by Lyla Payne
Oddly, my last thought as we pull away from the pretty, colonial-style brick home my grandparents built is how Mrs. Walters is possibly going to fit all of today’s gossip in over morning tea with the Garden Club ladies.
My head has cleared by the time we get to the police station, a plain building downtown that hasn’t changed a single bit in the past twenty years. There are two cells, both large enough to hold about ten people, a cinderblock interrogation room with none of the fancy two-way mirrors, and a room filled with enough desks to afford seats for all of the monkeys in uniform this town has to offer— about eight.
The deputies dump me in the interrogation room, unlock my handcuffs, and bring me a glass of water before leaving me alone. Five minutes pass, then ten. The time allows me to order my thoughts, and helps me come to grips with the fact that someone tipped off the cops about planted evidence—hell, that someone planted evidence—leaving me with the obvious conclusion that I’m being set up for poor Glinda’s murder.
My mind has just started to wonder who would have not only the motive but the ability and the opportunity—and who also knows my involvement in the case goes beyond helping the police find the body—when Detective Travis pushes open the flimsy door.
He closes it behind him with a quiet click, then tosses a manila folder down on the bare table between us before sitting in the rickety chair across from me.
“Well, Miss Harper, I’m afraid you’re in a bit of a pickle. As you know, I was suspicious the night you called us out to check on Glinda, mostly because yours and the mayor’s stories as to why and how that came to pass felt rehearsed to me. And badly, given they didn’t exactly match up.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” I reply when he pauses, sharp eyes looking to me for some kind of contribution to the conversation.
“I thought you might be interested to know that we found your fingerprints at the crime scene.”
“Duh, I was in the house with the Ryan twins. Did you bust your brain with that one?”
“We found them on objects in the room that the twins said you didn’t touch.”
“I ran errands for Glinda. Did some dusting when she asked. I know you haven’t lived here long, but that’s the way things were. Glinda played the poor old lady card, and because this is the South and she mothered the whole town, pretty much everyone jumped when she said she needed help. You’ll probably find the fingerprints of half the town if you look hard enough.”
Of course, not everyone’s fingerprints were on file. Stupid misspent youth.
“Perhaps, but we didn’t find half the town’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “Just yours, as a matter of fact.”
I can actually feel the color drain from my face. Guessing that the blood-crusted knife in the plastic bag was the murder weapon was one thing, but having it confirmed is something else altogether. And they found it in my car.
A shudder pinches my spine as it works its way down to my tailbone, gone numb from sitting in this chair. My tongue is too dry to form words, to defend myself, but a little voice in the back of my mind tells me that saying anything isn’t the smartest idea, anyway.
“Do you have anything to say about that? Or maybe about how the knife found its way into your car?” When I don’t respond he flips open the folder with a sigh, turning over the first couple of pages. “It’s a hunting knife, one used to butcher bigger game, like deer, in the field.”
Nausea bubbles in my stomach, and tastes sour as it climbs into the back of my throat. The thought of Glinda being butchered like an animal makes me sick.
“Are you a hunter, Miss Harper?”
“You must know I’m not,” I whisper. “I don’t even like fishing.”
“I can’t charge you now, not without the little pieces that connect the evidence and make our case airtight, but make no mistake, you will be charged. And under the circumstances, it won’t matter much to a judge and jury how you got your hands on the weapon. Knife like that’s a dime a dozen in places like Heron Creek.” He pauses, waiting for me to raise my eyes to his. “Your ex, William Gayle, he’s a rather dedicated outdoorsman, isn’t he?”
The suggestion—the reminder, really—turns my blood to ice in my veins. Will is a hunter; he has always been aware of the balance of local wildlife, a passion that led to his current job in the environmental sector. It was one of the only interests we didn’t share growing up, and the only time we were separated during the summers was during his hunting or fishing trips.
“So what?”
“So, rumor around town is that he and his wife are having problems, and that it might have something to do with the two of you getting closer.”
“Is this an interrogation or an episode of Maury? I hope your entire investigation doesn’t rest on the gossip you’ve overheard at the Wednesday bridge game in the park.”
Indignation trumps my fear. This guy doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know Will or Melanie, and he doesn’t belong to Heron Creek. He has no right to talk about us. About any of us.
Even if he is supposed to be finding out who killed Glinda. He’s not going to have much success if he spends all his time focused on the wrong damn person.
“Detective Travis, I’m going to say this one time. Just once, loud and clear, and whether you choose to hear me or not is up to you.” His gaze burns into mine, perceptive and engaged, alight with a hunger that suggests he thinks he’s about to close his first—and probably only—major case in Heron Creek.
His enthusiasm almost makes me feel sorry for him.
“I didn’t kill Glinda. I can’t even kill bugs.” His face falls, eyes dimming until they’re back to their typical mild disinterest. “I don’t own a hunting knife, I didn’t steal anything from Will or anyone else. Someone is setting me up, and if you’re too blind or stubborn or lazy to find out who really killed Glinda, I guess I’m going to have to do it myself.”
