There was a lot to be said for that.
“One more thing,” I said, leveling my gaze with his. “Never call me Joey-woey again.”
Fifteen minutes later, Zane and I pulled up to the rental house where Lily Livingston had been staying. It was kind of a spontaneous decision to come here, but I was desperate to find answers and didn’t know where else to go.
The place still looked empty, but there was also still a van next door. I never did catch the name of the woman who owned that house, but that was okay. I hoped she remembered me.
Zane and I climbed up the stairs to the front door. Just as before, a woman answered with a toddler on her hip. This time, she had paint smeared across her cheek.
“Can I help you? Oh, it’s you again.” She frowned. “What can I do for you?”
I supposed I couldn’t use my celebrity status on her since she didn’t appear to recognize me. “I never really introduced myself last time. My name is Joey Darling.”
“Your name sounds familiar.”
“I get that a lot. Anyway, we’re still looking for your neighbor—”
“I heard she was in the hospital. Tried to kill herself. Sorry I can’t be more help.” She stepped back.
I had to turn this conversation around before it ended. I glanced behind her and saw boxes still piled there. I could only assume she’d packed stuff up while working on the house, even though the boxes weren’t clearly marked.
“You’re painting it yourself, I see,” I said instead.
She frowned. “Yeah, the painter never showed up. So now I’m painting this whole place with three kids under five with me.”
“Sounds fun.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, it’s a ton of fun. And I really need to get back to it.”
In other words, speed this conversation along. “I was just touching base to see if you’d seen anything else next door. Anything strange or out of the ordinary.”
She let out a sigh. “I don’t know. I did see a car there the other day. After the woman supposedly drugged herself. I guess it was on Saturday.”
“Do you remember anything about the car?”
“It was expensive. A sports car. Yellow. A Ferrari. My husband was gawking over it.”
Zane nudged me. He knew something, I realized.
I thanked the woman and said goodbye. When we were back in the car, Zane turned to me.
“I know whose car that was,” he said. “Winston Corbina’s.”
Eighteen
My hands trembled as I stared at the building in front of me the next morning.
It was a church.
And I hadn’t set foot in one for six years.
I’d grown up going. Spent my formative years in church. Met my best friends at youth group.
Then I moved to LA, and I was done with church. I’d even gotten married at a vineyard.
But Beach United Community Church was the congregation my father had attended while he’d lived here. That was the only reason I was here today. I needed to peek into his life, into the days before he disappeared, and I couldn’t think of a better way than by being here now.
I’d looked it up online. The service started at 10:30. It was now 10:40.
I’d purposefully arrived late, which was ironic because my father hated it when I was late. But I thought my reasons were pretty good. I didn’t want to cause a stir.
I’d seen it happen before. One person recognizing me, gasping, and then a whole crowd looking at me.
That was not what I wanted to happen here. So I was arriving late. I’d pulled my hair back in a twist, and I wore a baby-blue dress. Nothing like what Raven would wear.
I’d slip in, sit in the back, and observe. And I would do this week after week until I learned more about my father. Until I figured out the people who knew him. Until I learned who might know something.
As I stepped inside, I was swept back in time to my childhood.
The church was older and traditional, with stained-glass windows and wooden pews and red carpet down the center aisle. The walls were dark wood paneling, and there were two boards up front, one with the hymn numbers and the other with stats like sixty-seven people in attendance and $1,500 for offering.
I slipped into the back pew as they were singing “Bringing in the Sheaves.” As a child, I’d thought the words were “bringing in the sheeps.” As in, for the slaughter. I’d hated that song until my father explained to me what the song really meant.
I glanced around, looking for any familiar faces. Not that I knew many people in the area. I already knew that Dizzy didn’t come here. She went to a Baptist church down the street. Zane’s camper van was still in the driveway when I left, so I could only assume he wasn’t here.
That left very few other people.
My gaze stopped on one of them.
Jackson Sullivan.
He sat three rows ahead of me on the other side of the aisle. A blue-haired woman, probably in her eighties, sat with him, and he held a hymnal for the two of them to share.
My heart melted for a minute at the sight.
As it did, Jackson looked over and saw me. He nodded ever so subtly. I nodded back.
But that left me with a strange understanding in my gut.
He was possibly investigating my father. He’d even seen my dad’s picture in my closet. He must have known my dad if they’d gone to church together. Yet he’d acted like he hadn’t.
What was Jackson Sullivan hiding? And why?
I didn’t know, but I didn’t like the thought of it.
I thought I’d gotten through the service home free. But before I could escape out the front doors—five minutes early, at that—one girl caught me and wanted my autograph. By the time I talked to her, church had let out and five other people surrounded me.
Normally, crowds didn’t bother me. But Leonard was still weighing on my mind and making me feel paranoid. Crowds were not great places to be when paranoia kicked in. What if he was here? What if he got close again? What if he was planning something more sinister than stuffing me in a closet?
