“Alpha team: we’ve got locked doors. What’s your status, Bravo?”
“Why would the gallery door be locked?” Frost’s whisper was strained.
An internal alarm rang inside Charlie’s head. On the battlefield, when there was a variance in routine it was usually an indication that something was wrong. He flexed his hands a couple of times to release the adrenaline pounding in his ears.
“Bravo team: back door’s been breached. Entering premises now. Stand by.” Beams of light flashed through the gallery. “Lower level clear. Bravo team approaching front entrance.”
An agent with a dark bandanna covering the lower half of his face opened the front door of the gallery. “My guys are heading upstairs.”
Charlie’s unease was confirmed when they entered the building. Paintings had been stripped from the walls. Frames were broken. Canvases were slashed. The computer at the front desk was smashed on the floor.
“What happened?” Frost looked around.
“Someone got here before us.” Glass broke under Charlie’s feet.
“Bravo team: building cleared and secured.”
Someone found the light switch and illuminated the ransacked gallery in fluorescent lighting. Charlie followed Edmonds upstairs to an apartment. It was decorated in modern furnishings in shades of gray as cold as the woman who lived there. A single bedroom was off to the side. The drawers were opened, clothes scattered on the floor.
Charlie exhaled. “She’s gone.”
“Somebody was looking for something.”
Edmonds led them back downstairs. Two DEA agents were collecting paintings while another had set up a table in the corner and was swabbing their edges.
“These paintings are, for lack of a better word, crap.”
A petite redhead walked toward them. Frost nudged Charlie. He didn’t recall seeing her at the briefing and he would’ve remembered, not because of her fire-engine red hair, but because she was the only one in a sea of DEA agents wearing a blue jacket with big yellow letters on it.
“Deputy Lynch, Deputy Frost, this is Agent Murphy. An art expert on loan to us courtesy of the FBI.” Edmonds introduced them. “See, we can play nice with the fibbies.”
Murphy rolled her eyes. “Most of that he got right, but no one said anything about playing nice.”
Frost snickered and drew an amused look from the female agent, which colored his cheeks almost as red as her hair. Edmonds’s cell phone rang and he excused himself.
Charlie gave Frost a pointed look before returning his attention back to the agent. “What were you saying about the art?”
“These paintings are amateurish at best. Most of the names I don’t recognize. I’d say, based on my initial inspection of what’s still intact”—Murphy looked around—“less than fifty grand worth of art and I’m being generous.”
“Fifty thousand?” Charlie toed a piece of glass. “Sydney’s single painting was listed at twelve hundred dollars.”
“Some galleries overprice the art to make a profit, but usually it’s on actual art.” Murphy lifted a torn piece of canvas. “This is just above student level.”
“Sydney’s art fits right in then.” Frost tried folding his arms across his bulky vest but after a few awkward seconds settled for sticking his hands in his pockets.
Charlie scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You don’t recognize any of the names on these paintings?”
“Only a few,” Murphy said. “Not enough to warrant this gallery’s reputation.”
“That first day we came by, two students from the art school were filling out applications to have their art displayed here. Said it was the first time the gallery’s been open to students’ work. What if Annika was exploiting unknown artists? You’re the expert, but if you don’t recognize the artists, then it’s possible regular customers wouldn’t either.”
“Her computer might’ve been smashed, but it seems your gallery owner kept written records of her clients.” Edmonds walked over. He held up a notebook. “Found this hidden behind a canvas propped up against a wall safe. Recognize any names?”
Charlie scanned the rows of names and landed on one. “Floyd Hollins.”
“That book gives us the names of people she paid and used to ship her paintings.” Edmonds lifted his eyebrows. “We’ve even got a couple of dealers listed on there.”
“If Annika’s involved in the drug smuggling, why would they do this to her gallery?” Frost asked. “Or kill Marco Solis? Wasn’t he the kingpin’s cousin or something?”
“Only by marriage, and maybe El Chico found out they had double-crossed him.” Edmonds tapped the notebook. “Some of these names belong to members of a rival organization.”
