Living Lies

by Natalie Walters

  “What are you doing with that?”

  “Lane’s the official photographer of the event,” Meagan said. “She’s good and it keeps the costs down. More money for charity.”

  Their mother looked ready to protest but stopped. She pasted a smile on her lips and walked over to join the family, who was already on the porch. Meagan winked.

  “Thanks.” It felt nice having Meagan as her ally.

  Jeffrey exhaled loudly. “Just five minutes, Lane.”

  “Three and a half.”

  He rolled his eyes and walked out the door.

  “You should’ve asked for ice cream.” Meagan laughed. “He’d probably give in.”

  After the guests were welcomed and the appropriate number of photos of her family had been taken, Lane made her way through the soft blades of manicured grass. Round tables with white linens were set up across the expansive lawn. The band played a peppy jazz number as guests greeted one another and found their way to the bar.

  Lane snapped a few pictures but mostly let her eyes wander in the hopes of finding Charlie in the crowd. She recognized a few of the deputies in plain clothes as they attempted to blend in with the social elite, but eventually they paired off and kept to the perimeter of the party. Charlie wasn’t one of them. Surely he would’ve come up to her and said hello, right? Lane bit the inside of her cheek, annoyed at her insecurity. This wasn’t a date. Charlie was working. And so was she, sort of.

  Lane lifted her camera and grabbed some candid shots of guests enjoying themselves. She paused at the sound of her father’s voice speaking to a small group of reporters.

  “I assure you, it’s only a matter of time before we get him.”

  “It’s been several weeks, Judge Sullivan. What makes you think you’re any closer to finding the person or persons responsible for killing Sydney Donovan? And do you think this hurts your chance at winning the seat?”

  Lane recognized the blonde reporter asking the questions. She was the one who had flirted with Charlie outside Dr. Wong’s office. What was her name? De . . . something.

  Jeffrey scoffed. “Judge Sullivan’s leading in the polls. The people want someone like Ray bringing justice back to not only Georgia but, in my humble opinion, back to the United States. It’s not too much of a stretch to imagine Judge Sullivan will one day be sitting on the bench of the US Supreme Court.”

  “Ms. DeMarco, you’ll have to excuse my ambitious friend here, but to answer your question, I have it on pretty good authority that Sheriff Huggins and his team have made some significant progress recently—”

  “What kind of progress?”

  “All in good time.” Lane’s father clapped his hand on the shoulder of the man to his left. “Now, I think it’s time we enjoy ourselves and the fabulous food.”

  Lane smiled on the inside at her father’s dismissal of Ms. DeMarco. The reporter pursed her lips, undeterred, and moved on to a group of guests Lane didn’t recognize.

  The delicious smell of the caterer’s menu of southern comfort food made her stomach grumble. Or was that the sky? A wall of gray loomed in the distance, ready to overtake the clear blue sky. A gust of wind swept in, causing an outburst of surprise as napkins flew off the tables.

  “And y’all thought you wouldn’t have to work for your meal this evening.”

  Laughter followed her father’s charming response to the unpredictable weather. Her mother didn’t look so relaxed. She kept gazing up at the sky and narrowing her eyes as if she could will away the impending storm.

  As guests took their seats, Lane became aware of how lonely she was in the middle of all these people.

  Where was Charlie?

  “Momma, can I go inside?” Noah walked up, scratching at his cheek. “The squitoes are eating me alive.”

  Lane bent down and pulled her son into a hug and planted kisses on his face. He was her one constant in a life where her emotions shifted as quickly as the wind. “That’s because you’re so sweet.”

  “I’m going to take them inside and let them watch a movie.” Meagan walked over, holding Paige’s and Owen’s hands. “Is that okay?”

  “Charlie!”

  Lane rose and took Charlie in as he strode across the lawn in a pair of pressed khaki pants and a teal-blue collared shirt, the sleeves rolled casually to his forearms. Butterflies danced inside Lane’s chest.

