by J. D. Monroe
“I can,” she says.
Another long silence. If Georgia’s waiting for an apology, that’s as good as she gets.
Georgia finally takes a deep breath. “I tried to tell them it was Adam.”
“Me too. Did they believe you?”
“Nope,” Georgia says. “They said they interviewed him already. I did ask them why they arrested us, though.”
“And?”
“They got a tip about thirty minutes before that we were stalking Adam,” she says. “Calloway gave us a break halfway through class. Adam must have spotted me then and called it in.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” Georgia says. “He knows we’re on to him.”
She shakes her head. “I hate the living sometimes.” As the excitement of the morning wears off, exhaustion starts to tug at her like an undertow. “I guess there’s one upside to being arrested.”
“There is?”
Charity closes her eyes. “We’ve got time to kill, and that means I finally get a nap.”
The sun is just coming up, peeking in around the corner, when Officer Buxton comes to the holding cell to let them out. Charity wakes with sweaty hair plastered to her neck. As his keys jangle in the lock, she’s still scrubbing at eyes glued together by two-day-old mascara.
“You’re being released,” Buxton says gruffly as he opens the cell door.
Georgia is immediately alert. How does she do that? No creases on her face from sleeping, hair still perfectly neat.
“Why?” Charity asks.
Buxton’s face is pale, lines set in his handsome young face. She knows exactly what happened, but she clamps down on it in a rare moment of self-restraint.
“Boss said so,” he says.
“They found another body, didn’t they?” Georgia says.
“You know something about it?”
“No,” Georgia says. “But doesn’t this prove we didn’t have anything to do with it?”
Buxton rolls his eyes. “The lieutenant says if you even think about showing your face around campus again, you’ll be back here and he’ll press charges for stalking.”
“Oh, I’d like to see—ow.” Georgia’s fingers dig into the fine tendons in Charity’s wrist, and she sees white fireworks as she swallows her outburst.
“We’ll steer clear,” Georgia says. “Don’t worry.”
“Hey handsome, how about a ride?” Charity says. Georgia clamps down again, but Charity grits her teeth. “Back to campus for our car, I mean.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart. I hear there’s this thing called a taxi,” Officer Buxton says. “Now get out of here before I lock you back up.”
When they get back to the car, Georgia immediately turns the police scanner on again. After a call for a traffic accident, there’s dead silence. “So what now?”
“I think our newest body is dead either way, and we’re not getting close to the scene without getting busted. So I want a shower and clean underwear,” Charity says. “And then we’ll regroup.”
They’ve been gone from the RV for over thirty-six hours at this point, and she hasn’t bathed or brushed her teeth since then. Her face feels greasier than the cheeseburgers at Mike’s. The black-and-tan motorhome looks like paradise on wheels as they crest the hill to their campsite.
There’s a gleaming black Mustang parked in Georgia’s spot under the RV’s awning. Nevada tags, way too expensive for Charity’s social circle. Georgia parks in front of it and cuts the ignition. Charity can hear the vague boom of music from the car. There’s a dark-haired woman sitting in the driver’s seat.
When Georgia opens her door, the driver of the black car looks up.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Charity says. Her stomach plunges. This must be karma for getting her and Georgia stuck in jail overnight. “This is not happening.”
Georgia steps out of the car, shielding her eyes as a tall woman gets out of the Mustang. “Can I help you?”
“I highly doubt it,” she says, eyes shielded behind oversized sunglasses. She leans against the car, arms crossed over a generous chest. “Considering I drove across three goddamn time zones to help you.”
“And who are you?”
“Name’s Patience,” she says. “Patience Dupree.”
27. PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE
“YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF,” Charity says. She walks past the sports car, letting her gaze linger enough to get an eyeful. How on God’s green earth did Patience afford that? It used to be high on both of their bucket lists—get laid under the stars on the hood of a Mustang. She mentally removes it from her list as she tears her gaze away. “Georgia, keys.”
Georgia hangs back, staring at their unwelcome guest with something that straddles the shaky line between admiration and schoolgirl crush. She looks like she’s going to start humping Patience’s leg any second now. “You’re her sister.”
“Half-sister,” Patience corrects. She pushes her rhinestoned sunglasses on top of her head and shakes out her hair like a stripper taking center stage. Charity suddenly feels self-conscious about her limp hair and rumpled clothes. “How was jail, Cherry?”
“How do you—whatever,” Charity says. “One, don’t call me that. Two, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re not staying. Georgia, keys.”
Is she the redneck Bloody Mary or what? Charity made the mistake of thinking she should call, and her sister appears out of nowhere. With the way the case is going, she knows she needs to involve Patience. But dammit, if she had to do it, she wanted to call the shots. And she certainly didn’t want Patience to show up on her doorstep.
Patience leans over to grab a backpack out of the passenger’s seat. Low-slung jeans dip dangerously low to show the feathery wings of the massive angel tattoo on her back.
“Put that shit right back in your car,” Charity says. Her guts are marinating in a spicy mix of guilt, anger, fear, and half a dozen other things that don’t mix well with her sister. Her hands shake, and she clamps them down on the strap of her bag. “Georgia, if you don’t give me the keys, I’m going to rip the damn door off.”
