt up and grabbed the box labeled “Cards” and carried it back to the bed. I looked through each card, whether to Trish or to Ivy, and read who it was from. I set aside a Valentine’s Day card and a Mother’s Day card, both signed by “B.” There was a First Birthday Card for Ivy, a silly Christmas card with Santa for her first Christmas, an Easter bunny for her first Easter. They, too, were all signed “B.”

  There was no doubt in my mind “B” was Brent O’Reilly. But what I couldn’t figure out was what happened. What had driven him to kill Trish in such a violent rage? And why come after me? Because I’d told him I’d run notices in the paper, looking for Ivy’s father? If he’d kept his identity secret all this time, a legal notice wasn’t going to expose the truth.

  And why the flowers at her shop? Remorse?

  Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe Trish was going to end it with him and he couldn’t bear that thought. Maybe she had given him an ultimatum like I had given Ed Stinger. Maybe she had demanded an unreasonable amount of child support.

  Closing the boxes, I set them aside. I would take them with me when I collected her clothes and other things. It wasn’t much, but it was something to give Ivy later, something years from now she could look back on and say she had belonged to someone.

  I went to the jewelry armoire and opened each drawer, searching for more proof of Brent O’Reilly’s existence in Trish’s life. A few rings, bracelets, but nothing that jumped out at me. Anyone could have given her any one of the items or she could have bought them for herself. I then popped out the velvet-lined ring holder. And there it was. A check made out to Trish Givens in the amount of ten thousand dollars. Signed by Megan O’Reilly. Megan? The check was drawn from an individual account—Megan’s—with Brent’s name nowhere on it. The check was dated two months ago.

  I hurriedly dug my phone from my pocket and called Ridge. His voice reflected a sleepless night.

  “I think I found a key piece of evidence,” I said, excited.

  “Where are you?”

  “At Trish’s. I had to get some things for Ivy and I was looking through—”

  “Wait a minute…Ava…why are you at Trish’s? I thought I told you to stay at Doretha’s.” He wasn’t sharing my excitement.

  “Ivy needed her coat. They’re calling for snow this weekend. But listen to what I found—a check for ten thousand dollars made out to Trish and signed by Megan O’Reilly. Dated two months ago.”

  He was so silent, for a moment I thought my phone had dropped the call. I pulled it away from my ear to make sure we were still connected. “Ridge?”

  “Where’d you find a check?”

  “Underneath the ring holder in her jewelry stand. Don’t blame Sullivan, most men don’t know to look there. They don’t know it pops out.”

  I could imagine him raking his fingers through his hair, eyes closed. “And it’s signed by Megan, not Brent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, just get what you need of Ivy’s and go back to Doretha’s. I’ll talk to you in a little bit.”

  “Hey, Ridge—”

  “I love you more.”

  My face opened into a huge smile. “Not possible.” I slid the phone back into my pocket then gathered the two boxes.

  I caught the slight sound of a car engine. It didn’t fade away like perhaps the car was driving by. Instead, it altogether stopped. The bedroom window was on the back side of the house, facing the backyard rather than the front, so I couldn’t see who it was. Probably the cleaning crew Trish’s parents had hired. Or maybe the landlord coming to check on the strange vehicle in the driveway?

  Before I got into the hallway, the front door opened. “Hello,” I called, my voice wavering slightly with tingling nerves. Whomever had come in didn’t respond so I called again. “Hello?”

  I rounded the corner of the hallway and kitchen. For a moment, everything went black. A blow to the side of my head knocked me against the wall, sending a shower of yellow stars in front of my eyes. I stumbled to regain my footing. Another blow knocked me to my knees. Ivy’s keepsake boxes scattered across the floor. I looked up to see my assailant, shielding my face with my arm. Towering over me with the butt of his rifle poised to deliver another blow was Brady. Not Brent. Not Greg Hastings. Not Ed Stinger. Brady—this child I had welcomed into my own home. This child who had eaten at my table, befriended my son.

  I scrambled to get away, the back of my jeans sticking to Trish’s dried blood. The look in Brady’s eyes wasn’t the look of a confused teenager, it was that of a cold-blooded killer.

  “You just had to take her in, didn’t you?” He snarled between gritted teeth. “You couldn’t just let her go to an orphanage, could you?”

  I didn’t understand. Did the “B” stand for Brady instead of Brent?

  He took a step closer and I moved backwards, never taking my eyes off of him. “Are you Ivy’s father?”

  He guffawed and shook his head. The sound of his laughter sent chills racing up my spine. “She only liked married men. Like my dad, you know, the upstanding citizen that he is.”

  My heart throbbed in my ears. A stream of blood rolled along my jawline. “I don’t understand. How could you come to my house and play with her—play with that child—after you killed her mother? How, Brady?”

  He rubbed the toe of his boot against a swatch of dried blood on the floor, oblivious to the life and death around him.

  “It was easy, Ms. Logan. Mom said she was making us all look like fools. Mom said she paraded that baby around town like the brat was something to be proud of.”

  I choked back a gush of tears, refusing to cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear. “She’s just a baby, Brady. She’s innocent in all this.”

  He laughed
again and I wanted to vomit. “But her mother was a whore. Kinda like you, huh?”

  My lungs stopped working. They, along with my heart, slammed shut and for a moment I thought death couldn’t be as painful.

  Brady pointed the barrel of the gun at my neck, teasingly moving my hair with the cold metal. “Yeah. I saw what you did with the sheriff. Bet Cole’d be shocked to know his mom likes to suck one.”

  I wanted to lash out, to do to him what he did to Trish. But I knew better. I willed my heart to beat and my tongue to hold the vile I wanted to spew. “Why me, Brady? What did I—”

  “You said yourself you were going to run some notices in the paper looking for her father. Do you know how embarrassing that would have been for my mom?” His emerald green eyes—eyes just like Ivy’s—glowed in a demonic light.

  “They were legal notices. That’s all.”

  “Well, we don’t need that kind of publicity. Football scores, yeah, those are cool.”

  “Your dad would have never even been named. We’d be looking for the father, not naming him.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever. It still doesn’t change the fact that whore was going to break up my family with her bastard child. That’s what mom called her—a bastard child.”

  Bile churned in my throat but I forced it down. Megan had reached out and touched Ivy at the football game. She had remarked about how horrible her mother’s death must have been. “Your mother told you that?”

  He shook his head and took a deep breath in the process, like he was bored. “Nah. I overheard her and my dad screaming about it. They were always fighting about something.”

  “Your dad—those scratches on your neck, the bruises on your hands, were they from your dad?” Maybe I was trying to justify his anger, trying to make sense of the violence. He looked at his hand then rubbed his neck, reminding himself of the marks that were there a few days ago. “My dad ain’t got it in him. These scratches—they’re from the whore. She put up a pretty good fight. Dad was with her that Friday night. We didn’t have a game. I followed him. When he left, I protected my family.”