  “Hey, Noah.” Charlie met Noah’s excitement with a dimpled grin. He stuck out his hand palm side up. Noah smacked it with his hand. Charlie’s electric-blue eyes met hers. “Sorry I’m late. I had some work to finish.”

  “Honey, with a smile like that, you can be late anytime you want.” Meagan’s drawl would’ve put Scarlett O’Hara to shame.

  Lane forced her tongue to work. “You were going to take the kids inside for a movie, right?”

  “Right. Come on, kiddos.” Meagan guided the children in the direction of the house. “Maybe my sister will let me talk to you later?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Sorry about that,” Lane said to Charlie, ignoring Meagan’s amused expression as she walked the kids to the house. “The work you had to finish?”

  “We tried running the numbers you got from the license plate, but the search is too broad. Deputy Frost is working to narrow it down by the color and make of the car.”

  “Like a needle in a haystack then, huh?”

  “Frost is a genius when it comes to finding needles.”

  Lane wasn’t surprised. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to convince herself the drivers of the cars were only stupid teenagers, but after Sheriff Huggins planted the idea in her mind that one of the drivers could be the man who had visited her café, she found it hard not to be jumpy.

  Charlie leaned in. “You look amazing.”

  His whispered words tickled the hair on her neck. His hand brushed against hers until his fingers laced with hers, chasing away all the unwanted thoughts invading her mind. Lane’s chest thundered at the intimacy of the moment, yet they were right there in the middle of the lawn where anyone could see them . . . like her father.

  Lane’s eyes scanned the crowd until she found her parents. Thankfully their attention was focused on the latest wife of a commissioner and not on her. “Um, you’re just in time. They’re getting ready to serve the food. Would you like a plate?”

  “I’m not really that hungry.” Charlie’s words didn’t match the hunger she could see in his eyes. His gaze fell to her lips for a long second before he looked away. “What’s over there?”

  Lane hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. Did she want him to kiss her? She pulled her hand free and adjusted the camera sling on her neck. They needed a distraction. “The auction items. Do you want to see them?”

  “Sure.” They started toward the large white tent lit up with twinkling lights. “This is a little bigger than I expected.”

  “You mean you don’t have catering, live music, and an auction at your barbecues?”

  Charlie bumped her shoulder with his and flashed his megawatt smile. “No. We’ve got a grill, a cooler, and a radio.”

  Goodness, that smile did something to her. Lane ignored the heat blossoming in her cheeks and turned her focus on the long tables lined with gift certificates, pieces of jewelry, and art.

  “Do you like football? There’s a football signed by the Atlanta Falcons—all of them.” Lane lifted her camera and snapped a few pictures of nearby guests reading the descriptions of the auction items. “Comes with season tickets, including the president’s box on opening day.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Charlie kept the distance between them tight as they walked. “What’s over there?”

  They passed a table full of jewelry. Lane turned to follow his gaze. A small group of people were crowded at the corner of the tent, but whatever had gathered the group’s attention was blocked from her and Charlie’s view.

  Lane weaved her way closer, past the excited whispers, and then stilled when she saw what had trig
gered the oohs and ahhs. Her eyes traced the wild lines of the sculpture. A tree stump with its bark removed was carved into dozens of thin branches stretching from the base. At the end of each was a bird. Wings tucked at their sides as they perched or spread open as they swooped into flight. The roots were carved into knots crisscrossing each other in a strange but beautiful tangle of intricacy.

  “It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” Pride emanated from Meagan’s face as she walked up to them. “People can’t stop talking about it.”

  “Where did you get it?” The carving, the detail—it had to be Miguel’s sculpture. Lane reached for the auction information card. The starting bid was twenty-five hundred dollars but bids had driven the price to almost ten thousand dollars. “There’s no name.”

  “Some artists don’t want to be known.” A tall woman with short black hair approached and Charlie stiffened. “It’s good to see you again, Deputy.”

  Meagan wrinkled her nose. “You two know each other?”

