“So.” Preacher Cartwright sits back in his chair, his hands sitting like a prayer in front of his face. “What can I help you two with?”
My heart slams against my chest, but someone else’s fingers tighten around mine, sending a rush of comfort through me. I glance over, my tummy warming as I take in the rosy cheeks and shaggy hair of my very best friend.
“Mr. Cartwright, sir. We were hoping you could help us.” His voice crackles as he talks, breaking from being high pitched to a low tone and then back.
He’s getting so old and my gut cramps, worried that what my mom says is right. That once he goes to middle school in a couple years, he won’t want to be seen with me anymore.
I shake off the feeling.
Preacher Cartwright’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline but he doesn’t speak.
“Morgan’s mom is, well, you know she’s sick. And if you could maybe just ask people in town to stop being so mean, we think it might help her feel better.”
“Son, I’m afraid there’s nothing the church can do for her.” Preacher Cartwright leans back in his chair. “She needs to repent for her sins, and only then will God grant mercy upon her soul, and cleanse her of her evil spirits.”
My heart spasms. “My mom’s not evil,” I hiss through my teeth.
“Child, innocence is a blessing, but don’t speak to me with disrespect.” His big, brown gaze sears into me and it causes a burning ball to surge into my throat. I hate the way it feels.
“She’s only sick because people like you won’t give her help. You torment her in the streets,” the boy snaps. “What the fuck kind of town is this?”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Maybe you and everyone else in this town should watch yours,” my friend retorts. “Lead by example and all that.”
Preacher Cartwright leans forward, his fists slamming down on his desk. “Get out of my office before I call your mother and tell her what a bad boy you’ve been. If she won’t put the fear of God in you, maybe she’ll give me the honor.”
“Detective Sloane?”
I shoot up from my chair, my mind racing a thousand miles a minute, and my stomach churning so violently bile teases the back of my throat.
How could I have forgotten that?
But why can’t I remember?
“Carina?” Alex’s voice is there, but it’s foggy, my insides twisting and turning until my lungs squeeze so tight I can hardly breathe.
“You stay and finish this up.” I force a grin. “I’m not uh…” I place my hand on my temple, my vision blurring as my face heats. “I’m not feeling too great.”
Alex’s features scrunch in worry but I can’t stand to stay here for another second, and I spin on my heels, throwing open the door and running into the hallway.
There’s still people mingling over coffee and homemade cakes, but I push my way through, desperate to get outside, wanting to make my way somewhere that can give me answers.
I need to call my parents. I need to find Lincoln.
Just as I’ve thrown open the front doors, the cold air whipping me across the face, I slam into a hard body, my stomach clamping down and my heartbeat ramming into my ears. I jerk out of the hold, staring into Gabe’s face.
“Detective? You okay?” he asks, his hands reaching back out and gripping my shoulders.
“I…” I wipe my brow. “Do you know when Lincoln will be back?”
Gabe’s brows draw in and he pulls me down the front steps and around the corner until we’re hidden away in a secluded corner on the side of the building.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
“I think I’m gonna be sick.” I lean over, resting my hands on my knees and counting to three as I try to suck in lungfuls of air and calm down my racing heart.
“What’s wrong? Do I need to take you to the hospital?” Gabe’s voice is high strung and pinched.
I shake my head, forcing myself to look up from where I’m hunched over to meet his gaze.
“Gabe, I…” A sob works its way up my throat as I face the truth for the first time since being here.
“I think Lincoln’s right. I think I’m Morgan Jensen.”
Chapter 43
My head lolls back against my seat, my hands going limp as I drape them over my steering wheel.
I’m parked outside my mother’s house, having just gotten off the ferry after dropping my last batch of the season at an upscale restaurant near Portland.
I don’t usually do the direct sales, preferring to deal with wholesalers and grocers, but they’d been willing to pay triple for my last catch, and considering how strapped I’ve been for cash flow lately, I was in no position to decline.
Since I was on the mainland, I stopped at the bank, and I’ve been playing that conversation on a loop in my mind since I left.
“You’ll be lucky if Porter Lobster Co. makes it past the winter,” the teller says, her thin brows arching sharply. “Frankly, I’m not sure how you’re still operating at all. You have no overhead, no stream of positive revenue, and your ROI is… well, frankly, sir, it’s abysmal. At best.”
Scratching my temple with the back of my thumb, I exhale. “Even with the checks from the Wildlife Department?”
She nods, turning the monitor around to face me. Bar graphs and expenditure reports fill the screen, the grim stories they tell flooring me. “While their restoration project is enough to keep you running, it’s not enough to keep you in business. You’re not profiting off what you’re bringing in.”
I sit back in my chair, running my palms over my face. Dropping them to my lap, I look at her again, a storm brewing in my chest. “So. Four months?”
Drumming my fingers on the dashboard, I grunt and cut the engine, slinging my coat over my shoulders as I slide from the cab. I know my mother won’t enjoy this conversation, but it’s far past due.
The company needs to go.
Jingling my keys, twisting the metal around my fingers, I head up the porch and yank open the screen door, an eerie feeling crawling over my skin as I recall the last time I was here.
