by Lori Drake
“What happened?” she asked next, taking out her own phone to take some notes.
“We were going to go to another club. She said she’d just come to Santiago’s to watch. She wasn’t a dancer. We were taking a shortcut through the alley to get to the car and she turned on me. I didn’t even see the knife before she stabbed me. That’s the last thing I remember.”
Joey sat back in her chair, taking this in. Her eyes shifted past Dean. It was easier to think without looking at him. Looking at him made her furious, and right now she had the chance of a lifetime. She didn’t want to waste it, and she was very much aware of the seconds ticking away.
“Did she say anything? Give any indication why she was doing it?” she asked. There was more she wanted to ask him, but she couldn’t, not without giving away their secret to a stranger. Much less a stranger who brokered information for a living.
“That’s not important now,” Dean said, for Chris. “What’s important is that she…” He frowned, glancing to his left as he trailed off.
“She what?” Joey prompted, her eyes focusing on Dean again. The man wore a puzzled frown.
“I heard you,” Dean said, but clearly not to Joey. Brow furrowed, he looked back at her again. “She has some kind of sway over him.”
Joey blinked. “Sway? What kind of sway?”
There was a long pause while Dean listened, eyes forward but attention elsewhere. “Slow down,” he murmured at one point.
Joey bit her lip. Under the table, a knee bounced restlessly. She fought the urge to get up and pace.
Eventually, his focus returned to Joey and he did his best to translate. “She’s… torturing him, somehow. Questioning. No, interrogating. He doesn’t remember much, a lot of it is overshadowed by the memory of the pain. But he says it has something to do with missing coins. Nickels.”
Joey stared at Dean for several long seconds, bewildered. “Nickels?”
“That’s what he said.” Dean shrugged helplessly.
“I don’t suppose Chris knows where her nickels are?”
Dean shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“Then we have to find her,” she said. “We have to stop her… maybe that will help him what, cross over?” She wasn’t certain of the appropriate terminology; this was all pretty new to her.
Dean didn’t quibble, so it must have been good enough. “He says he doesn’t know, but he’d really like it to stop.”
“God, I’m so sorry, Chris,” Joey said, wiping her eyes again. “I can’t even begin to imagine what this has been like for you. But as far as you know, she’s not after the rest of the… family?”
Dean gave her a queer look over the brief stumble, but it wasn’t as queer as the one he would have given her if she hadn’t been more careful with her words.
“He doesn’t think so, but he can’t be sure. There are too many holes in his memory.”
Joey reached for her drink, suddenly wishing her coffee were a little more Irish. “We’ll figure this out, Chris. Somehow. Sam and I are on the case, even if the ass has been dodging my calls and texts for days now. It’s probably time I pay him a visit in person.”
The conversation lulled for a moment. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, but she had limited time and didn’t know quite where to start. “What’s it like, where you are?” she asked, curiously.
“Lonely,” Chris replied, through Dean. “No one can see me or talk to me, until I met this fine gentleman anyway.”
Joey arched a brow. “Fine gentleman?”
“You can pay me to talk for him, but trash talking myself is extra,” Dean quipped. Joey rolled her eyes.
“Is there anything else you want me to do?” she asked, directing her question over Dean’s left shoulder. She wasn’t sure where Chris was, but they both seemed to get the hint.
There was another quiet pause, followed by, “Be good, be strong. Leave nothing unfinished, no regrets behind. You never know which moment is going to be your last.”
Joey sat there quietly in the wake of those words, contemplating the unspoken sentiment hanging in the air. She wondered if Chris had been with her for the great revelation the previous night, but this wasn’t really the time to ask.
“I’ll do my best,” she promised. “Just do me a favor and stay out of the bathroom while I’m in there, okay?”
Dean laughed. This time, she was sure it was for both of them.
17
Joey didn’t waste any time after her meeting with Dean and Chris; she left the restaurant with keys in hand, hopped in the car and drove straight to her parents’ house. Sam couldn’t avoid her forever; she knew where he lived.
