Living Lies

by Natalie Walters

  Trust. Charlie licked his lips. It felt like a recurring theme these last couple of weeks. Trusting he’d made the right decision to leave the Marines and move to Walton. Right now, Sheriff Huggins was trusting him to make the right decision for the case. To bring justice to Sydney’s family. And what about Lane? She trusted Charlie enough to tell him about her depression.

  “I believe this painting is going to lead us to Sydney’s killer.”

  Sheriff Huggins set his jaw. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  NINETEEN

  THE DRIVE FROM FLOYD HOLLINS’S HOME to the art gallery was quick but not quick enough to prevent doubt from settling into the crevices of Charlie’s mind. Letting Agent Edmonds take that painting removed that portion of their investigation from his hands. Would the DEA hold up their end of the bargain? Charlie was tired of the dead ends this case was leaving him with. And the doubt that maybe his father was right.

  Charlie found a parking spot outside the gallery just as his phone rang. He glanced at the ID. “It’s Frost.”

  Sheriff Huggins nodded. Charlie kept the car running and the AC on full blast. “Lynch.”

  “Hey, how did the interview with Hollins go?”

  “Not as well as I’d hoped. It’s in the DEA’s hands now. What’s up?”

  “Yeah, Agent Padello said they’re involved now, but we’ve got some leverage.”

  Charlie’s ears perked. “What?”

  “When we found out the DEA had sunk their fangs into the case, we ran the videos through facial recognition software and got a hit on a member of the cartel the DEA’s investigating. Marco Solis. He’s the second cousin of Benito Rodriguez by marriage. Among a long list of prior crimes, including assault, robbery, and drug charges, it appears Mr. Solis has a taste for fine art.”

  “How much of a taste?”

  “We’ve got him on video visiting the gallery two times the week before Sydney was killed and once a few days after, but that’s not what makes him interesting. He only goes through the back door and it’s always after hours.”

  “Frost, I could kiss you right now.”

  “Whoa now, I’ll just take more of your girlfriend’s cinnamon rolls. No offense, but the muffins were a little bland.”

  Charlie laughed and thanked Frost, not bothering to correct him about Lane. After all, it’s what he wanted. Cutting the engine, Charlie and Sheriff Huggins climbed out of the car. Trust. That’s what the sheriff had told him about their investigation and now they had a new lead.

  Sheriff Huggins adjusted the brim of his hat as they approached the gallery. “You ready?”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie pulled open the glass door of the gallery. He recognized the girl with the hot pink hair standing on point in every direction and approached her. She was one of the art students he spoke to the last time he and Frost were there. “Is Ms. Benedict in?”

  “Is she expecting you?” There was a fluster of pink tinting the student’s cheeks that matched her hair.

  “I doubt it,” Charlie said.

  “Let her know we’re here to talk to her about the death of one of her artists.”

  If their uniforms weren’t drawing enough unwanted attention, Sheriff Huggins’s words hit their mark. Pink-hair girl’s eyes bulged, making her look like a comic book character.

  “I—uh. Let me call.” Her fingers fumbled with the phone on the desk.

  A few minutes passed before the cadence of heels clipping on the wood floor filled the gallery. Annika crossed toward them. Expression tight. Lips pursed. Annoyance undisguised. Charlie liked that, for whatever reason, their presence irked her.

  “I’ve come out here as a courtesy, but unless you have an appointment I’m afraid your visit won’t be long.”

  Sheriff Huggins removed his hat. “I apologize for our unannounced visit, but we have a few more questions we’d like to ask.”

  “I’ve already answered everything your deputies asked.”

  “We have a few more questions,” Charlie added. His blood pressure hadn’t leveled since their visit with Floyd. “Now, would you like to do this out here or in the privacy of your office?”

  “I already told you that unless you have an appointment—”

  “Why don’t you tell us why you lied about seeing our murder victim the day before she was killed?” Charlie let his voice rise on the last part of his question just enough so that it had the effect he wanted. Several heads turned in their direction.

