by Nenny May
That night, Richard Dean had walked her around the gathering, beneath the chandelier lit room and introduced her as a woman of the night, one in dire need of business.
◆◆◆
“And that’s when I saw her,” Mark Flint said. He was an elderly man with salt and pepper hair and almond eyes. He’d been in his early forties at the time of the party. He’d accompanied a friend to the gathering, a doughy man much older than he was at the time. The man Leslie Gilstrap had been returning from a night of downing one too many beers when he’d stopped by the Dean’s banquet.
Mark knew the woman in his presence. He’d expected Richard Dean speak of her in high esteem, to introduce her as Tillamook’s most influential businesswoman. He hadn’t.
That night, Richard Dean had introduced her as a woman of the night, a slut.
CHAPTER FIVE
Claire Fisher was gone. By the time Paul had returned to their hotel room, the door and been locked and rasping against it for minutes on end had gotten him nowhere.
He’d tried despite the wandering eyes it attracted. He’d pleaded against the door to no one, clinging to the shred of hope that his wife-to-be hadn’t taken to Tillamook’s streets.
What would she have hoped to gain embarking on a one-woman search party anyway? She would have better luck remaining in their temporary residence until he returned.
She was gone.
She should have waited.
Waited while he cheated on her.
While he threw away the years they’d spent building the foundation of a relationship he wrecked in a morning of bad decisions.
But there was no way Claire could have pieced together what he’d done. He was safe in that regard.
For how long?
How long before the guilt suffocated him, how long before he came clean or grew careless enough for her to piece together his wrongs?
He was safe for now. That didn’t disregard the fact that he’d ignored her, abandoned her in an unfamiliar hotel room in a town she knew nothing about.
One last time, he slammed his fist against the door.
Claire wasn’t at the other end of that door.
He needed to make it up to her.
Not for cheating. She didn’t know about that, so he had nothing to make up for.
He needed to find her.
She meant too much to him, he couldn’t lose her. Not this way. Not now.
His heart thundering in his chest, he made his way to the lobby and again under the scrutinizing gaze of the sun. He could run from his demons all he wanted, but he could only run from the sun for so long before it would return and with it the guilt that piggybacked.
He was back in the Sienna they’d hired.
Dialing her number was useless. It went straight to voicemail.
Overlooking the fact that he’d run her perhaps out of town, he'd deserved a pat on the back for persuading the Claire Fisher to be his plus-one during this conundrum. Not many had the balls to attempt, not many could achieve such.
Looking back, he should have valued that. She was with him, and he’d taken that for granted.
He despised the possibility that she could be halfway to Portland by now. Their flight had been about fifteen minutes. Who was he kidding, she was probably back in their home; her home that she’d let him—a deadbeat who couldn’t hold a job longer than a few months—move into. She was probably chucking his things out the window.
He groaned, filling the tight Sienna air with all the reasons why she was too good for him. His mother was right. He would learn a lot from her, she had a stable job, even though Blake hadn’t approved of the pay, she’d wanted him to pick up a thing or two from Claire.
He was trembling. He couldn't drive. Neither could he remain in their Sienna, a 2018 model that had enough room for three kids. They didn't have kids, neither were they ready for that part of life, but the Sienna just seemed like the right car for them.
Again, he tried her number, voicemail.
He'd hurt his wife, he had to man up and take control of the goddamn situation. He’d ignored her calls and texts, pushed her away, and banged some blonde bartender that was anything but his type.
Coming clean was out of the question and remaining in a hotel parking lot wasn’t an alternative.
Fumbling, Paul clicked the car to life and set on a journey to Portland, a journey to win back the love of his life. A journey to bury a mistake that should have never happened in the first place.
The drive was there about an hour and a half if he turned right at the 1st cross street onto the OR-6 E. He hadn’t. Thirty-minutes in however, he’d pulled up at a run-down gas station for a refill for the Sienna that had been running on empty. The area was sketchy enough that he’d begun contemplating the risk of leaving the car out there in the sun and making his way into the convenient store to request a full-tank of gas. He was the only one for miles. He wasn’t in a rush to get back on the open road. He didn’t appreciate the silence he’d sat through, his hands turning white on the steering wheel as pangs of guilt stabbed him. Four-years building a relationship based on trust and love… How could he have thrown it all away on a one-night-stand with a bartender that wasn’t even his type? He didn’t take pleasure in the tightness in his chest or the anger he felt towards himself for giving into his lustful desires. He was a horrible husband-to-be. He couldn’t imagine how she was going to take it… Would she cry? Would she hit him? Claire was fierce despite her size. Her students shuddered at the sight of a scowl on her pretty face.
He’d never done anything to warrant more than the silent treatment or a smack in the arm. He’d never once been disloyal. He wasn’t that kind of man.
“Then why did you do it?” His head snapped in the direction of the familiar voice. The soft, brittle voice he’d associated with love, home… She wasn’t in the passenger seat. No, she’d been at the back. She’d been buckled in, eyes reddened, swollen, thin lips wobbling. His breath got caught in his throat. He shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. What was she doing there? Had she always been in there? Wouldn’t she have suffocated with the windows rolled up all the while he was banging on their room door? She wasn’t at the hotel; she wasn’t anywhere to be found and she couldn’t have crawled into the car… could she? His heart galloped in his chest; his fingers quivered. Did she hear everything he’d wailed into the silence?