  “The deputy has visited my gallery a couple of times.” Annika Benedict lifted a thin eyebrow. “Seems his interest in art is spreading, considering the number of law enforcement officers continually interrupting my business.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Annika’s been a long-time donor,” Meagan answered Charlie. “And the proceeds from the auction tonight are supporting the Benedict House.”

  “I’m sorry I could only secure a single painting this time.” Annika’s eyes flashed to Charlie. “Don’t worry, Deputy. That artist is anonymous as well.”

  Charlie’s jaw clenched. “I’m surprised by how many of your artists wish to remain that way.”

  Lane and Meagan exchanged looks.

  “If you ladies will excuse me”—Charlie took a step back—“I think I’m going to grab something to drink.”

  Meagan looked at her watch. “And I need to get ready for the auction. This piece is going to have people digging deep into their pockets,” she said with a smile before she walked away in the same direction as Charlie.

  A waiter held out a tray with two glasses. “Would you ladies care for a drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Lane’s eyes were fixed on the sculpture, which was titled Freedom. She looked closely at the faces of the birds. Their eyes. The detail carved into each one. It had to be Miguel’s, but how? Harley, Dottie, and Ms. Byrdie knew about Miguel’s sculpting, probably Sheriff Huggins too, but one of them surely would’ve mentioned Miguel donating an item to her father’s auction.

  “I’d hate to offend our hosts.” Annika picked up both glasses and offered one to Lane. “Let’s toast this wonderful event and the money we hope to raise for our veterans.”

  Veterans. Lane absently took the glass and lifted it up to Annika’s before setting it down on the table.

  “You’re looking at this sculpture as though you’ve seen it before,” Annika said.

  “I feel like I have.”

  “That would surprise me.” Annika sipped from her glass of champagne. “This is the first time the artist’s work has been displayed.”

  “You know the artist?”

  “It’s my job to know about local artists and the company they keep.” Annika’s tone shifted, along with the features on her face. “Nothing kills the career of artists quicker than their friends getting in the way.”

  Lane didn’t have a clue what Annika meant, but she was growing uncomfortable beneath the woman’s stare. “I should probably get ready for the auction.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Lane.” Annika lifted Lane’s still-full glass. “Don’t forget your champagne.”

  Lane took the glass from Annika as an icy shiver slipped down her spine. Stepping far enough away so that Lane was sure Annika wouldn’t see her, she tossed the contents of her glass into a flower bed before handing the glass to a passing waiter.

  Lane scanned the yard for her sister or for Charlie. Someone to cut the chill from the weird conversation she’d had with Annika. A boisterous giggle drew Lane’s attention to the spot where Vivian DeMarco stood, her arm laced through Charlie’s. A spark of jealousy ignited in Lane’s heart at the sight of them. When she had seen Vivian earlier in the sea of reporters, she hadn’t caught the full effect of the woman’s glamorous dress. A dress that made Lane feel plain.

  And silly.

  Lane’s mood turned as dark as the sky. Who was she trying to fool? She could pretend a lot of things. Put on a smile for a camera. Pretend like she was fine. But believing she deserved someone like Charlie—that he could love someone like her—was just another lie she wasn’t willing to live.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “COME ON, DEPUTY LYNCH, or can I call you Charlie?” Vivian DeMarco bit her lower lip as she gazed up at him beneath thick, black lashes. “My boss needs me to bring some life back to this story. You wouldn’t want me to get in trouble or lose my job.”

  “Ms. DeMarco, that is the last thing I’d want for you.” He withdrew his arm from hers. “But I have a job to do—”

  Charlie caught Lane watching him. The sadness he saw in her eyes before she looked away pierced his heart. Something was wrong. She moved farther into the tent, where the auction was already in full swing.

  “Are you saying Judge Sullivan was wrong when he said you made progress in the Donovan case?” DeMarco moved in front of Charlie. The strong scent of her perfume wrapped around him like a noose ready to choke out the truth. “I’d hate to bother the judge again to verify the information . . . but I can.”