  “I didn’t lie,” Annika hissed, her eyes searching the faces around them. “You have five minutes.” She spun on her heel and started for the hallway that Charlie guessed led to her office.

  Annika’s office was larger than he’d imagined. An acrylic desk with two pedestals in the same red as her lips was positioned in the center of the room. A velvet couch was pushed against the wall where the building’s original brick was left exposed. Charlie stared at the life-size painting of a man on a horse.

  “Oglethorpe,” Sheriff Huggins said, pausing next to Charlie. “Savannah’s founding father.”

  “Four minutes, gentlemen.” Annika perched herself against the corner of her desk.

  Sheriff Huggins nodded to Charlie to take over. They were both hoping to catch the woman—who seemed to know the answers before the questions—off guard.

  “How many times has Floyd Hollins purchased art from your gallery?”

  “What?” Annika pushed herself off the desk. “I thought you came here to ask about Sydney?”

  Deflection. “We’re here to investigate Sydney’s murder. So, you know Floyd Hollins?”

  Annika’s brows pinched. “No.”

  “Did you know that Sydney was seen coming out of your gallery the day before she was killed? She was carrying a package. It had Floyd Hollins’s address on it. You don’t know anything about that?”

  “I had no idea Sydney was here. I was in a meeting.”

  “And you still claim you don’t know Floyd Hollins? He’s not a customer of yours?”

  “As far as I know, I’ve never sold a painting to anyone named Floyd Hollins.”

  “And you can’t think of a reason why Sydney Donovan would have a package with his address on it?”

  “No.”

  “Did Floyd Hollins ever purchase any of Sydney’s art?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you give us the names of customers who’ve purchased Sydney’s art?”

  “Why do you need that information?” Annika eyed Sheriff Huggins.

  “One of your artists was murdered. A day after she was seen leaving your gallery with a package addressed to Floyd Hollins.” Charlie was growing impatient. “One of your buyers could be the killer.”

  “And you believe Floyd Hollins might be that killer?”

  “Or Marco Solis,” Sheriff Huggins offered quietly.

  Annika’s eyes narrowed but not before Charlie caught her eyes round slightly when Sheriff Huggins said the name. Annika knew him.

  “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” she asked.

  “Does he purchase a lot of art?” Charlie watched Annika’s fingers rub the beaded necklace on her neck. Nervous. “I imagine his love of art grew while he served his time at Coastal State Prison.”

  Annika glared at him. “Background checks are not a part of my business, Deputy. If someone wants to buy art, who am I to stop them?”

  “All we want are the names of buyers who purchased Sydney’s art.”

  “I’m not at liberty to give you that information.”

  “Why not?”

  “Privacy, Deputy Lynch.” Her tone dripped with condescension.

  “We’d appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Benedict.” Sheriff Huggins stepped forward and placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

  “I’ve cooperated, Sheriff Huggins, but I must warn your deputy. My field of expertise is not limited to the art on this wall. I have another wall full of frames and those pieces of parchment beneath the glass will tell you
I know a little about the law too. Unless you have a warrant, I’m afraid your five minutes are up and I need to get back to work. Please see yourselves out. And if you need anything else, I suggest making an appointment first.”

  Charlie stepped into the sweltering heat outside the gallery and let out a frustrated breath. That woman had his insides twisted into a knot. Sheriff Huggins said nothing as they walked to the squad car.

  “Will you get a warrant?” Charlie asked when they got into the car.

  “Somehow I think Ms. Benedict might already have a plan for that,” Sheriff Huggins grumbled. “Before Annika Benedict entered the world of art, she followed in her daddy’s footsteps.”

  “She’s a lawyer?”

  Sheriff Huggins pressed his lips into a tight line.

  “Knows enough about warrants, then.” Charlie sank into his seat and brooded over Annika’s arrogance. “You think she’s involved?”

  “Yes. How, I’m still chewing on that.” Sheriff Huggins steered their vehicle into traffic. “But you leave that to me for now. You need to get home and get ready.”