He felt backed up into a corner. He was nervous, agitated. “What the fuck are you doing here Claire?” He barked slamming his hands on the steering wheel. She didn’t as much as wince at the sudden sound. Where the hell did she come from? As far as he was concerned, she was supposed to be in Portland burning his things in their front yard—in her front yard—and swearing against men entirely.
She wasn’t supposed to be in the back listening to his regret rip him apart, bit by bit.
“Wow, what a way to acknowledge the woman you cheated on.” There was a cynical edge in her words.
He was suddenly claustrophobic. He squeezed his eyes shut. This had to be a trick, his mind was playing him.
There was a click and ruffling, and then he felt it. The petite hand placed on his back, almost at his shoulder, and that’s when the first tear drop slid down his flustered cheek. His eyes fluttered open. “I’m so sorry.” He couldn’t bear losing her. He couldn’t stop the stream, they came as if at last, he’d cracked open the door to the pain he’d been running from. He’d sobbed as though surrendering to the pain he’d caused her. “I’m so bloody sorry, Claire…” He turned to her. Lips pressed in a thin line, and eyes searching his, she’d said nothing and let him pour out his anguish. “I… You probably heard what I was screaming about…” But she said nothing. “I wish it didn’t happen… I wish…” Wishing did nothing, he needed to beg, he needed to grovel shamelessly. He needed to show her that the blonde bimbo at American Angels meant nothing. She was an impulsive decision he ought to have fought. She was a mistake.
“You could have stopped it, yo
u could have respected me, you could have come back…” Each word was a dagger shoved through his tender flesh. “I waited, Paul. But you never came back for me.” She shook her head, her hand falling limp at her side. No, he yearned for her touch, for her forgiveness. How was he going to get it? He felt lost.
“I wanted to make this right. I was going all the way to Portland to—”
“To apologize? You weren’t even going to tell me what the hell you did.” She returned to her seat. How did she know that? He swallowed with much difficulty. “You were going to lie to me, going to bring me flowers and chocolates and you were going to act as if I was stupid. Am I stupid, Paul?” He couldn’t answer. “Am I?” He’d cried as if his soul was bleeding.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Claire… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” She didn’t want to hear it. Gliding the back door open, Claire let herself out and wandered into the convenient store.
Lurching forward, only to be tugged back by his seatbelt, Paul let himself out of the Sienna and stumbled over his own two feet. “Wait.” He called after her, but she’d vanished through the doors. “For gods sakes, Claire, wait.” He barged through the translucent convenient store doors. His eyes ran through the metal racks there were at least six rows she could have disappeared through. He didn’t need this.
“Where is she?” He blared, cheeks reddened from the ache in his chest and the frustration of dealing with a disgruntled fiancé.
The man with shaggy blonde hair and an unkept beard behind the counter frowned at him. “Who?” Paul knew his types, tattooed and careless, that’s why the man was stuck behind a counter for less than minimum wage.
“Are you dumb?” Paul edged closer to the man. “The woman that just walked in here.”
The man chuckled slightly. “Dude, no one’s been in here all day.” It was his turn to frown.
This couldn’t be happening.
He had to get to Portland.
◆◆◆
Melissa Campbell, more appropriately Melissa Slater hadn’t left Tillamook. And Claire Fisher had been up—in a bid to shut the door on her anxiety—researching into the first wife of the late Christopher Campbell.
Melissa had moved from the Campbell home that was later occupied by Blake Campbell—only four years after her unofficial spit with Christopher Campbell—and into a smaller, cost-friendly apartment by Champions Park.
It was a single building, four stories, and Claire had let herself in through the front door above which hung an exhausted sign that said entrance.
There was no one by the front desk. There seemed to be no one around. “Hello!” She called, guiding herself through the parted doors. One lead to an empty bathroom, another to a breakroom equipped with a coffee maker that had a stale brew sitting in the pot, a cup in the sink, and a chair pulled out from the single table.
Someone had been here.
She returned to the front desk. “Hello!” She called again. This time, glancing at the stairs and listening for footsteps.
She knew this was where Melissa Campbell lived. She just needed to know what room and what floor.
With her heart lurched, suspended, she’d glanced over her shoulder twice as if someone would appear behind her, and when no one did, she wondered behind the desk for a registry. A document of rooms and numbers and owners. Anything that would point her in the direction of the first wife of Christopher Campbell.
It was on the surface of the desk, shut below a copy of Know My Name by Channel Miller. She’d pushed the memoir aside and flipped through the registry, taking time to glance up at the door. Her hands had begun to tremble.
She’d found it the name, Melissa Slater, room—
The door flung open, and Claire Fisher stood frozen in place. She couldn’t go to prison for trespassing. She had an LL.B.; She was the Criminal Law Professor at the University of Portland. People like that didn’t belong in a prison cell, didn’t belong on trial. The hairs at the nape of her neck perked.
The woman who’d pushed the door open had been occupied with a phone between her shoulder and ear and arms hugging bags of groceries.
