by Patti Larsen
The Munroe’s next door had never sold. I let myself sit back a moment and wonder how much work it would take to renovate it and make it a sister property to mine. But even as the idea crossed my mind, I shook my head at my own ridiculousness—and the very thought of setting foot in that place again—and smiled down at the snoring pug who chose that moment to fart in blissful unawareness.
“We’re good, aren’t we, pug?”
Weren’t we? I wondered.
The grandfather clock upstairs chimed midnight before I was done, and I only finished a moment before Dad walked down the stairs, the laptop warm on my legs, the lid clicking softly into place as I looked up and tried to smile. Everything was kind of blurry, the headache that had started a few hours ago full blown and I groaned loud enough to wake Petunia who started upright with a snort, blinking at me like I’d woken her on purpose.
Dad didn’t say anything. He crossed to me, sat on the coffee table and handed me two pills and a glass of water. “You’re going to need these.”
I downed the ibuprofen with a quick swig and nodded. “Is Crew still interrogating people?”
“He just finished with the main group.” Dad sounded reserved but soft around the edges. Almost nostalgic without the normal gruffness that colored his tone. “He did a good job, Fee. He’s turning into a hell of a sheriff.”
“Good to know,” I grumbled. “Anything else?”
Dad laughed. “Not on the Crew Turner Fan Club list anymore, kiddo?”
Grunt.
“The only hold out is Mila Martin,” he said. “We were thinking you might give it a go. If you’re interested?”
“We” my ass. “Why should I be?” Yeah, I was being a baby. So what?
“She’s your collar,” he said, standing up, mild manner still in place. “And neither of us could get anything out of her. She seemed to open up to you, though. Just thought I’d ask.”
The painkillers were already kicking in and the irony of what I just took—while not Vicodin—wasn’t lost on me. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll help. But I’m not making anyone a damned sandwich.”
Dad’s frown of confusion told me he had no idea what I was talking about.
“Never mind,” I sighed, setting my laptop on the coffee table, my pug hopping down as Dad helped me to my feet. “Let’s see what Mila has to say.”
It was pretty clear from the look on Crew’s face he wasn’t in on Dad’s plan as I’d expected. But when he paused his interrogation to give my father a hard time, Mila looked up from where she huddled in silence on the sofa and met my eyes. And beamed a smile at me.
“Fee!” She gestured for me to join her. That shut Crew up long enough for me to make an I told you so face despite those words not changing hands and sat with her as he scowled at my childishness or my presence or just because he liked to scowl. Take your pick.
“Mila.” I accepted her hand as she squeezed mine, leaning in to me, Petunia sitting at her feet and looking up at her like she didn’t know what to do. Odd the dog didn’t jump up like she always did. “You need to tell us what you were doing outside.”
“I already did.” She pouted a bit, but at Crew, not me. “He’s mean,” she whispered. “Is he always this mean?”
I didn’t comment, but boy did I want to. “Mila, you know you’re not supposed to be here. Why did you come?”
She looked down at our hands twined together. “Willow’s in danger,” she said. “Or, she used to be.”
“From you.” Crew needed to shut the hell up. This was my interrogation, thanks.
But Mila shook her head and finally spoke to him, though when she met his eyes she looked away immediately, as if he scared her. “No,” she said. “Not me. I was trying to save her.”
“From who, Mila?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
“From that monster she married.” Mila’s face crumpled. “She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but I know. I saw. He beat her,” she whispered those last three words before her voice rose in volume again while my heart skipped a beat. “And I have proof.”
***
Chapter Twenty Two
While I wasn’t surprised, to be honest, silence reigned long enough for Willow to fly down the stairs in a flurry and hurtle herself across the foyer and to the entry to the sitting room. The panic and hurt on her face told me she’d not only been listening in the whole time, but that Mila was right.
“Please,” she sobbed once before clutching a shaking hand to her mouth, staring at Mila with those huge eyes full of pain. “Please.”
“I can’t keep quiet,” Mila said, sounding the more sane of the two, oddly, nodding with firm purpose to Willow before meeting my eyes again. Such determination and loyalty. Could she have killed Skip after all? Well, the motive was clearly there, but means and opportunity? “I’ve loved Willow since high school.” She said it like it wasn’t anything that was a secret or a big deal, but it was clear the kind of love she meant wasn’t just friendly. “She was two years ahead of me and was the only person who was kind to me. She used to defend me against Skip and the guys who would bully me.” She beamed a smile at Willow who crumpled while Dad gently guided the star into the room and sat her in a chair where she seemed to collapse in on herself.
Whether she felt remorse over speaking up or not, Mila went on.
“It was Skip who got the restraining order.” I wasn’t so sure about that. Mila’s passion burned in her and I could see how such delusion could lead Willow to be afraid enough to ask the courts for protection. “It was all his fault we couldn’t be together.”
“Oh, Mila,” Willow whispered.
“It’s true!” She tried to stand, but I gently held her in place and when she turned toward me again, that dreamy kind of adoration was back. “It’s all right now, though,” she said. “He’s dead, and good riddance.”