Chapter Thirteen
I have some time while alone in a Heron Creek jail cell to come up with a list of people who know I’m looking into what happened to Glinda. It’s a pretty short one. They’re all people I consider friends, except for Clete and his merry band of criminals, of course. It doesn’t help the moonshiner’s case that he was at my house earlier tonight and I never saw him get in a car. That said, the only person who could get their hands on that knife is the person who used it in the first place. I’ve been trying to push that thought far from my mind, because it means a real, live murderer was rooting around in my car. And has it in for me.
Not good. I mean, Anne Bonny was a murderer and I hung out with her for several weeks, but she was dead. This is different, and as hard as I try, I can’t pretend it doesn’t freak me out. Playing detective for Anne was one thing—it involved a little breaking and entering, some snooping, nothing I hadn’t done before—but nothing like this. I’m not a sleuth, amateur or otherwise, and as much as I cared for Glinda and hope we can put the psychopath who killed her behind bars, I really don’t think I’m the person to do it, despite my bravado with the detective.
The sound of arguing from outside the station’s front doors, where Travis went to pretend he’s not having a real smoke instead of his e-cigarette, distracts me from the mental path that ends with me meeting the same end as poor Glinda. One of the voices gets clear enough for me to recognize it as Beau’s, a fact that floods me with equal parts relief and terror.
“Bail her out? We’ve got her prints on the murder weapon! What judge would sign that in the middle of the night?” The incredulity in the detective’s voice stretches toward comical, or it would if this were a movie and not my life.
“You haven’t had time to prove that knife is the murder weapon, and we both know it—so does the judge. I don’t know how they do things in the big city, Travis, but here you’ve got to do a little more than follow a fabricated tip to prove murder. Come up with motive, opportunity, and maybe anything that makes a goddamn modicum of sense before
arresting Graciela—or anyone else, for that matter—again.”
Beau bursts through the doors, and the sight of the panic and worry on his handsome face makes the decision on how to feel easy. I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life.
“Graciela, are you okay?” His voice, pitched low, sounds tight as he pulls to a stop in front of the cell bars. His eyes are dark tonight, their normal happy glitter obscured by storm clouds, leaving me to wonder if it’s about what happened to me or directed toward me.
Either way, he’s upset because of me, and that’s not good.
“I’m fine,” I manage, eyeing Detective Travis. “Except for the secondhand smoke. The insulation of this building is tragic.”
The detective turns red, which gives me a small amount of satisfaction in return for the evening’s humiliation.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I had to pull some strings to get them to let you out on bail tonight.”
“You paid my bail?”
“Of course. Please don’t run; I can’t afford it.” He gives me a small smile and jerks his chin toward the detective. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
The sour-faced cop unlocks the door to my cell, clearly unhappy about this turn of events but unable to stop it. He’s learning the politics of a small town the hard way, and I don’t blame him for being irritated. It’s not fair. I’m getting preferential treatment because people know me, because I’m dating the mayor, but at the moment I’m way too tired to care. It’s after eleven but feels later because of all the mental energy I’ve expended in dancing with Detective Travis and obsessing over who could have done this to me.
Beau wraps his hand around mine and leads me out the front door, settling me in the passenger seat of his sedan before climbing behind the wheel and turning the ignition. There’s a quiet about him that unnerves me. I don’t know him well enough yet to read the moods he wants to obscure, but the feeling that he’s angry with me won’t completely subside.
“Are you really okay?” he asks, those unreadable eyes roving from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, even though he can’t possibly see well enough in the dark to reassure himself.
His concern causes goose bumps to rise on my arms and wrestles a tired smile from the recesses of my mind. “I’m fine, Beau. This is Heron Creek, and it’s not the first evening I’ve spent in that jail. No one hurt anything other than my pride, and to be honest, that’s kind of a thin concept these days the way it is.”
“Okay.” He presses his foot to the gas pedal and pulls out of the parking lot. After a couple of turns it becomes clear that he’s headed to his house, not mine.
“I need to let Amelia know I’m okay.”
“I called her on my way to the station after I paid your bail at the courthouse. I’m sure she’s asleep.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, but leaving her alone when a murderer’s been lurking outside the house leaves me with twisting unease. Then again, at this point, having me as far away as possible might be the best thing for everyone. “Okay.”
We pass the rest of the short drive in silence, my eyelids growing heavy as the cool night air ruffles my hair, which needs a wash. I still haven’t jumped on the shower-every-day bandwagon, but hygiene has climbed back into the front seat of my priorities since getting the rest of my shit together. And since meeting the man who is now making me feel safe for the first time in hours.
It’s embarrassing to think of how far gone I’d been when I’d driven back to Heron Creek several months ago. Dirty. Depressed. Drinking way too much and spending too many hours sleeping, wallowing in self-pity because things hadn’t worked out the way I’d planned. It’s one of those things that’s hard to regret now, being on the other side—at least most of the time. I wouldn’t be here without having been there, and sitting in that jail cell, it surprised me how much I don’t want to lose the little scraps of an actual life I’ve managed to gather together, ghosts and all.
