by J. Kenner
I nod. “I’m fine. Really. It was scary, and now it’s over.”
Anna’s brow furrows. “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt.”
“My ass was a little bruised, but that’s all.”
“It was freaking terrifying,” Brandy adds. “I mean if someone really did it on purpose…”
“Do you really think the driver was trying to run you down?” Tracy asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “It might have just been random. There wasn’t a license plate, so maybe it was a stolen car and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Anna crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t honestly believe that.”
“No,” I admit. “But nothing else happened since. It might not have been directed at me at all. Or it might be tied to an article I’m writing. Maybe someone doesn’t like me poking around.”
“Occupational hazard, I guess,” Anna says, then shakes her head with a sigh. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d be looking over my shoulder every minute of every day. And now you’re having to deal with all the social media, too.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say, though I hate being in the public eye like that.
“Ellie avoids all the social media sites,” Brandy chimes in, “but I’ve been paying attention. There were a lot of pictures right after the Range Rover thing, but that was a few days ago. It’s mostly calmed down.” She shrugs. “Considering you’re dating Devlin, and he’s both rich and very easy on the eyes, there’ve been fewer posts than I would have thought.”
“Which is good,” I say. “Because I really don’t feel the need for my face to be plastered on everyone’s phones.” That’s not a lie. But I’m mostly relieved that we’re not the trending topic since any man with a secret identity should avoid too much scrutiny.
When I meet Anna’s eyes, I have a feeling she’s thinking the same thing. But, of course, we can’t say anything because we’re with Tracy, who doesn’t know who Devlin used to be.
“How about you?” Anna directs the question to Brandy. “You want your fortune read?”
She shakes her head. “I want to get Christopher something.” She points at Anna and then Tracy. “Do not tell him. It’s a surprise.”
“What is?” Tracy asks.
“Not sure yet. That’s why I want to look around.” She catches my eye. “Keep me company?”
I agree, and we wave the other two off, then start to meander through the booths again. “So what are we looking for? Anything in mind?”
“Maybe. I’ve already started on part of the present. I texted Tamra this morning.”
“Tamra?”
Brandy nods, clearly pleased with herself. “The Laguna Leader is going to run an article about the thriller author doing research in our town, but since it’s a surprise, I don’t want them interviewing Christopher. So she’s going to throw together some background research on him and his career they can use.”
“That’s a great idea. But if it’s all in place, what are you looking for at the festival?”
“Maybe an engraved wooden fountain pen. I saw a booth a few blocks down. That seems authorial, right?”
“Very. But what’s the occasion? Birthday?”
Her eyes light up as she shakes her head. “Nope. I just want him to know I appreciate him.”
I pause, forcing the crowd to go around us as I tug her to a stop beside me. “You had the talk.”
Her smile blooms. “This morning. We talked about the rape and giving the baby up for adoption. Everything. He was great about it. I mean, really great.”
“I’m so glad,” I say as we start moving again. “So the gift is a thanks for being great present?”
“Pretty much.”
I press my hand to her shoulder. “And you? You’re okay?”
“Yeah.” She hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, totally.”
I pull her to a stop, this time sidling up against the side of a booth selling honey and beeswax candles. “Why am I hearing a but? Did he get weird?”
“No, no. Christopher was great…” She trails off, the corner of her mouth turning down.
“Brandy?”
“Okay, okay. I know it’s only my imagination, but after I told him, I thought I saw the guy.”
“The guy? Walt?” We hardly ever use his name when we talk about him, but this moment calls for clarity.
She nods, her arms wrapped tight around herself. “I know I’m probably projecting. It’s got to be fear, right? You know, that I’m worrying about having a flashback or shutting down or something if Christopher and I … you know.”
“Do you think you should see someone? Not about thinking you saw Walt,” I hurry to explain. “But someone who can help you work through the sex part. You want it to be good. Special. And if you freeze up or get scared or—”
“No. No therapist.”
“Brandy…”
She tilts her head, and I hold my hands up in surrender to the unspoken message—even with all my shit, I’m not seeing a counselor, so I’m hardly one to talk.
“Fine,” I say. “Just make sure Christopher understands. And that he’s patient. And I’m sure he will be. Billy didn’t know your history. Christopher does. It’ll all be good.”
“I know.” She looks around, as if scoping out the crowd. “And it couldn’t have really been him, right?”
“It’s your mind playing tricks. You were thinking about him, and so there he was. Totally natural. Don’t worry about it.”
“Right. Okay.” She draws a breath. “Come on. Lots more browsing to do.”
An hour later, we’ve shopped our way down another block when my phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and see a picture of the sign from two streets over. The note from Devlin reads - Plan is to meet here in ten minutes. OK?
I text him back a thumbs-up, then tell Brandy, who immediately texts Christopher to make sure he knows the plan. Turns out he’s still with Devlin, so all is good.
We start making our way through the throng to get to the slightly less crowded area one street over. The bar is easy enough to find, not only from the sign, but because Lamar is standing outside waving to us.
“Where are the others?”