  “Ready?”

  Sheriff Huggins gave him an amused look. “For the barbecue tonight at Judge Sullivan’s estate. Your aunt said Lane’s really looking forward to seeing you there, even if it’s under an official capacity.”

  The memory of sitting in the sheriff’s office and being warned that Lane was special, that she’d been through more than her fair share, reverberated through his mind. Especially after what she confided in him about her depression—almost as though she thought it would chase him away. He’d wanted more than anything in that shared moment to assure her that it’d take a lot more than that to drive him away.

  “I . . . um.” Charlie wiped his sweaty palms down the front of his uniform pants. He met the wizened eyes of his uncle. “I want you to know my intention . . .” Why were the words so difficult? Or was it the way his uncle stared at him—like he was torn? “I really like her. All of her. She’s told me about things and I . . . I just want you to know that I would never do anything to hurt her. Or Noah.”

  “Charlie, I have no reason to believe you would. Since you came into Lane’s life, your aunt and I have noticed a difference in her. A good difference. I don’t know what the future holds for either of you, but I’m going to share a piece of advice I’ve lived by in my forty-eight years of marriage to your aunt.” Sheriff Huggins’s eyes locked on to Charlie. “Never stop being the man Lane deserves.”

  Chills had permanently staked out territory across Lane’s skin as she drove down Old Ogeechee Road and away from Miguel’s home. What had scared him? Had she set him off by showing up unexpectedly? Her gut told her it was something more, and for now she was thankful she and Noah were safely driving away from whatever was putting fear into Miguel’s eyes.

  “Momma, can I visit those alligators again?”

  Lane looked over her shoulder at Noah sitting in his car seat. His eyes, no doubt, searching the muddy swampland they were passing for any sign of real alligators. “I’m not sure, buddy.”

  Would she take Noah back to Miguel’s? When she had the idea to bring him muffins, it was really an excuse to check on him. Make sure he was alright even though she was the one who’d suffered a bruised cheek from his outburst. But what had caused his outburst? And why hadn’t he been coming to the Friday Night Clubs lately? Lane tried to remember the last Friday he’d shown up. Her throat grew thick. She calculated the weeks again. Was that right? Was the last Friday Night Club Miguel showed up to really the week before Sydney died?

  Suddenly it wasn’t chills Lane was concerned with. Her stomach rolled at the dark thought. Not Miguel. He was not violent. Quiet, reserved, maybe a little nervous—but never violent. Lane caught her reflection in the rearview mirror and focused on the bruise marring her cheek. It was an acc—

  Lane’s attention shifted from her reflection to the two cars following her. They were a ways behind her, but from the way they seemed to be growing larger they were moving fast. Too fast. And one of the cars was on the wrong side of the road. Were they racing?

  Old Ogeechee was a two-lane stretch of highway sandwiched between swampy marshland. There was nowhere for Lane to pull over to let the moronic drivers pass without her truck slipping off the road completely. Pulling her focus back to the road in front of her, Lane tapped her foot on the brake. Maybe they’d think there was a cop ahead of her and slow down, but a quick glance in the rearview mirror showed they either hadn’t seen her warning or didn’t care.

  Keeping an eye on the road ahead and on the rearview mirror, Lane watched the cars race up behind her. A white sports car was driving in the lane next to her, going the opposite direction of traffic. A darker car, maybe it was blue, drove up right behind her. The driver flashed his lights at her like she was the one breaking the law.

  Lane blew out a frustrated breath. What did he want her to do? There was nowhere for her to go. The driver of the white car pulled up next to her and mirrored her speed. Even if Lane dared to peek out her window, she could see from the corner of her eye that the driver was hidden behind black tinted windows.

  The white car surged forward and pulled in front of her. The dark car behind Lane’s Jeep swerved into the lane on her left and shot forward, leaving her in its dust. Her hands were sweating and her heart was pounding. Why did people have to drive so recklessly? She peeked over her shoulder to find Noah had fallen asleep. Thank—

  Lane slammed on her brakes, her seat belt crushing her against her seat. The white car and the dark one—blue—were stopped in both lanes in front of her. The smell of burnt rubber filled her car and Noah woke up.