“Maybe it was a warning.” Murphy looked around. “And they came back.”
“You think that’s why they killed Sydney?” Frost’s glance moved between them. “She found out about the drugs and was going to rat on them?”
“You might be on to something.” Edmonds raised his eyebrows. “If Annika and Miguel are connected, maybe she paid him to kill the girl.”
That theory didn’t make sense. Or maybe he was being blinded by his desire to prove Lane right. Prove Miguel wasn’t the killer. “Jolene and Annabeth left Sydney at the gas station, but her body was discovered more than a mile away. Why would a teenage girl, alone and in the middle of the night, walk into the woods?”
“She wouldn’t,” Murphy said.
“Unless she knew where she was going.” Frost’s bounce returned. “Miguel’s house was a few miles away, right? And remember the video—the one with Sydney leaving the studio the day before she was killed? She was carrying something.”
“A painting.” Charlie furrowed his brow. “What if Sydney was walking to Miguel’s house? For help?”
“Maybe she gave him the painting?” Frost added.
“So, they know each other?” Edmonds shrugged. “He’s your suspect.”
“Maybe not. You said El Chico’s cartel is responsible for the biggest drug distribution in Atlanta. Abas Nawabi’s presence in Savannah proves El Chico’s reach is crossing borders. I think it’s safe to assume he’d probably do anything to keep that part of his business, well, in business.”
“You think they’re cleaning up?” Edmonds’s forehead creased. “Came after Annika?”
Murphy spread her hands out at the mess around them. “If they are, it could mean they’ll be going after Miguel next.”
Charlie clenched his fist. “Or they’ve already found him.”
Lane’s hands shook. She looked at the bottle of pills and allowed herself to go back to that night. She knew growing up that she was different, and it wasn’t just awkward adolescence. Her mood shifted so frequently that she was often punished for her insubordination, particularly when it happened in public. Lane’s parents just didn’t understand—and they never asked her about it.
In health class, Lane learned about depression and anxiety and all it took was a quick search on the computer for her to know she probably had both. She tried to talk to her school counselor, but the overworked woman handed Lane a couple brochures on the topic and gave her the number to a suicide hotline. What Lane needed was someone to listen. To hear her out and explain that she wasn’t the same as those people on the news who went on killing sprees. She wasn’t a killer . . . and yet it was because of her that Mathias was dead.
Lane dropped onto the sofa at the Way Station Café, thankful she’d thought to close it. After hearing what people were saying about Miguel—and now what they had heard about her—she didn’t need the spectacle inside her home. It was bad enough to imagine what that reporter or Ms. Carson were going to say. This would affect her father’s election. Mr. Adams made sure Lane was aware of that, but what about her father? He hadn’t even mentioned the election after her little emotional blowup. Give it time, she thought.
A noise startled Lane. Had she forgotten to lock the door? “I’m sorry, we’re closed—”
&n
bsp; Ms. Byrdie stood there jingling her set of keys in the air. She set them on the counter and came to the couch. “Huggy called me.”
Ms. Byrdie’s concern was enough to cause the tears Lane had been shoving down inside to burst forth like a geyser. Ms. Byrdie dropped next to Lane, wrapped her arms around her, and allowed her to cry.
Lane didn’t know how many minutes passed, but when she pulled back she noticed that tears were streaming down Ms. Byrdie’s face too.
“Are-are you okay?” Lane hiccupped.
Ms. Byrdie took Lane’s face in her hands so that she was looking directly into Lane’s eyes—into her soul. “Lane Kent, I love you. I do. I love you. There’s nothing you have done or will ever do to make me stop loving you. From the moment you stepped into my library, the good Lord pressed a love for you so deeply on my heart that I couldn’t ignore it. I love you. I love you.”
Lane felt the wall of fear she’d built within her begin to crack. Those words were so simple, people tossed them around every day, but the power they held when said the way Ms. Byrdie was saying them . . . it ripped at the seams of doubt Lane had sewn so tightly around her heart.