Claire had vanished up the stairs. Taken them two at a time, her bag slapping against her hip until she’d reached the third floor. The fifth door. Room 305. She knocked and waited, shifting her weight between her feet. They were killing her. She’d walked half the way into the streets from her and Paul’s hotel.
She hadn’t had a destination at the time. Her head had hung low, eyes fixed on articles that filled her phone screen. She’d set out to find Melissa Campbell. And only one website made mention of the fact that she’d taken up a cozy life out of the media’s scrutinizing gaze as a teacher in an elementary school in the area and resided by Champions Park. Claire had leaped into a cab upon reading that.
The articles had claimed Melissa was younger than her husband at the time they’d wed. The gap wasn’t as drastic as that of Blake Campbell, but it was noticeable, and the people of Tillamook had pecked at it like birds to crumbs.
The door cracked, half-closed.
The woman’s eyes at the other end was ablaze.
But familiar.
She was the woman in the article.
The woman from all the pictures.
“What do you want?” Her voice had been scratchy.
Claire Fisher forced a smile. “I’m Private Investigator… Piper Holiday,” The lie was easy on her tongue. “… and I would like to have a quick chat with you about the death of Blake Campbell.” The door shut in her face. Hope wasn’t lost because she’d heard the bolts on the other end being undone and the door opened. She slipped into the woman’s home.
Lilacs. The woman’s home had smelled immediately of it.
It was a small apartment. Peach and pink, brought to life by flowers that hung on the wall over bookshelves. There was a small television in the corner, a mug on the wooden coffee table by the floral armchair, and books scattered on the chair.
It seems Melissa had been in the middle of reading time. Claire reached for one of the books. The one with the pages opened to the ceiling. Finding Freedom by Erin French.
She returned it to the patterned… textured chair. “I didn’t kill her.” Melissa said joining her in the living room.
“I never said you did.” Claire clung to her cotton sweater and took in the woman. She was old. She couldn’t for the life of her guess how old at this point, but the woman’s hair was salt; grey as a pending storm, and she had empty eyes to match, a steel grey. The lips on the woman were chapped, pencil-thin, and faded pink. She was rather full-figured and short with skin of warm honey. “Restless is the guilty mind.” Claire said more to herself. “You didn’t kill her so there’s nothing you should be… worried about.” She reached for her cross bag that sat on her hip and pulled out one of her many printouts. “I just want to get to know a little more about, Blake Campbell from you,” She paused handing it to the woman who scowled, forehead creased, and mouth set in a hard line. “After all, you are her late husband’s legal wife.”
◆◆◆
“Ready?” Detective Dawson poked his head into her office. He ran his eyes over the room and made a show of being intrigued by the room. “It’s good to be back in here. I knew you’d come groveling for me to come back, but I didn’t think it would be this soon,”
Rachel Olson shut the report Steve Woods had left on her desk. He’d been able to crack the passcode. Embarrassingly, she couldn’t guess the password of a fifty-something-year-old woman. She hadn’t had the time to go through his findings. She resisted the urge to shove the file into her bag. She was out of time. The thought of leaving behind the content of their deceased’s phone in her office had an idle hand tugging at her earlobe.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
Nothing has ever been easy since she’d joined the force.
“I didn’t grovel,” She heard herself say in a squeak of a voice. Pulling open her desk drawer, she shoved the report inside and sl
ammed it shut.
“Woah, Olson, Everything okay?” Dawson yet again had this scruffy end-of-the-day look to him. She let out a harsh breath.
She couldn’t explain her mood. Not to him. Not after the character’s she’d exhibited in his presence, not after her weakness and complete lack of emotional control, not after he’d seen her sink her career because she couldn’t take a goddamn hint, watched her push everyone away.
And even still, he stuck around.
He was like that annoying neighborhood cat that despite being shooed multiple times returned and for the littlest bit of attention. She wasn’t going to admit it, but she was getting used to that cat.
“I’m fine.” She met his gaze, he was by the entrance, hands in the pockets of his slacks, his shirt untucked, and sleeves of course rolled up exposing his forearms. She was easing into the look, only Detective Dawson could pull off the gruff, unemployed look. “Shall we?” She rose, reached for her bag on the desk, and rounded her table to him.
He hadn’t moved an inch.
She paused. His eyes burned; she hadn’t been ready to meet them. She’d kept hers on the door behind him and listened to the music of his breathing. “You don’t have to do this, Olson.”
She shook her head. If she didn’t, she would return home and without work, she didn’t know what she would do with the leftover time she had on her hands. Detective Dawson was offering her an alternative. Something to yank her out of her shell, and maybe one day she can return to American Angels and sit with the Crime Scene Unit.
This was the first step. “I want to.” She did it. She dared a look into his welcoming eyes. It was fascinating how he could be the same bad cop that had sent Paul Campbell into hysterics and the man with the soft-welcoming-eyes at the same time. “This is what’s best for me,” There it was, for her. She could hear it now. She was self-involved. In all her cases, she put herself in the victim’s shoes, made it all about her, and how she had to avenge Leona, and with Blake Campbell, history was repeating itself.