“Devlin and Christopher went in with Anna to hold a table, but Tracy bailed,” he says. “She’d already planned a video chat with her mom tonight.”
“So you’re out here being the greeter?” Brandy asks.
Lamar shakes his head. “I did some poking around.” He turns his attention to me. “I have some news on the blonde. The one Ortega saw with Peter.”
Brandy lifts a finger to pause the conversation. “I’ll go on in so they know we’re here, and you two can talk.”
We give her our drink orders, then Lamar and I step further from the door. “So what have you learned?”
“Those archives you wanted from the original investigation into Peter’s death came in this morning, so I did a quick flip through the files.”
My stomach twists with anticipation. “You looked at the witness interviews?”
He nods. “The investigation closed pretty quickly. I mean, once Mercado confessed…”
He trails off as I twirl my hand impatiently. “Yeah. But you found something. About the blonde. What?”
“Might be nothing,” he says. “But they talked with a guy named Cyrus Mulroy. Apparently, he and Peter were acquainted.”
“Drugs?”
He shakes his head, then rubs his hand over his head, the way he does when he’s stalling.
“Lamar, what?”
“I’ve busted Cyrus myself a time or two. He’s pushing sixty now, served time. He’s moved inland. Mission Viejo, I think. I never saw evidence of drugs.”
“Then what—”
“Porn,” Lamar says, flatly. “And he swore in interview that he’d done business with Peter.”
I take a step back, feeling sick. “No.”
He holds up his hands, shaking his head, and when he speaks, I hea
r the emotion in his voice. “I know it’s not what you want to hear—and honestly, there might be nothing there. But you deserve to have all the facts.”
“And what are the facts?” My voice is harsh and cold, and I don’t want it to be. Whoever Peter was—whatever he did—I want to know the truth. And I feel like the worst of friends for lashing out at Lamar since Peter isn’t there to field my pain and disappointment.
To his credit, he doesn’t even flinch, and that sweet understanding helps me settle myself. I square my shoulders and say more gently, “It’s okay. Whatever it is, I’ll deal.”
“Like I said, it may be nothing,” he says. “As far as I know, the department never had its eye on Peter for pornography.”
I shrug. “That doesn’t mean much. The LCPD didn’t have its eye on Peter for drugs until after he was dead.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Lamar says. “But there’s also nothing in the Mulroy interview to suggest there was any sort of steady business. He said he dealt with him. That word specifically. So it could’ve been a one-time thing.”
I nod, trying to process everything. “And you think the blonde…”
He lifts his hands. “It’s only a hunch. Maybe I shouldn’t have even said anything to you. Not until I had more, anyway.”
I move close and take his hands. “No. Thanks. I’m glad you told me. I don’t know what it means, but it’s a solid hunch. But I doubt he’d have taken her up to LA and introduced her to his mechanic as his girlfriend if she was tied up in porn, too.”
“Good point. Still, it’s an angle. You want to find out more about Peter—what he was into, what motivated him to get dirty in the first place—you should talk to Mulroy.”
“Can you get me an address or phone number?”
“I’ll track him down,” he says. “Maybe between him and the blonde—if you ever find her—you’ll get more of a picture.”
“I hope so,” I say. Because the truth is, the more I learn about my uncle, the more I realize how hard it is to really know anything about anybody.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lamar holds the door open so that we can go in and join the others, but as I’m about to walk through, I hear my name.
I turn and see a woman with a vaguely familiar face behind us. “Carrie? Oh my God.” I turn to Lamar. “I knew her in high school. Go on in. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He nods, and I hurry toward Carrie, who’s hurrying down the sidewalk toward me. “Carrie Bartlett! You look amazing.” Tall and blond with wavy hair, tight jeans, and as much attitude as she had in school, Carrie looks like she should be on a catwalk.
“Are you really fucking him?”
I stiffen, my body turning cold from the harshness in her words. “Excuse me?”
“Devlin Saint,” she says. “He’s a liar and a prick.”
“What are you talking about? Oh, fuck.” Without thinking, I reach out and grab her upper arms. “Are you the one sending me those texts?” I demand, practically spitting with fury. “Is it you who’s harassing us?”
She jerks free of my grasp, her blue eyes as cold as ice. “Texts? What the fuck? I’m trying to do you a favor, you idiot. Don’t trust him.”
I just stand there stupidly, my mind spinning as I try to process where this is coming from. “Wait,” I say. “I remember. You dated him. In New York, a few years ago. You were with him at some event he was speaking at.”
I hadn’t paid attention to Devlin Saint back then, but The Spall had covered the black tie event where Saint had announced that he was building a permanent location for his foundation in Laguna Cortez. It was a weird coincidence that my old high school friend was his date, but at the same time, it wasn’t too surprising. God knows Carrie has the model-like looks of a woman often found on the arms of billionaires.
I might have even called the hotel and tried to catch up, but I’d been mugged that weekend, and after the attack, all thoughts of the rich philanthropist and his date from my past had fizzled from my mind.
Now I wonder how long they’d dated … and what had happened to end it.