Georgia gapes at Patience, then back at Charity. Finally, she shakes herself out of her googly-eyed daze and hurries to unlock the door. Charity storms in and grabs the first set of clothes she sees from her duffel bag. She’s about to head for the shower when Patience cuts around her to step into her path. Damn, she’s fast.
She looks up. Patience is already a solid four inches taller than she is, and she’s wearing a pair of high-heeled snakeskin boots—they’re gorgeous, but impractical, and Patience knows it—that put her well over six feet tall.
“I don’t want you here.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” she says. She wrinkles her nose, and Charity feels twelve years old and pre-teen awkward all over again. “You look like shit. Hey Georgia, you got a coffee pot? Been driving all night.”
“She’s not staying,” Charity says.
“Well, I’m guessing this place belongs to Georgia dearest, so I don’t think that’s your decision,” Patience says. “Coffee?”
Georgia scurries into the kitchen and promptly drops her keys on the floor. She’s jittery as she fumbles a pod into the coffee maker.
“No coffee,” Charity snaps. Is she deaf or just stupid?
“Georgia, you’re a grown woman, and you don’t have to listen to her. This is her way of pissing on her territory,” Patience says over Charity’s shoulder. She turns back and gives Charity a disapproving look that is pure Harmony. Charity may have gotten her mother’s features, but Patience is Harmony reincarnated. “How about you cool your shit and listen to me?”
“How about no, and add an extra side of go fuck yourself?” Charity says. “Now get out of my way.”
Patience doesn’t budge. Charity’s already burning hot and ready to blow after the couple of days they’ve had. She’s mostly controlled herself because Georgia doesn’t deserve her wrath, but there’s a good six months’ worth o
f bottled up anger labeled with Patience Dupree’s name.
“I came to help with your case, since you can’t seem to handle it yourself,” Patience says. “And did you seriously think you could hide the fact that Mom was talking?”
“I didn’t hide anything from you. In fact, I’ve done nothing but respect your wishes,” Charity says. “Which were, if you’ll kindly recall, to lose your number because you didn’t need jack shit from me anymore. Now move.”
She goes to push Patience aside, but her sister grabs her wrist and holds it firm without a hint of strain. “Grow up.”
“What can you do to help?” Georgia asks. The coffee pot starts burbling.
“Really, Georgia?” Charity snaps.
“How about pictures and a detailed file on the most recent victim? You know, the one that was killed while you two dipshits were in jail?”
Georgia flinches at the insult. Yeah, see how awesome she is? Charity thinks. She recovers quickly and says, “Show us.”
“Traitor.”
“Take a shower, and then we’ll talk,” Patience says. “How about that coffee, Georgia? Plenty of sugar if you please.”
The shower doesn’t do much to calm her down. What the hell is Patience doing here? And how did she find them? It figures that Patience can ruin one of the few peaceful things in her life—a good hot shower.
The door rattles as someone slams a hand against it. “Hurry up,” Patience shouts.
“Eat a dick,” Charity mutters as she cuts off the water and wrings out her hair. Hunting with Georgia is complicated enough without throwing her sister into the mix.
Not to mention that Patience’s arrival has thrown yet another layer of guilt on her like a stifling blanket. Should have called her days ago, Charity thinks. Patience could have talked Nicky into helping, and they might have nailed Adam even before he killed Gabe. That’s two lives that could have been saved. It’s a good thing she hasn’t eaten, because there’s nothing to throw up when her stomach heaves. Her throat burns, and her blurry eyes focus on the dark script of her tattoo. It reminds her of Christina, who’s a little older and far wiser.
It’s too bad her phone is out on the counter with the rest of her things, or she’d call Christina right here. What would she tell me?
Well, she’d probably agree that Charity should pull her head out of her ass and call Patience, preferably months ago. But she’d also tell her there was no use crying over it now.
She’s barely gotten the towel wrapped around herself when Patience yanks the door open, looming over her like an Amazon. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Patience says. “You’re wasting daylight. Get out here.”
Georgia’s face reddens when Charity storms out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel that barely covers her ass cheeks. “You—you want coffee?”
“Love some,” Charity says, flipping her sopping wet hair over one shoulder. “Now what do you have?”
“Well, I got a call from Mom,” Patience says. She settles right into Charity’s spot at the dinette, like she’s got a natural instinct for the most direct way to disrupt her sister’s life. “Thanks for the heads up, by the way.”
“Whatever. You didn’t call me, either.”
Patience shrugs. She takes a sip of her coffee and nods appreciatively to Georgia, who all but swoons. “Case worker told me she’d already talked to you. Said you were a real asshole on the phone.”
“I’m sure she didn’t say asshole.”
“It was implied. So, Mom started up about the shadow again, said it had finally let her go and be at peace,” Patience says. “I hate to say I told you so, but—”
“No you don’t,” Charity says. “You love to say it.”
“Well, when you’re right, you’re right.”
“We’re not having this discussion again,” Charity says, throwing her hand up as she sits down on the bench opposite her sister. It feels weird, facing off against her sister with Georgia at her side. “She said the same thing to me.”