  “Momma, my chair is squishing me.”

  Before Lane could respond, both cars shot forward like the green flag had just been dropped. Lane swallowed the mouthful of words she wanted to spit at the drivers. It was a miracle there were no other drivers on the road with her or there would certainly be an accident. Maybe she should call it in to the sheriff . . . or Charlie.

  The idea of hearing Charlie’s voice immediately slowed Lane’s racing pulse and she wasn’t sure it was a safe thing for him to have such control—even if he didn’t know it. Lane continued on the road and waited to be sure the racing cars were not coming back. After a few minutes, she picked up her phone and dialed the number to the sheriff’s station, allowing a flame of hope to flicker inside her chest that Charlie would be the one to answer.

  “Walton County Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Benningfield speaking.”

  “Hi, Deputy Benningfield,” Lane said, biting back the disappointment she felt. “This is Lane Kent. I’m driving south on Old Ogeechee Road and I wanted to report two cars that were racing and almost drove me off the road.”

  “Oh dear. You said on Old Ogeechee Road? Can you tell me what mile marker you’re near?”

  Lane looked around her but didn’t see one. “I’m driving toward Ogeechee Highway . . . I can tell you in a second—oh no.”

  “Lane?”

  But Lane didn’t answer. Her eyes were glued to the white and blue cars approaching her head-on. The dark blue car was in her lane, its lights flashing a morbid rhythm while the white car sped next to it.

  “Lane?”

  “They’re coming. Two cars. White. Dark blue. They’re headed straight for me.” Lane’s voice cracked. “They’re going to run into me.”

  “Lane, I’m sending patrol cars out to you right now. Can you safely pull off the road?”

  Lane looked to both sides of the road. The shoulder was only a foot or two wide. Not big enough for three cars.

  “Please”—the shrill in Lane’s voice was enough to draw a whimper from Noah—“they’re going to hit us.” The memory of Mathias’s death, the state troopers on her porch, filled her mind and tears began to cloud her vision.

  “Momma?” Noah’s voice trembled as though he could sense something wasn’t right.

  Lane blinked the tears away. “It’s okay, baby.”
She kept her focus on the cars charging forward. She slowed down and moved as much as she could to the right side of the road, but rather than change lanes the cars kept coming at her. They were too close. Too close.

  The sound of screeching tires forced Lane’s eyes closed as she prepared for impact, but none came. She opened her eyes only to see a cloud of white smoke and both cars stopped inches from her truck’s front bumper. Lane tried to see the faces of the drivers terrorizing her, but the windshields reflected black holes.

  “Lane, are you alright?” Deputy Benningfield’s voice interrupted the silence. “Lane?”

  “Um, they’re stopped in front of me.” Lane tried to catch her breath. “What should I do?”

  “Do not get out of your car—”

  “I’m not.” The smell of burned rubber filled her car as she watched both cars reverse, their tires filling the air with smoke. A second later they stopped. “I-I think they’re leaving.”

  “Okay, honey. Wait for them to leave, and then I want you to drive away as quickly and safely as possible.”

  License plate. Lane squinted through the haze, but the cars moved so quickly she was only able to read the last three numbers on the license plate of the dark blue car as it weaved in and out of the lane. 674.

  “Are they gone?”

  “They’re driving away. North.” Lane looked over her shoulder and tried to give Noah a reassuring smile. “You alright, buddy?”

  “I want to go home, Momma.”

  “Me too, bud.”

  “Lane, can you give me a description?”

  “I was only able to get the last three numbers on the dark blue vehicle. 674.”

  “That’s good, honey. We’ve got a patrol car en route. Do you think you can continue on your way safely?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lane’s legs felt like spaghetti as she pressed the gas. Her nerves were shot and she still had her father’s barbecue to go to this evening. Maybe she could cancel.