Even more: How long did I have to solve this case before he killed me or someone else? My throat went dry when I thought about what happened next in Episode 304. Raven blacked out and awoke to find herself tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse.
The thought wasn’t comforting. Because unlike Raven, I didn’t have the skills to free myself and survive.
Jackson cut through the merry little group and took my elbow. “Sorry, everyone. I’ve got to steal her away for a little while.”
He led me from the building and all the way to my car. My heartbeat slowed as the divide between me and the crowd grew larger.
“Thank you,” I muttered.
“No problem.”
“Most actresses, I’d guess, love attention,” he said as we paused by my car. “Why do you seem uncomfortable?”
“I love attention, and that’s the problem. It can become addicting. You can lose yourself in it.” So that had been a little too honest, which required an immediate subject change. “You should take on some bodyguarding jobs,” I said, trying to keep my voice light so he couldn’t see how shaken I felt.
“Bodyguarding? No thank you.”
I stared at him a moment. If he were Zane, I’d tell him exactly what I was thinking. But he wasn’t Zane. Jackson made me nervous, and I didn’t like being nervous.
But I had to ask him a question.
“You knew my dad.” Okay, it really wasn’t a question.
“I did.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“Are you playing games with me?”
“I’m not.” He glanced around. “Look—you want to grab a bite to eat? We’ll talk then.”
Eating with Jackson? I supposed it couldn’t hurt anything. Besides, it was wicked cold outside right now.
“Fine. One condition though.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s that
?”
“Ripley has to come with us.”
He tilted his head and let out an airy laugh. “Really?”
“Really. I kind of have a little crush on that dog after he gave me a run for my money yesterday.”
“I think I know a place then.”
“Where?”
“The Fatty Shack,” he said.
The Fatty Shack again? There went my diet. But at least I’d get to see Ripley.
“Sure. I’ll see you there.”
Jackson, Ripley, and I sat in a corner booth at the Fatty Shack, right under an autographed picture of . . . me. I hadn’t arranged that on purpose, but it had just happened to work out that way.
Erma, the same waitress from before, was working, and she insisted on taking a picture with me. She’d brought her camera, just in case I showed up again. Then she brought out the manager and one cook, who also got pictures.
Jackson remained quiet at the booth as all of this took place. Even Ripley seemed content to simply lie at our feet and soak everything in.
Finally, everyone left, and our food was placed on the table. I really did get a salad this time. With fish on top. I just hadn’t expected the fish to be fried. Jackson, on the other hand, had gotten some kind of basket with steamed fish and veggies. I made a mental note to try that next time.
A football game played overhead, and I glanced up. “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble” sounded on the screen as players rushed onto the field. Except one fell.
My hand covered my mouth in horror. “Did you see that?”
“Sure did.” He gave Ripley a piece of cornbread beneath the table.
“That’s me,” I said, watching the man’s teammates pull him back to his feet. Poor guy. “I should be ready to rumble. Instead, I’m ready to fumble.”
“I don’t know what to say, because I’m certainly not going to encourage you to investigate. I’d prefer there was no rumbling or fumbling going on.”
“I’m not trying to get in your way, you know.”
“But you are.”
“And here I thought we might have a pleasant conversation.”
“Then let’s change the subject. You pick.”
I picked up my fork. Changing the subject sounded great, especially since I had questions for him. “So you knew my father?”
He let out a breath and shrugged. “Not really, Joey. I’ve seen him. I’m not the most social guy on the planet. Give me a dog and a fishing rod, and I’m pretty happy. But we had spoken on occasion. I didn’t realize he was your father.”
“I see.”
“Besides, you have different last names. I assume you changed your name when you went into acting.”
“You assume correctly.”
“Your real name wasn’t that bad.”
I nearly snorted. “Josephine Schermerhorn?”
He cringed. “Yeah, maybe it was.”
“Do you think Demi Moore is her real name? No, it’s Demetria Guynes. Or how about Natalie Wood? Her real name is Natalia Nikolaevna Zakharenko. Portia De Rossi? Oh no, she’s actually Amanda Lee Rogers. Need I go on?”
“Please don’t.” He raised a hand, but his eyes twinkled. Until they didn’t, and he turned serious again. “What about your mother, Joey? How does she fit into the picture?”
“She left us when I was six months old. My dad was a single parent. He worked for the railroad. We didn’t have much money, but he did the best he could. He was the best. He sacrificed for me. He didn’t date anyone—didn’t even look at anyone else, as far as I know. And that’s saying a lot considering he was only twenty-four when my mom left. He had a lot of years ahead of him.”
“Is something wrong with your father, Joey?”
I cringed, my appetite waning. I remembered that police file. Jackson knew more than he was letting on, and I’d be wise to remember that. “I don’t know.”
“Why won’t you let me help?”
Because I don’t know if I can trust you. Instead I said, “You don’t know me. Why would you want to help?”
“It would be anyone’s pleasure to get to know you.”
I shook my head, hating the admiration in his eyes.
All the insults Eric had hurled at me came back at full force.