The Halloween party, the sex.
The murder.
People around town didn’t seem entirely surprised when they learned Sandra’s body was the next victim; apparently she’d been running around since Alta May’s death, concerned for her own personal safety.
Then, when the next church-goer corpse turned up, her paranoia grew.
Some people say she brought it on herself. That talking with the detectives angered the killer.
No one was supposed to know she’d spoken to them, but there are no secrets in this town.
And I can’t stop thinking of the crazed look in Oliver Klepsky’s beady little eyes, or the fact that he was MIA from the party when Sandra’s body showed up.
If that’s not an implication, I don’t know what is.
“Ma, I’m back,” I call, pushing open the door, pausing to wipe my boots on the welcome mat. The house is quiet—for once, I don’t hear Daisy’s complaining, or the baby’s crying, or my mother’s daytime soaps blaring from the television in the den.
My gaze flickers to the window, double-checking that at least one of their vehicles is sitting out there, and then I move slowly down the hall, each footstep heavier than the last.
Like I’m walking in quicksand, my stomach sinking before I have a chance to pull myself up.
As I get closer, the smell of vinegar and Lestoil penetrates the air, and my nerves ignite while my mind races.
Fear digs at the wound in my psyche, a million different scenarios playing out in my head like a movie reel, and I’m bracing myself for the worst as I round the corner, half expecting blood on the walls and a dead body discarded on the floor.
What I find is so much worse.
Jordan Thomas sits at the island beside my mother, nibbling on the end of a biscotto, chuckling softly at something she says. I don’t hear the words, because the blood rushing between my ears is too loud all of a sudden,
blocking out everything else as my gaze finds his.
“Ma,” I bite out, rolling my shoulders back. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
“Lincoln,” she replies, her hand flying to the fake pearl necklace at her collarbone. “How many times do I have to tell you not to swear at me?”
I scowl. “I’m not swearing at you, I’m swearing at the situation. Do you invite my enemies over for tea and cookies every day, or is this occasion special for all of us?”
The kettle on the stove begins to whistle; my mother slips off her stool, walking over to remove the pot from its burner. She arranges two floral mugs on the counter, pouring the boiling water into each and then dropping a pinch of lemon and a tea bag inside, before returning to the island.
One mug for her, one for Jordan.
My stomach cramps.
“Jordan just stopped by to offer his condolences,” my mother says, taking a sip of her tea. “Sandra’s funeral was today.”
“Just wanted to see how you were holding up,” Jordan says, tugging at the hem of his black jacket.
My eyes narrow, something violent pinching in my chest. “You didn’t bother stopping by after Pops died. Why start now?”
She gasps, her lips flipping into a frown. “Lincoln.”
“What, Ma? Am I wrong?” I cross my arms, the weight of my reality crushing down on my being, suffocating any good will I have left and turning it into something petty. “Pops’s best friend, and yet he skipped the funeral and ghosted us for weeks after, and then tried poaching me when I took over the company. When I refused, he retaliated.”
Jordan scoffs. “I did no such thing.”
“Three weeks after my first solo haul, two weeks after I declined your offer to join your little posse, I wake up to my traps floating in the ocean. Someone had cut the lines.”
My mother’s eyes nearly pop out of her head, her gaze swinging to Jordan.
He exhales, folding his hands on the counter. “Now, look—”
“A few weeks after that,” I continue, rage fueling the word vomit, pushing it past my lips like a volcanic eruption, “I get a net full of dead fish. An entire fucking school of them, caught in the rope like they’d been waiting for me to bring them ashore. Poisoned fish, according to the Fish and Wildlife Department. They didn’t die of natural causes, or even pollution; someone killed them and deliberately set them in my path.”
Now, Jordan laughs. “Where in the hell do you think I’d find the time to sit around terrorizing you?”
“Well, you did tell me I’d regret messing with you. Even though any dumb fucker could see I was way in over my head and didn’t know what the hell I was doing. It’d been years since I’d gone out on a trawl with Pops; I hadn’t even been on the boat since I was a kid.”
The plan had always been that the boat would go down with my father, but no one had expected him to “go down” so soon. There were no protocols set in place, his will had never been finalized, and my mother was about to be saddled with a sinking ship that was hemorrhaging money.
So, when the time came to step up, I took my place, channeling everything I’d been taught as a kid into the business. Hoping by some miracle, my determination would help it stay afloat.
Clearly, that’s not been the case.
I walk forward, leaning down with my palms flat against the island, staring right into Jordan’s gray eyes. God, they remind me so much of my father.
Crinkled and rough around the edges, worn from a lifetime of being unlucky.
“You have an alibi for each of the Fate Reaper murders?” I ask suddenly, shifting all my weight into my hands.
The crease between his thick brows increases. “You have something you want to accuse me of?”
“Accuse?” I chuckle, shaking my head. “I’m just making conversation, Thomas. Isn’t that why you stopped by?”
A muscle in his cheek jumps. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“So you say. But given you have a history of fucking with my work, I wouldn’t put this past you.”
“Lincoln Dean Porter,” my mother hisses. “It’s a far cry between a few dead fish and a few dead bodies, don’t you think?”