  A threat? He had no idea what Judge Sullivan had said to set the obstinate reporter on his tail, but he had a job to do in keeping the event safe and couldn’t do that with Ms. DeMarco in his shadow.

  His cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number. Didn’t matter. “I need to take this.”

  “Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily, Deputy.” DeMarco elongated the syllables in the last word. “I have my ways of making men like you talk.”

  He didn’t doubt that. The flirting game—if that’s what that was—had changed a lot in the years since his last girlfriend.

  Charlie apologized as he excused himself to take the call. “Hello.”

  “Deputy Lynch?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Agent Edmonds. I’m sorry to bother you, but I promised you an update and according to a Deputy Frost”—Edmonds released an audible sigh—“we probably owe you a favor.”

  Charlie didn’t know what Frost had said or done, but tomorrow he’d be bringing him all the cinnamon rolls he could handle. Maybe a week’s worth. “You have something on the painting?”

  “We ran prints and got a hit. One guess and I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “Marco Solis.” Charlie walked to the edge of the yard and let his eyes roam. He found Lane taking pictures of a well-dressed couple holding the autographed football. Two men sipping drinks nearby stared at her with a hunger in their eyes that Charlie recognized in soldiers when they returned home from deployment. The lilac dress hugged her body in a way that made him possessive. He took a calming breath. Jealousy was never attractive.

  “Yep. Metro has a BOLO out on him now. After Mr. Pretty Boy told us about the paintings, I had our informant in Atlanta check into any other similar packages going in and out of stash houses. He found a shipping receipt for a package we had agents intercept in Miami—”

  “Miami? Who lives there?”

  “It’s a dummy address. Last known tenant moved out six months ago. Landlord said he’s had to chase some squatters out of the place, but he and the neighbors haven’t seen anyone inside the home in a couple of weeks.”

  Charlie flexed his hands. “Now what?”

  “We put a tracer on that piece and left it at the address where we found it. We’ve got guys on the ground ready to follow it as well, but for now all we can do is wait.”

  “What about the shipping label?” Charlie paced. “Can we find out who’s sending it or at least who paid for the postage?”
<
br />   “Tried. Postage was purchased online using a dummy account—hey, hold on.” Agent Edmonds’s voice became muffled. “Sorry about that. Thanks to your video footage of Marco Solis, our cyber unit was able to track him through the city’s camera system to a rental car that was seen at a gas station—El Cheapo, off Highway 17 about two miles west of Walton—the night you found your victim.”

  Charlie stopped pacing. The strange man Lane saw . . . A crack of thunder echoed overhead. Every eye turned upward, including Charlie’s. A cold drop hit his face. Then another. Guests jumped from their chairs, but it was too late. The sky opened up and big, heavy drops poured down on them.

  “Agent Edmonds, I have to go.”

  “Sure. I’ll keep you posted if we get anything new.”

  Charlie ended the call and his concern shifted to the woman standing in the middle of the deluge with her camera in front of her face. Was she really taking pictures? The women around Lane squealed as they tried in vain to protect their heads from the pelting raindrops as they darted across the lawn, seeking shelter. Men tried their best to hold their hands or napkins over the women’s heads, but it was useless.

  Charlie, shielding his eyes from the pelting drops, jogged over to Lane. “Are you crazy?”

  A flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by an ear-splitting clap of thunder.

  “Come on, we should go inside,” Charlie said, putting his hand on her waist to guide her out of the rain.

  Lane pulled away from his touch. Her hair fell across her forehead as she squinted against the rain. “It’s fine. I’m leaving anyway.” She removed the camera strap from her neck, shielding the camera against her body.

  “Right now?” He looked around. The crowd around them had thinned as most had taken cover on the back porch or beneath the auction tent. Another peal of thunder echoed around them.

  “Yes.” She hurried toward the auction tent and pulled a camera bag up from under a table. She made quick work of drying the camera and then zipping it safely into the case before she gave him a look. “It’s just a rainstorm,” she said before marching away from the tent and house.