Joey spent the better part of the drive trying to figure out the best way to break the news to Sam that their brother was a ghost. Should she do it before or after she kicked his ass for shutting her out of his investigation? Her meeting with Dean had left her frustrated and annoyed on top of a fresh layer of heartache, and Sam deserved at least his share of her ire.
When she followed the drive around to the back of the house, Sam’s truck was parked in its usual spot. She parked behind him, so he couldn’t escape. Not that she was expecting him to run out and jump in his truck for some kind of dramatic getaway, but in her present mood she wasn’t taking any chances.
Joey let herself in quietly through the back door and eased it shut, light on her feet in hopes of avoiding her parents. Or at least her mother. Dialing Sam’s number, she pressed her phone to her ear but listened more through the other ear for the sound of his ringtone as she crept deeper into the house.
There’s more than one way to skin a wolf.
A phone rang somewhere downstairs, but it was quickly silenced and voicemail picked up. Frowning, she hung up and dialed again when she reached the foot of the stairs. The ringtone sounded again. Her head swiveled toward the east wing, but again the ringing phone was silenced swiftly. Smirking, she tiptoed down the hall and dialed again. This time, there was no accompanying ringing. He’d silenced his phone.
Undaunted, she prowled along the hall, nostrils flaring to scent the air and keen ears on alert. She caught a murmur of conversation outside the door to her mother’s study. The room was decently sound proofed, so she couldn’t quite make out what was being said but she recognized the timbre of Sam’s voice on the other side of the door.
Sighing, Joey blew a lock of hair out of her eyes and retreated quietly back down the hall. She wasn’t riled up enough to barge in so she decided to do the next best thing: she went upstairs to Sam’s bedroom and flopped in his desk chair to wait for him.
The better part of an hour passed before he stepped into the room. When he did, she spun slowly in the chair to face him.
“Samuel,” she said, in her best Adelaide Grant impression. Nose in the air and everything.
Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. It was quite satisfying.
“Jesus, Joey. Give a man a heart attack, will you?” he said, closing the door behind him.
Snorting, Joey twirled a rubber band from his desk around one finger. “You’ve been a big bad wolf, so I felt like you deserved having your house blown down,” she said, with a smirk.
“I was going to call you in the morning,” he said, approaching the desk and leaning down to unlock the filing drawer. Opening the drawer, he took out a manila folder.
“Right, of course you were,” she replied, with no small amount of sarcasm. “See this?” She pointed at her chin. “This is my skeptical face. What the hell, man? You said you’d be in touch, and then you went silent for days. The only reason I didn’t think you were lying in a ditch somewhere is that Mom wasn’t freaking out.”
“Didn’t say when,” he said, hardly apologetic.
Joey ground her teeth.
“But since you’re here,” Sam continued, “I’ve got something for you.” He offered her the folder.
Frowning, Joey snatched it from his hand. “This had better be good,” she said, eyeing him as she opened
it. “What is it?”
“Police report. Detective’s case notes.”
Joey’s eyes widened, darting down to the folder’s contents. It was all there. Crime scene photos, coroner’s limited report, transcriptions of interviews—including her own—and case notes. “Holy shit. Where’d you get this?” She glanced up at him briefly before burying her nose in the file once more.
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. The case is still open, and that folder can’t leave this room,” he said, firmly.
As she leafed through page after page, photo after photo, Joey didn’t see much that she hadn’t already known about. Nonetheless, she appreciated the time and effort that the detectives had put into the case. There were even a few police sketches of what the woman that had been seen leaving Santiago’s with Chris might look like. Tasha, Chris had said. She studied the woman’s image without a hint of recognition, then moved on.
At the back of the file was a report that caught her eye. Clipped to it was a photo, captured from security camera footage. The timestamp showed the day after Chris's murder. In the picture, a woman stood at a bank teller station, conducting a transaction.