“Not really. Most serial killers start out with animals.”
“Odd of you to be questioning me when that pretty little detective friend of yours hasn’t said a word to me.” He cocks a brow, taking a drink from his mug. When he pulls the dish away, he lets out a satisfied breath, the sound sending sparks of displeasure through me. “A little too much pillow talk, maybe? Getting too involved in official police business?”
The way he brings up Morgan, as if she’s a weapon he can use to goad me into a reaction, makes my body vibrate with anger. It sizzles up my extremities, liquid fire igniting beneath my skin.
“Don’t fucking talk about her.” Without thinking, my hand lashes out, snapping at the mug he’s holding; it slides from his grip, sailing across the room and shattering when it crashes to the floor.
My mother’s gasp is almost as loud as the explosion of glass.
No one moves for a second; I drop my hand to my side, and Jordan scrubs at his jaw as my mother lets out a sharp breath, raising a finger to point at me. I grit my teeth, preparing for the tongue lashing, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, Jordan leans over and covers her palm with his, shaking his head. “Letty, the boy has a right to be angry—”
“He’s angry at everyone and everything, all the damn time!” she explodes, snatching her hand away and throwing both into the air. Steaming liquid sloshes onto the floor as she gestures wildly, her dark eyes boring into me with a severity I haven’t seen since I was a kid. “Carries the weight of the world around on his shoulders, bottling up his every emotion, like that’s not what killed his father!”
I open my mouth to protest, and clamp it shut, mulling over her words.
She’s not wrong, although I’ve always felt justified in my state of being. Life’s been fucking unfair, and the majority of it, I’ve spent waiting for the other shoe to drop. Constantly on edge as I try to prepare myself for the next bad thing to happen.
Because something always does.
Pressing her hands to the sides of her face, my mother sighs, looking over at me. “Jordan told me that Porter Lobster Co. isn’t doing well.”
And there it is.
Her eyes glisten. “Why wouldn’t you tell me you were struggling?”
Rocking back on my heels, I shrug, dropping my gaze to the marble counter. “It’s not your responsibility, Ma.”
Silence.
Then, “Jordan, would you mind letting me speak to my son, alone?”
He nods, scooting from the stool and heading down the hall. A few seconds later, the front door opens, and then it clicks shut, the sound echoing off the walls around us.
Rounding the island, my mother comes over, stopping when she’s standing directly beside me. She turns, leaning against the surface, and reaches a hand out, smoothing it over my chin and tilting my head up.
It hurts to look directly into her eyes, because she and Daisy are the kind of people who keep their emotions stored there; just like Morgan, it’s like reading an entire chapter book when I meet their gazes, and right now we’re on the gut-wrenching climax of the story.
My brain is screaming at me to retreat, find neutral ground for the rest of this conversation to take place, but I’m rooted to the spot, helpless.
“You are my responsibility,” she says finally, giving me a little squeeze.
“Well,” I say, bitterness coating my tongue, “that would’ve been nice to know back when I was trying to figure out how to keep Pops’s dream alive. But no, you and Daisy hated anything new that I did. Made me feel like an asshole, like I was shitting on his memory.”
“You’re right,” she agrees, “and that was wrong of us. You needed our support, not our mockery. I’ll admit, part of the reason behind it is that neither of us know anything about lobstering, but I’m… willing to learn,
if it helps you out.”
My lips press together, a dull throb springing to life behind my eyes.
“I know you took over the business to make your father happy, and because you didn’t want me to have to worry about any of that stuff. But if making my life easier means making yours miserable, I don’t want that.”
I shake my head. “Ma, it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
“How much longer do you have?”
I hesitate, wrinkling my nose. “A few months. And that’s probably generous.”
She releases me, walking over to where the mug broke, and bends down to start collecting the pieces. “I want you to reach out to Jordan again. In a few days, after he’s had time to calm down. He can help get us back on track.”
I can’t deny the warmth that swells inside of me, a mixture of joy and relief that I’m finally starting to not feel like I’m completely alone in this venture any longer. But it’s dulled by the words she’s just said.
“Ma, I can’t do that. Jordan and I hate each other.”
“No, you’re hurt by each other.” She stands, scooping the glass shards into her palms and dumping them into the trash can in the corner of the room. “Hurt people lash out when they don’t know what else to do, and that lets animosity fester in gaping wounds. But you don’t hate anyone, and they certainly don’t hate you. Jordan came by today to see you, not me.”
A knot coagulates in my throat as I consider this, thinking about the look of devastation that had been prevalent on Jordan’s face the day I said I wouldn’t be following in my father’s footsteps and joining his crew.
It wasn’t a sinister look, either; more than anything else, his eyes had darkened with something that looked an awful lot like disappointment, but I’d ignored it in favor of fueling a rivalry, picking fights just to feel alive.
Just because I could.
“Okay,” I relent, willing to at least hear him out this time. I trust my mother.
Sighing, she rests her forehead against my shoulder. “I knew your father would eventually cause problems for you. If he were here right now, I’d have my foot shoved so far up his ass he’d taste the leather.”
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 28