“Nothing he says is real,” she continues, before I can ask. “Remember that, Ellie. Nothing he says is real.”
I shake my head. “Whatever happened between the two of you—”
“You are so naive. Believe me, Ellie. I’m not some jealous twit. I’m trying to help you.” Her eyes bore into me. “Get clear, okay? Because Devlin Saint is a fucking monster.”
My heart is pounding so hard in my ears that I can barely hear my own voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I know you’re wrong.”
She doesn’t answer. Just looks me up and down. Then she shrugs and says, “I tried. It’s on you, now.” She turns on her heel and pushes into the crowd. I start to follow her, but a tall man hurries past me into the bar, and in the time it takes for me to realize I’ve been blocking the door, she disappears.
“You okay?” the hostess asks.
“I’m fine,” I lie, then point to the back corner. “I’m with them.” I’m already walking before the words are out of my mouth.
Devlin sees me coming, his smile lighting his face as he stands and pulls out the chair next to him. I don’t sit, though. Instead, I wrap my arms around him and press my face against his chest, breathing in his scent. He gently strokes my hair. “What happened?”
I shake my head, clinging to him for a moment longer before pulling back and tilting my head up so that I can see him. “Nothing. I ran into an old friend. Let’s just say she’s not in your fan club.”
His brow furrows. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not now. Later.” That’s two things for us to talk about. Carrie and the revelation that Peter might have been involved in porn. For a day that started out light and breezy, it’s fast turning into something dark and depressing.
No.
With a mental shove, I force the thought away. This is our day. A day to be out in the world with our friends. No worries, no demons, no responsibilities. “I’m fine,” I say firmly. “Right now, I just want some food, a boatload of wine, our friends, and you.”
“I think we can manage that,” he says, before kissing me lightly. But I see the worry that lingers on his face as we sit. And I see that same concern reflected on every face at the table. Fucking Carrie. She always did love to grab the spotlight.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Truly.” I meet Brandy’s eyes. “I bumped into Carrie. She was in one of her bitchy moods.”
Beside me, Devlin stiffens as Brandy shoots a sideways glance at Christopher. “We went to high school together. We hung out together sometimes, but she straddled the line between us and the mean girls.”
“It wasn’t a big thing,” I say, not looking at Devlin in case my face betrays the truth. “Just a weird reunion.”
Anna, who’s on Christopher’s other side, leans around him, her hand pressed on his shoulder as if for balance. “I had friends like that growing up,” she tells Brandy before shifting her attention to me. “Never liked running into them again.”
She leans back in her chair, but I notice her hand lingers on Christopher’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, and I remind myself that it’s not a big deal. I know they’ve become good friends. I could tell that much from the time I walked in on them while they were going over plot ideas for Christopher’s book.
“So what did she say that pissed you off?” Brandy asks. “Or was she just her usual charming self?”
I wave my hand dismissively. “Just catching up bullshit,” I say. “Let’s move on.”
“Hear, hear,” Christopher says, raising his wine. I have a full glass waiting at my place, and I lift my drink in toast, too, as does the rest of the table. For a good half-hour, we settle in to food and chatter, talking about nothing much and a little bit of everything.
Lamar stands to go to the restroom, and I consider heading that way, too, but I’m feeling more than a little relaxed after polishi
ng off a full glass of wine, plus most of another. Instead, I stay put, listing a bit to the right and enjoying the feel of Devlin’s hand pressed lightly against my back.
I’m sitting like that when Devlin lifts his other hand in greeting. I follow his line of sight to see Ronan and Reggie standing in the line at the bar for to-go glasses of wine, something that’s allowed during festival days in the Laguna Cortez Arts District.
Ronan notices and raises his glass in greeting as Reggie turns, then smiles when she sees our group.
“Are they together?” I ask Devlin, keeping my eyes on Reggie’s face as I try once again to figure out why she seems so familiar.
“You mean dating? Not that I know of. But they’ve worked together enough to become good friends.”
“I think they went out once,” Anna says. “I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a second date.”
Devlin chuckles. “Not too surprising.”
“Why?” Brandy asks.
“They’re both too strong-willed,” he says.
I cross my arms over my chest and capture him in a hard stare. “And we aren’t?”
He tilts my chin up and kisses me. “We are,” he says when he pulls away, leaving me more than a little unsatisfied. “The difference is, I like it.”
My guess is that Ronan likes strong women, too, but I don’t say anything because I’ve finally realized what it is about Reggie that seems familiar—her deep set, Bette Davis eyes.
That’s got to be it, I think as they wave goodbye and head back toward the festival. Uncle Peter was a huge classic movie buff, and Bette Davis was one of his favorite stars. I tell myself I’ve solved the problem, and yet the question still lingers. Something else, I think. More specifically, somewhere else. I know her from somewhere else.
But where?
I’m just about to share my frustration with everyone at the table when Brandy gasps, then knocks over her wine. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, but as she mops it up, I see that her hand is trembling.
“Bran?”
She lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, all I can see is the fear reflected back at me. No, not fear. Terror.