I knew what everyone in the room was thinking because I was thinking the exact same thing. “Mila,” I said. “What proof do you have of the abuse?” Forget the fact Willow might hold the question against me. It might not be the kind of thing the star wanted known publically, but it was an excellent motive for murder and had to come out. As much as I liked and respected Willow, if she was Skip’s killer she needed to face her punishment.
Though, if a man ever hit me? Yeah, no one would ever find the body.
Mila tipped her hip, looking down at her pocket. “My phone,” she said.
I divested her of it while Crew tried to take it from me but I dodged him and smiled at Mila while the screen came to life. “Password?”
“2025,” she said. “Of course.”
Willow’s latest science fiction movie title. Naturally. I tapped out the numerals and clicked on her picture folder. One was clearly marked “WILLOW” and seemed to hold the bulk of the images on her phone. But another said “PROOF” and I hovered a finger over it, waiting.
“Yes,” Mila said, eager and near panting with her need to share now. “That one.”
I almost handed it over to Crew after all. My heart hurt for the horrified and despair riddled woman across the room who turned her face away, quietly weeping. But my inborn sense of curiosity—thanks, Dad—wouldn’t let me stop. And, for some reason, instead of trying to take the phone again, Crew sat on the arm of the sofa and looked with me as I clicked the folder.
“That was in Las Vegas last year,” Mila said about the amazingly sharp photo of the limousine, clearly night time with lights shining overhead, Skip hulking threateningly over Willow who cowered as his hand froze in its descent toward her face. The second image was the impact, the third a bit blurry as Willow fell.
“My hands were shaking,” Mila said and I looked up to find her weeping. “That’s why it’s out of focus.” Her excitement hadn’t left her but she didn’t seem happy about it. More as if she’d sat on this far too long.
My hands were trembling too actually and I had to draw a deep breath as I clicked the next image. This one was sunny, bright, a swimming pool
, framed by faint green. Mila must have been crouched in some bushes or something, the foliage blurred out and the distant scene in clear view.
Another cycle of several photos, another record of a blow. I’d had enough by the time the stills showed Willow fall to the tile surround of the idyllic pool deck and handed the phone to Crew. I met the star’s eyes as I did. And while I felt horrible for her, I did my best to hide my pity. Because she was waiting for it, I could see that on her face. The stillness that had descended, the tight expectation of judgment.
“He changed,” she said, normally vibrant and kind voice dulled out by her pain. “After this last concussion. I think it did permanent damage.”
“He’s always been abusive, Willow,” Mila said. Chided, really.
Willow’s face snapped to anger. “Not to me.”
“So that made it okay?” The woman beside me vibrated with a surge of her own fury. “It didn’t.”
Willow sagged back again, the moment of heat she’d managed to stir gone, leaving her a rag doll of broken hopes. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”
“The injury,” I said, knowing what she was going to say before I asked the question. “To your back. It wasn’t from the stunt, was it?”
She didn’t comment vocally, but her faint nod answered my question. The damage to her person was from Skip. And I was suddenly in Mila’s camp. Kind of glad the jerk was dead. A horrible place to find myself, really. Still.
Justice could be a killer.
“I tried so hard to convince her to go to the police.” Mila’s crying had ceased but her fanaticism was alive and well. “I sent her copies of the photos, told her I’d go with her.”
“Skip found them,” Willow said, a faintly accusing tone in her voice. “He hit me because of them.”
Mila shrugged. “You knew what he was.” No sympathy.
Wow. What a hideous scab we’d just jerked free from the woman’s wound. I had to sit back a moment, my stomach churning for the two women, one a stalker with the best intentions, the other an abused wife and star no one would ever suspect had anything but a perfect life. And a dead football hero who was a monster between them.
I instantly imagined these two plotting his death, creating this entire scene for our benefit, to displace guilt back and forth so neither could be convicted with 100% reasonable doubt. Willow was, after all, an excellent actress. And for a woman who loved her that deeply, Mila surely could pull off a stellar performance.
Crew’s mind, it appeared, was hurtling down the same road, and from my father’s deep frown so was his, so at least I wasn’t alone.
“Ms. Pink,” the sheriff said in a soft and understanding voice. “Why didn’t you leave him?”
She shot to her feet, Willow’s pale face sunken and hollow, eyes narrowed, lips thinned. She no longer looked the stunning star and instead appeared to me a frail and shadowed wraith of a woman, the dregs of who she used to be.
“That,” she said, “Sheriff, is none of your business.” And before anyone could stop her, she stalked from the room and retreated upstairs.
***
Chapter Twenty Three
It was only moments later when Julian and Stella, obviously ignoring Crew’s orders to stay out of the way, stomped into the sitting room while Mila shrank beside me, huddling in fear as they confronted the sheriff. I found it very interesting my dad hung back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he simply observed how Crew handled this new challenge without offering any kind of support.
It had to be hard for my father to just stand by after decades as a deputy and then a sheriff himself. I knew I was having difficulty keeping my mouth shut while Willow’s agent and director both started shouting at once.
Crew finally held up both hands, his face locked in a firm yet understanding expression I wouldn’t have been able to maintain, so kudos for that. “If you’ll speak one at a time,” he said, “I’ll be happy to answer your questions.”