Unlovable. That’s what she felt like growing up with these thoughts. An unlovable mistake.
“I messed up.” Lane took in a shaky breath. “I told Charlie about Mathias. I blurted it all out right there in the middle of the courthouse for everyone to hear.” She cringed. “Including that reporter.”
“Vivian?” Ms. Byrdie shook her head. “Honey, that young thing is in search of a story because she’s desperate to forget her own. Don’t you worry about her. Now, what did Charlie say?”
She had no reason to hide anything from Ms. Byrdie, but they weren’t two girlfriends chatting about a crush. Charlie was her nephew. And this was more than just a crush. Her heart had begun to long for him in a way that Lane couldn’t ignore any more than she could ignore her depression.
“He told me it wasn’t my fault. That it was an accident.”
“And you don’t believe him.”
Lane’s breath caught in her chest. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t called him—” She choked on the words. “He died because of me.”
Ms. Byrdie wrapped her hand around Lane’s and squeezed. “What happened to Mathias that night was an accident. Plain and simple. That boy loved you to the ends of the earth. Whatever God’s reason was for taking him home that night does not rest on your shoulders.”
A tear slipped down Lane’s cheek. “What if God made a mistake by allowing me to live instead of Mathias?”
“Honey, God never makes mistakes. You are here on purpose, Lane. With purpose.” Ms. Byrdie rose. “Come with me.” She led Lane to the hallway where a large mirror hung on the wall. “Tell me what you see.”
“I don’t know. Me?”
“Come on, look harder. Tell me what you see.”
Looking at her reflection, she didn’t have to try harder. Her hair hung limply over her shoulders. The dark circles under her eyes had darkened, making her fair complexion appear washed out.
“I see someone who needs a haircut but doubts it’ll make a difference. And it wouldn’t hurt for me to spend a few hours in the sun or maybe get some sleep, but those seem to evade me as well.” Exasperation edged her tone and she lacked the courage to look Ms. Byrdie in the eye.
“Here’s what I see.” Ms. Byrdie brushed a piece of Lane’s hair from her forehead. “A woman who has faced tremendous obstacles and tragedy and still finds a way to persevere. Who, in the midst of too many sleepless nights, spends hours putting together ingredients so she can offer some home-baked love and kindness to those others overlook. Someone who looks past the flaws in others and sees their beauty and potential, even when she misses it in herself.”
Tears stung Lane’s eyes. She dropped her gaze at Ms. Byrdie’s words. “I wish I could see those things, but all I see is a broken mess.”
“Lane Kent, you listen to me. If all you see when you look in the mirror are your flaws, then you’ll believe that’s all anyone else will see. You are not broken. You are perfectly made. You have to stop punishing yourself for the way God made you—even for your depression. You need to forgive yourself and take captive those thoughts that you are anything but the woman our Creator designed you to be.” Ms. Byrdie’s soft words reached deep into her soul. “God used Mathias to save you that night for a purpose—his purpose—now fight for the life you deserve.”
“But I don’t deserve it.”
“If that’s true for you, then it’s true for all of us.” Ms. Byrdie brushed the tears from Lane’s cheeks. “He makes all things new. Every morning you wake up is a day you can live in the freedom of knowing God has plans for you.”
“And you believe those plans include Charlie?”
“Huggy and I aren’t the only ones who see the beautiful, courageous woman you are. Charlie sees it too. He cares a great deal for you, and I think he imagines a future with you and Noah in it.”
That light—the one Lane saw in the faces of the customers Ms. Byrdie spoke to—Lane thought she saw a glimmer of it in her own.
TWENTY-SEVEN
LANE’S KNUCKLES TURNED WHITE as she gripped the steering wheel. Ms. Byrdie’s words had breathed new life into her, and the idea that God hadn’t made a mistake . . . well, if that was true for Lane, then it had to be true for Miguel too.
Charlie’s warning to stay away from Miguel lingered in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t ignore the danger Miguel might be in if Sydney’s father, or someone else bent on vigilante justice, found him before the deputies did. Lane’s gut told her they were wrong about Miguel. He was hurting. Like her. And people like them didn’t hurt others—they hurt themselves.