“I make messes, Jackson. People might want to get to know me, but they shouldn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes. A lot. I’ve hurt people who care about me. Like my father.”
“I’m sure he’s forgiven you. If he’s the man you’ve made him out to be, he will.”
I pulled my gaze up to meet Jackson’s. “During my last conversation with my dad, I told him I never wanted to see him again.” I swallowed hard, so hard it hurt. “I didn’t mean it. I was angry. Everything felt like it was out of my control. But those words did leave my lips. And if I don’t find my dad, that will be the last thing I ever said to him. I can’t live with myself if that’s the case.”
“Then it sounds like whether you like it or not, you do need my help.”
Nineteen
Just as we finished our meal, Jackson’s phone rang. He grunted into the mouthpiece. I sat on the edge of my seat, hoping he’d share something about the conversation. Maybe it was because I was nosy. Maybe it was because my gut told me this pertained to the investigation.
“Lily Livingston is awake,” Jackson announced.
My pulse spiked. “She is?”
He nodded. “I’ll escort you back to your place first before I head to the hospital.”
“I’d like to go see her.” I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try.
He shook his head, not just a little, but adamantly. “Sorry. That can’t happen.”
“I won’t get in your way.”
He twisted his head like he didn’t believe me.
“If you don’t let me come along, I’m just going to hop in my car and go to the hospital myself. She is my client.”
He twisted his head harder.
I shrugged. “What? It’s true.”
He rubbed his jaw and then sighed. “Come on. Let’s go.”
I had to wait outside her room while Jackson questioned Lily. But I wasn’t going anywhere. I would patiently wait for my turn.
However, being here brought back such bad memories of the last time I was in the hospital.
No one knew the whole truth. No one except me, Eric, and Starla.
I sat in the chair in the waiting room, my sleeves pulled over my hands, as the unwelcome memories rushed back to me.
Eric and I had been fussing. We did that a lot, and those arguments were often heated. Sometimes violent. He’d slapped me before. Yelled at me. Insulted me.
But on that day, he’d pushed me down the stairs. I’d cracked a rib. Sustained a concussion. And I hadn’t been able to pull myself up even. I’d just lain there at the base of the stairs.
Eric had slowly walked down toward me. Would he gush with apology after realizing what he’d done? I could still see every detail in my mind. He’d reached the bottom and stood over me as tears streamed down my face. Then he’d spit on my face, told me I was worthless, and walked away.
He hadn’t called for help. In fact, he’d taken my phone so I couldn’t call for help either. Then he’d left the house.
Eventually, despite the overwhelming pain, I’d forced myself to stand. I’d found my car keys and stumbled to the car. I had to drive myself to find help.
Only a half mile from my home, the pain had overwhelmed me and I’d crashed into a light pole. The doctors hadn’t distinguished the injuries caused by Eric from the injuries caused by my accident.
In the hospital, Eric had visited me. He’d acted like a concerned husband. He’d even done a press conference in my honor. Though my blood alcohol level had been below the legal limit from some wine I’d had before the argument, rumors had torpedoed, and the fall of Joey Darling had begun.
Jackson stepped out and nodded toward me. “Lily would like
to speak with you.” Jackson’s voice pulled me from the suffocating memories.
I wanted to ask what he’d learned, but I knew he wouldn’t share anything. So instead I stood and felt my first touch of trepidation as I stared at her door. I could do this. I wasn’t Raven Remington in real life, but I was capable.
Usually.
Except when I wasn’t.
I pushed those thoughts aside and stepped into Lily’s room. The area was bright with plenty of sunshine pouring through the windows on one wall. She had no flowers or balloons, however. Had none of her family cared enough to come?
She smiled at me from her bed and waved her fingers. She had uncountable wires and tubes hooked up to her, but she still managed to look presentable. Her hair was neatly pulled back and her eyes surprisingly bright.
“Hi, Lily,” I said as I approached her bed.
“Raven—I mean, Joey. I’m glad you’re here.”
I ignored the antiseptic smell around me, a smell that always turned my stomach, and concentrated on Lily. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better. This story didn’t end quite the way I wanted.” Tears rushed to her eyes, and she fanned her face.
I frowned. “You heard about Simon?”
“The detective told me.” She sniffled and stared out the window. “My sweet Simon. Do you know what happened, Joey?”
I shook my head, trying to push away the feelings of defeat that plagued me. “No, not yet. But maybe now that you’re awake, you can fill in some of the blanks—”
“I wish I could, but everything is kind of hazy still.”
Apparently she’d just come out of a coma, but she still had a proclivity toward interrupting. “You didn’t kill him, did you, Lily?”
She gasped, and her heart rate monitor began beeping more rapidly. “No. Why do people keep asking that?”
“It was a theory that was thrown out. You killed Simon because he was cheating and then tried to kill yourself—”
“He was cheating?” Her gaze latched on to mine.
Ready to Fumble (The Worst Detective Ever Book 1) Page 13