Her breath caught in her throat. She recognized that woman. Why was her picture in the file? What did it have to do with Chris's murder? She schooled her face into neutrality while she took a closer look at the report. It seemed that a certain woman, photograph attached, had presented herself at the First National Bank of San Diego as one Chris Martin and withdrew eleven thousand dollars from the account, effectively closing it.
Joey blinked. The email had been real. “What the fuck?” This time she was unable to keep the astonishment from her face.
“I take it you didn’t know about that?”
“No. I didn’t even know he had an account with this bank.” She had to close her eyes, sighing as a fresh wave of pain washed over her heart. More secrets.
“Where did he get eleven thousand dollars?” she asked, opening her eyes to look over at Sam. He had withdrawn to lean against the wall nearby, thick arms folded across his broad chest.
“Your guess is as good as mine. Actually, I’d hoped it might be better.”
Frowning, Joey looked at the report again and read something so confusing that she had to read it again. Out loud.
“Suspect in photo identified via facial recognition as Tammy Nichols of Eastgate, Nevada. Reported missing June 2, 2014?”
Nichols. Nickels. This isn’t about coins, it’s about her.
“That’s what it says,” Sam said with a nod. “They haven’t found her yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“No doubt,” Joey murmured absently, looking over the report one more time, scanning for anything she might have missed. “This is all well and good but this woman looks nothing like the police sketches. Not sure where that puts us.”
She did her best to play it cool, but when she looked over at Sam again he was eyeing her. Guilt gnawed at her briefly, but she shoved it aside. So many people around her were keeping secrets, why couldn’t she have a few of her own? She resolved not to tell him about Chris's current situation either. Not yet, anyway.
“Well, it puts you off the suspect list, at least,” he said. “Until that footage came through, Harding suspected you might have withdrawn the money. Eleven thousand dollars is a good motive for murder.” His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he removed it to check the screen.
Joey took advantage of his momentary distraction. She slipped the bank security photo from under the paperclip and tucked it down the front of her shirt. Snapping the folder closed, she tossed it on the desk and pushed to her feet.
“Don’t think this makes up for shutting me out,” she said, eyeing her brother on her way past him to the door. “You owe me. If you find out anything else, I expect to be in the loop.”
Sam grunted, non-committal at best.
Mumbling something about stone age chauvinism, Joey closed the door firmly on her way out. It wasn’t quite a slam—that would draw unwanted attention and she was intent upon escaping without delay.
What a shit show. She knew when Sam hadn’t returned her calls or texts that he was holding out on her, but she hadn’t dreamed of this much. How he’d gotten that file smuggled out of the police department, she might never know, but he was right about one thing: she was better off not knowing.
As she slid behind the wheel of the car, she checked the time on her phone. It was almost four o’clock; she had a narrow window to make her own trip to the bank before paying “Tammy Nichols” a visit.
“Hey! Sorry to drop by unannounced. Is Cheryl home?” Joey stepped inside the loft while Emma held the door open. She hadn’t seen Cheryl’s car in the parking lot, so she wasn’t expecting her to be around.
“No, she has a gig tonight,” Emma said, closing the door.
Joey pounced. A wide-eyed Emma found her back pressed to the door. Joey’s hand clutched her throat. There was fear in Emma’s wide green eyes as she reached up to grip Joey’s forearm. It wasn’t the movement of someone trained in self defense. Kicking would have been a much better bet.
Neither would help her right now.
Joey stared into the other woman’s eyes, fierce despite her diminutive size. Physical threats had never been her thing, but she could be intimidating when she wanted to be.
“So, Tammy. It’s Tammy, right? Not Emma?”
Emma’s face was starting to turn red. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She clawed ineffectually at Joey’s fingers, trying to loosen their viselike grip.
Joey loosened her hold enough to let Emma draw a choked breath, but kept her pinned against the door.
“Please don’t hurt me!” Emma—or Tammy—managed to choke out. Joey wasn’t sure who she was anymore. Fond memories were tangled in her mind with the bitter taste of betrayal.