The mayor’s house is dark but inviting, wrapping me in scents of laundry detergent and spices and the underlying smell of summer in the South. It’s a mixture of damp linens, night-blooming jasmine, and lingering sunshine that means home, at least to me.
Beau flips on a few lights and offers me a drink, tossing me a bottle of water at my request. “You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Let’s get you into bed, then.”
Strange how hours ago those words would have been sexy, would have electrified me from head to toe with sizzling anticipation, but after everything tonight, they communicate care. Beau’s a strange contradiction, the kind of man I’ve rarely had the opportunity to meet—one who’s sexy and confident, and manages to stay that way even when sex is the last thing on anyone’s mind.
He leads the way to the bedroom, where he digs in a dresser until he comes up with a pair of mesh Oxford University shorts and a plain white T-shirt, then disappears into the bathroom. The sound of cabinets opening and closing drifts into the quiet sanctuary of his bedroom, which smells different than the rest of the house. It’s still spicy, but there’s that sweet undercurrent of maple syrup that somehow clings to Beau alone, and spikes of earthy, raw male thread through the sheets and carpet and curtains.
This could become one of my favorite places in town, given the chance.
“There’s a new toothbrush on the sink, and I put out a fresh hand towel in case you want to wipe your face or clean the jail-cell grime off you.” His face remains closed and, despite his sweet understanding and helpfulness, it leaves me feeling as though the other shoe is going to bonk me on the head any moment.
“How do you know about jail-cell grime, Mr. Mayor?” I tease, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing. I need the familiar ease between us.
“Graciela, you are not the only one who went through a wild phase, although yours is disturbingly well documented—and remembered—by the town judge.” He gives me a tired smile that succeeds in making me feel a little bit better.
If nothing else, it reminds me that I have no idea how his day went, and that maybe it had been a long one before it culminated in having to bail his girlfriend out of jail after hours.
Girlfriend? That’s probably a leap.
“Go get ready for bed, gorgeous.”
I obey, mostly because nothing sounds better than crawling between the covers, curling up in Beau’s arms, and letting my brain go silent. I brush my teeth and wash my face on autopilot, then run hot water over the towel and swipe it over my arms, chest, torso, and legs before tugging on the T-shirt and the too-big shorts that hang low on my hips. It’s on the revealing side without my bra, and with previous boyfriends—including David—I might have thought twice about removing the undergarment on a night like tonight, feeling as though it would invite unwanted advances, but this is Beau, and sleeping in a bra is damned uncomfortable.
He’s under the covers, propped up against a few pillows, his eyes trained on me. They’re shining with admiration and concern as I crawl into bed beside him and rest my head on his chest. The arm that wraps around my shoulders is strong and warm, and for the first time tonight, tears pool in my eyes.
“They found the knife that killed Glinda in my car. They had a tip that said to look for it there.” I gulp some air, trying desperately to hang on to my composure. “Someone’s setting me up, Beau.”
“Amelia told me about your visit from your buddy Clete. Seems pretty likely that he’s the one behind all of this, don’t you think?”
I shrug, because even though it does seem likely, it doesn’t ring true. I can’t think of anyone else who has something to lose, or anyone else who had a reason to kill Glinda, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Clete’s guilty. I don’t even know exactly what the feud between the Davis family and Clete’s band of moonshiners is all about in the first place. Maybe he doesn’t have a reason to kill Glinda, either, and we’re unfairly targeting him because … well, because he’s a redneck criminal who totes guns
around the way rich Hollywood chicks carry dogs in their purses.
“I guess.”
“Graciela …” he starts, making every muscle in my body tense. Here we go. Whatever’s been lurking behind his doting, responsible boyfriend act all evening is about to come to light. “I’m really fucking angry with you at the moment.”
Fatigue throbs in the base of my neck, but when I try to pull away from his touch, he tightens his grip. “I don’t want to fight right now, Beau.”
“I don’t want to fight, either. I want to hold you while you fall asleep and listen to you breathe and hate that I have to wonder how long you’re going to be here.” He kisses my temple. “But I am mad. That you didn’t call me when that man showed up on your doorstep, or shoot me a text as soon as the cops showed up with a search warrant.” He pulls away a little now, reaching down to tip my chin up until our eyes meet. “I want to be on your team, Graciela, but if you don’t want me, at least let someone be on it. You aren’t telling your cousin or Mel how dangerous these moonshiners are, you don’t want to call my friend Jasper about going out to Glinda’s cabin—you don’t have to do everything alone just because Martin’s gone. Other people care about you.”
Discomfort grows with every single one of his words, marching through my belly like an army of ants growing larger with each step. Somewhere in the midst of things falling apart with David, my mother’s death, and realizing that I made the wrong call leaving Heron Creek all those years ago, I started to believe the only way to survive was to rely on myself. No one else.
As much as I like Beau, as much as I want to be 100 percent okay and normal and happy, I’m not there yet. There’s a wall between us, and even though I’m aware that I’m the one who put it there, the thought of tearing down even one brick breaks me out in a panicky sweat. I don’t want to put anyone in danger. I don’t want people to worry about me.
I want to take care of myself. Maybe to prove that I still can.