“Anyway, I figured it was worth looking into,” Patience says, arching one thin eyebrow. Her sister can load more fuck you into a twitch of her eyebrow than the unrated cut of a Tarantino film. “Then Mom mentions you’ve been to see her. So I look for you, and I find you tits-deep in a double murder.”
“You skipped a whole lot from seeing Harmony to finding me,” Charity says.
Patience rolls her eyes. “Fucking duh, Charity Lee. I set up your phone account. I have your password.”
“And?”
“Jesus,” she mutters. “How are you even alive on your own?” She sets down her coffee cup and opens the laptop. She turns it so Charity can watch as a search brings up the Find Phone feature. Patience enters Charity’s user name and password, then clicks “I Lost My Phone.” A red, pulsing dot appears right over Caywood, North Carolina.
“Dammit.”
At first, it irritates her, like finding her snooping through her purse. Then she wonders if Patience has been checking in on her. Has her sister ever laid awake at night wishing she hadn’t stormed out?
Probably not.
Maybe.
“Yeah,” Patience says. “Searched the local news, saw the Crane and Mullins cases, and figured this is where the action is. Listened to the scanner on the way in and got a peek at the newest body. College kid named Mike Wagner. You know him?”
Charity glances at Georgia. She shrugs. He wasn’t in the play or the project group, so he never even crossed their radar. It’s a small comfort to know they had virtually no chance of finding him.
But you could have stopped Adam, she thinks coldly.
“Well, we’re at a dead end,” Charity says. “So what do you have that we don’t?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“See? This is why no one likes you,” Charity says.
“Oh, really? How about—”
“Seriously, can you both just shut up?” Georgia snaps, slamming her coffee down on the table. When Patience turns her steely glare on the redhead, she shrinks back a little. It takes her a second to regain her composure. “I get it, okay? You don’t like each other. But honestly, I don’t care. Am I the only one who wants to make sure no one else gets killed?”
Charity’s cheeks go hot. “You’re right.”
“Fine,” Patience says. She turns slowly, ignoring Georgia again. There’s something about the way her sister dismisses the younger girl that stokes her temper again. She feels strangely protective of Georgia. “I think this is connected to Mom.”
Charity sighs. “It definitely is.”
Patience freezes and stares at her over the edge of the coffee cup. “You’re agreeing with me? On this?”
“A local professor bought the knife Harmony used to kill Dad and John,” Charity says. “It was stolen right before Tommy was killed.”
“There’s also the similarities in the kill,” Patience says.
“Yeah, I saw it up close and personal,” Charity says flatly. “More than once. How does that help us?”
“Maybe it’s a ritual? I don’t know,” Patience says. “I do know it goes in threes.”
“Where are you getting three? Harmony only killed two people,” Charity says.
“Not for lack of trying,” Patience says. “When I went to talk to her, she said she’d been obsessed with killing ever since then. Said she’d dream about it every night.”
“Who was going to be her last?”
Patience scowls. “You know.”
Charity wants to press the issue and make Patience admit the part she always dodges, but Georgia cuts them off.
“If the ritual goes in threes, then it’s over,” Georgia says. “Tommy Crane, Gabriel Mullins, and now Mike Wagner. We lose.”
Patience shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You can count to three, right?” Charity says.
“Tommy Crane,” Patience says. “He was stabbed a couple of times in the back. That’s it. None
of the ritual stuff. I don’t think he counts.”
“It was in public,” Georgia says, her eyes lighting up as she processes. “He couldn’t do it right and get away with it.”
Patience nods. “Now you’re cooking with gas. What have you two put together?”
“Everything we’ve got so far points to this guy Adam Keller,” Charity says. “He was friends with the first two victims, and I’d bet he knew Mike Wagner, too. He’s sketchy as hell.”
“So why the hell haven’t you already jumped on him?”
“We tried,” Georgia says.
“I called our police contacts,” Charity says, arching her eyebrow at Patience. “Nicky Baker might as well have told me to fuck off. Any idea why?”
“Because he doesn’t like you,” Patience says flatly.
“And why is that?”
“Should I make you a list?”
Any wistful nostalgia for the old days with Patience is rapidly evaporating. Charity wonders if it’s too early to break out the four-dollar wine again. It counts as fruit juice, which arguably makes it part of the four basic food groups.
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him we parted ways,” Patience says.
“Anyway,” Georgia says, glancing between them nervously. “After Gabriel Mullins was killed, we went to follow Adam, and that’s when we got arrested. The police got a tip that Adam was being stalked.”
“Sounds pretty convincing to me,” Patience says. “Smart way to get you two off his back.”
“There’s just one thing,” Georgia says. “Adam obviously called in the tip on us, right? I assumed he was trying to make it look like we were responsible for the killings. So why would he kill again while we were in jail? Kind of defeats the purpose.”
“He’s not in control of himself,” Patience says, staring directly at Charity, as if she’s trying to make sure her little sister is picking up what she’s putting down. “It compels him to kill. My guess is that he needed to kill a lot more than he wanted to cast doubt on you two.”