Somehow he reached them, despite the quietness of his voice. Only then did I realize he’d mastered my father’s technique, that near-mystical and powerful ability to use sheer influence and will to silence those who were in the deep throws of emotion. I’d watched Dad do it over the years and always felt in awe of that skill. Now that I saw Crew could do it too, I wondered just how hard it might be to figure out for myself.
Interesting and altogether not the point at the moment. And yet, there it was.
“How dare you attack Willow like that?” So this was how the conversation was going to go? I’d had enough already and stood, creeping around them, leaving Mila on the sofa. Dad joined her while she watched me leave with a mournful expression, my pug on my heels. I exhaled in relief as the pounding questioning went on, more indignant and angry than helpful.
Let Crew deal with those two. I had someone I needed to talk to before she recovered from the reveal of what her life was really like.
She wasn’t in her room and, when I returned downstairs and peeked in the kitchen, I found her making tea. Carter stood off in one corner, nodding to me and I nodded back, happy to see he was watching over her. She didn’t even seem to notice him, and I suppose I understood that was also her reality.
“Willow.” I took the box of tea bags from her hand and seated her gently on the stool, waited for her to hug her wrap around her before pouring her tea. She didn’t say a word, her face quiet and reposed, but the vulnerable feeling to her hadn’t gone away. If anything she was even more exposed and frail than she had been, as if Mila’s accusation and proof had torn away everything that kept her together.
I set the cup and saucer in front of her, pulling up a stool next to her, Petunia whining softly before scooting up close enough she could lean against Willow’s legs. She smiled down at the pug and scratched the top of her head before a soft sob escaped her. She covered her face in both hands, weeping into them a long moment while I just sat there and let her be.
I caught sight of Carter as he silently left, eyes meeting mine a moment before he was gone. So he trusted me to watch over her, nice to know. And was uncomfortable enough being in the know he chose to give her privacy.
When this was over, I really had to have a long and hard look at how I felt about Carter Melnick.
Willow looked up at last, accepting the paper napkin I liberated from the stack near the spice rack, delicately blowing her nose before sighing out a shaking breath. “Thank you, Fee,” she said, crumpling it in her hand and clinging to it like it meant something to her. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”
And that, I think, was the cusp of Willow Pink. The heart in her, so big and caring, so there for others and herself last, had to be the real reason she stayed. I wanted to shake her suddenly, to make her mad or laugh or anything but this depth of grief and guilt that she was the one who’d done wrong.
She looked up into my eyes, hers clearer and more controlled than I expected. “He asked me why I stayed,” she said. Sniffled. Shrugged. “I loved Skip, Fee. From day one, the moment we met in elementary school. We’ve been together forever.” Willow sipped her tea, set it aside as if she wasn’t even sure why she had it in front of her. “I know he wasn’t a good person to others. I carry that guilt with me. Did my best to protect the ones he tried to hurt. But he was always good to me. Always.”
“Until.” I leaned in, elbows on the counter, keeping all pity from my voice, my face. “Last year.”
“This last injury changed him like nothing else ever did.” She tossed her head back, hair flying over her shoulders, her steel core showing at last, though her weariness matched my own. A kind of acceptance settled around her like her long, dark hair, a resignation that made me sad. “I couldn’t believe it, the first time he hit me. I’ve seen him angry. Jealous. I’ve seen him so worked up about his career and fearful of being replaced he’s ruined other players. Gotten them fired. While I did nothing, buried myself in my work and accepted that was who he was with other people. Until he hit me that night in
Las Vegas. And everything changed.”
“Did you tell anyone?” Again my inner redhead raged, that he’d have been dead, dismembered and disposed of permanently within five seconds of hitting me. But would he? If I was in her situation, would I do what I thought I would or what she did?
“No,” she said, staring at her hands clasped on the counter in front of her. “I had no idea Mila had taken those photos. But honestly, it’s not like we were alone. There were three bodyguards there that night. And not one of them stopped him.” While she might not have sounded angry about that, I had to clench my jaw against the need to go find Carter and kick him where it would hurt so much he’d never, ever father children. Or walk again. Though, I had no proof he’d been there. Didn’t matter just then. Not even a little bit.
Willow sighed again, even managed to smile, like she’d made it past the worst and was emerging from the dark blossom of her grief and guilt. “He wasn’t getting any younger,” she said. “Neither am I. But while my career as a leading actress has a shelf life, I at least could keep working as long as I was careful about my choices. Once Skip was done, he was done.”
“You knew he was taking too many painkillers.” That much was obvious.
“I talked him into trying the Quexol,” she said. “The doctors said it might take the edge off the injury, maybe help him come back to me. But it made him ill and slow and the team noticed. So he stopped taking it.”
“And hit you again?” So hard to say in such a non-judging tone. I managed. Barely.
“Yes, twice. But the worst was the day he found the photos Mila sent.” She shook like a tremor took her then settled. Memory was a powerful thing and she had to be reliving the experience. So vivid it rocked her in her seat. “That day, at the pool. He kicked me when I was down, fractured two vertebra before the bodyguards could pull him off me.”