“The only reason I haven’t turned you in to the cops yet is that there’s a very small voice in my head screaming that there must be some logical explanation. That you couldn’t possibly have something to do with Chris's death,” Joey said, voice low and tight. Controlled, but with a hint of menace.
Emma—Joey had trouble thinking of her as anyone else—began to tremble. If she’d been a wolf, she would have been cowering, tail between her legs.
“I didn’t kill him!” Emma managed to exclaim. She was starting to blubber, not holding up well under the gale force of Joey’s anger.
“Do you know who did?” Joey asked, narrowing her eyes.
“No! God, Joey, you have to believe me. Chris was my friend too. I’d never hurt him!” Emma squeaked.
Joey stared at her for a long moment; fingers tightening once more.
She’s involved in this somehow, I know it.
Emma made a choked noise, her face turning red. Lips parted, gasping. Watery eyes pleaded for respite.
Joey felt a sudden tightness around her waist, hauling her away from the other woman. Her heels dragged on the carpet as she fought against her unseen assailant but there was no one there. No one corporeal, anyway.
“Judas!” she shouted into the open air. Chris—at least she assumed it was Chris—released her about ten feet away.
Emma lingered in place, gasping for breath as she pressed her own back against the door now. Wide-eyed and quivering, she reminded Joey of cornered prey. The wolf in her wanted to give chase. Joey clenched her fists, nails biting into palms.
“Joey, you’re scaring me,” Emma said. “What’s going on? How do you know that name? What makes you think I have something to do with Chris's murder?”
Frowning, Joey crossed her arms. She started pacing, but kept her distance, not trusting herself to get any closer in her current state. “Is that your real name? Tammy Nichols?”
Emma hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Does Cheryl know?”
“Yes.”
Joey stilled, hesitating. “Did Chris know?”
“No,” Emma said. “He—he knew I ran away from a ba
d situation, but he didn’t know I was using an alias. Is he here?” She looked around, slowly starting to gather her composure again. The notion that her dead friend’s shade might be in the room didn’t seem to scare her nearly as much as Joey had.
“Apparently,” Joey said, glancing at the empty air around her. “I guess he’s not as pissed at you as I am.” she growled, then shifted her focus back to Emma. “And since he can’t talk to me right now, I need you to tell me about the bank account.”
Emma swallowed and wet her lips with her tongue. “What bank account?”
Joey glared at her and fished the photograph out of her back pocket, unfolded it and took a few steps closer to thrust it in Emma’s face.
Emma looked like she wanted to retreat through the door. “Shit,” she said, swiping tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers. “I knew going there was a risk, but they would have frozen the account once they found out about his death.”
“Still waiting on an explanation,” Joey said, with sorely tested patience.
Sighing, Emma pulled off her glasses and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of a hand. “Chris opened the account to help me out. The money in it was mine, I swear.”
“Maybe you’d better sit down and back up a little bit,” Joey suggested, nodding tersely toward the dining table.
Emma nodded and walked over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. She leaned an elbow on the table and sighed.
“When I was nineteen, I—I joined a cult. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that’s what it was. I thought I was in love, but I was just young and stupid. He made a lot of promises, but in the end it was all about luring in vulnerable women to worship him. It took me six years to wise up and figure out how to escape. I ran away, and I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since. I knew he wouldn’t just let me go. I know—I know too much, and then there’s the matter of the money I took…” Emma grimaced with the admission.
“You stole eleven thousand dollars from a cult in Nevada?” Joey exclaimed.
“No, no. I only stole five thousand dollars from him. The rest was mine. Sort of.” Emma sounded very tired all of a sudden, but she continued, “I started an underground community for cult survivors, on the dark web. We support each other, and pool resources to help get people out of bad situations all over the world. We help them start over, so they don’t have to do what I—what I had to do. What was left of the stolen money went into the NBF—the New Beginning Fund. Some of it pays for our operating expenses. But the greater portion of it is our nest egg for those in need.” She seemed quite earnest about it; there was truth in Emma’s shining eyes as she looked over at her estranged friend.