Lane pressed the accelerator and her Jeep sped closer to her destination—the jumping bridge. The place where not too long ago Lane allowed dark thoughts to overtake her, causing her to see suicide as an escape. Ms. Byrdie was right—Lane needed to take captive those thoughts. Focus on reasons to live and choose life. Fight for it.
The Coastal Highway stretched before her and Lane wondered if Miguel was in the dense woodland lining the Ogeechee River. Or would he be on the bridge? Would the deputies know to look there for him—a man on the brink of giving up on life?
POP!
Lane didn’t have time to react to the noise or where it came from before her world rolled in front of her eyes. The sound of shattering glass and screeching metal filled her ears, muffled only slightly by her own screams until it all stopped and everything went black.
The crunch of dry leaves and twigs reverberated in her throbbing head. Lane fought to remember where she was . . . what happened? She’d been driving on Coastal Highway. An explosion—had it been her tire? More crunching.
Lane licked her lips and tasted blood. Her blood. She squeezed her fingers and toes to assess the damage. Sore spots screamed their protest, but she didn’t think anything was broken. Taking a deep breath, Lane opened her eyes.
Carefully, Lane rolled to her back. She blinked several times trying to get her eyes to focus on the deep violet hues of the sky. The sun was setting and soon it would be too dark to see. She forced herself into a sitting position and regretted it instantly. Nausea accompanied the killer headache that felt like nails were being driven into the back of her skull. Where was she? The smell of wet earth answered her. She was in the woods.
And she wasn’t alone.
“Why are you here?”
Miguel stared at her from the trunk of a fallen tree. “Miguel?” Her heart thumped at his messy appearance. He wore a T-shirt and jeans covered in dirt. His hair was matted with sweat. “What happened? Where are we?”
Miguel looked around. “Your little boy wasn’t in the car.”
“No. H-he”—Lane pushed herself off the ground and felt the world tilt around her—“he’s with my sister.”
“You have a cut. On your head.” Miguel fidgeted with a tool in his hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”
>
Lane looked around at her surroundings. They were definitely in the woods. “Miguel, how did I get here?”
“I pulled you out.” An owl hooted and Miguel’s eyes flashed in its direction. “But you need to go.”
“Miguel, I came out here to find you. Sheriff Huggins wants to ask you some questions.”
“I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Sydney.” He lowered his head. “I taught her how to paint.”
Lane watched Miguel shift the tool back and forth in his hands. Her stomach knotted when she recognized it. Noah had picked up one like it in Miguel’s workshop—but they were nowhere near his workshop. At least she didn’t think so. Nothing around her looked familiar.
“You need to tell the sheriff that.”
“No.” Agitation rose in Miguel’s gruff voice.
“Okay.” Lane held up her hand. “Did you see her that night?”
“She was scared. I should’ve protected her.”
“From who?” Lane’s hands grew clammy. Asking the question scared her almost as much as finding out the answers. “Do you know what happened to Sydney?”
“She died. Just like the rest of them.”
Lane swallowed. “What do you mean ‘the rest of them’?”
“Sydney didn’t want to paint anymore. She was scared.” His grip tightened over the tool in his hand. “I didn’t protect her.”
“Miguel, do you know what happened to Sydney?”
“It was—” His eyes grew round. He slipped his hands along with the tool into his pockets. “You need to leave. Now.”
Lane shifted, grimacing. Miguel looked rough and fidgety. She had to convince him to come with her, but unless he came willingly, her body was in no condition to force him. Would he trust her? “Okay, but I need your help. I don’t think I can make it by myself. We’ll go see the sheriff and you can tell him—”
A dark silhouette appeared out of the shadows, making the hairs on the back of Lane’s neck rise. Annika’s sudden presence chilled the summer heat and drained the color from Miguel’s face. “You know, you really should listen when people try to warn you about something.”
Living Lies Page 28