by Lyla Payne
“I take care of problems that way when there’s no other resolution,” the man whispers roughly. “I don’t grab them off the street.”
It’s clear that he wants to scream at her—irritation laces his words—though he’s trying to keep his voice down.
“She was on to you and Wellington—I heard her blabbing about it on the phone, then to the new detective. She was always asking about my boyfriend, Bobby. And I know I slipped a few days ago, telling her I know where that stupid fake letter was found. The one I planted for you,” she snaps. Then her voice softens to almost a purr. But whiny. “I like it here, Bobby. I like owning Sonny and Shears. I don’t want to go to jail for planting evidence or impeding an investigation or whatever it’s called.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t cry, for Christ’s sakes.” The man—Bobby Caruso, I assume, sighs. “You’re probably right. Chip McComas told me she called and one of my guys up in Ridgeville heard her talking to Lindsay Boone about Wellington being involved. Maybe you’re right about taking care of her now before the trial starts.”
It’s hard to determine where they are and where I am. The events before Hadley knocked me out filter back to me a little at a time, but I don’t think I’m in the office anymore because I’m flat on my back on what feels like a thin cushion. Maybe they’re in the office?
I pick up the pieces of my gumption and shove open one eye, then the other, biting my lip to keep from groaning.
“So you’re not mad?”
“I mean, I might have chosen a more private time and place, but you’re new to all of this. It’s not your fault.” His voice is softer now, cajoling. “I’m not sure there’s any hard evidence tying Wellington to the family, but the last thing we need is to lose his influence.”
I stifle a gasp. Travis and I were right about Chandler still paying for whatever happened after that drug bust at Wellington Academy. I’d love to feel sorry for him, but he’s ruining my boyfriend’s life at the moment so it’s a little hard.
“You don’t know her, Bobby.” Hadley’s voice turns petulant. “She just … figures stuff out. People say she talks to ghosts.”
I tune them out, my mind connecting the dots. This case has been brewing for a while. It sounds as though the Caruso family had a contingency plan for some time, if Robert asked Hadley to date Beau just in order to plant that letter. The idea that they’ve been planning this—or at least preparing for the eventuality—for a year or more punches the wind out of me.
They’re going to off me. Send me to sleep with the fishes and no one will ever know that Beau’s 100 percent innocent.
I try to sit up, a feat that proves impossible once I realize that my wrists are tied underneath me, around one of the salon’s waxing tables. So that’s where I am. The waxing room is a couple of doors down from the office and minimally furnished except for the table and a cart that probably holds equipment. The top is cleared off, but there are likely tools of torture in the drawers. Tied as I am, though, there’s no way to reach the cart.
Hadley Renee is just full of surprises. Not only does she keep a mixture of chemicals that can knock a person out handy, but she can tie one hell of a knot.
The murmur of their continued conversation pulls me from the fruitless struggle against my bonds, which are secured with what I suspect are pretty-smelling scarves. Of course.
“Well, there aren’t any ghosts who can tell her what you did,” Bobby counters. “You are such a beautiful pain in my ass, Had.”
“You can suck up later,” she snaps. “The bottom line is, it’s not your butt on the line here. They may not be able to tie you to Chandler, at least not as far as the bribery, but they can tie me to that letter. The list of people who’ve had access to Mayor Drayton’s home office is pretty damned small.”
“Okay, okay, calm down,” he soothes, sweeter than before. Relenting. “We’ll take care of it. My guys are on the way. It was smart of you to close the shop and call a plumber.”
My heart races, my tongue made of cotton. They’re going to take care of me.
“Fine,” Hadley accedes. “She should be out for a while, but even if she wakes up, she can’t move.”
“Did you gag her?”
“No. Hold on.”
I force my body to go still and my eyes to drop closed again at the sound of her heavy footsteps. It’s hard to slow my heartbeat on command but a few deep breaths through my nose help, and Hadley doesn’t seem to notice when she comes in the room. She makes quick work of a gag, tying another fragrant scarf around my head. It tastes terrible. It’s not as tight as the bonds around my wrists, but without the use of my hands, it’s going to hold.
“I’m sorry, Graciela. You should have kept your big nose in your own business and just found another boyfriend,” she whispers, her hot, peppermint-scented breath hitting my cheeks.
I bite my tongue, wanting badly to tell her that she can kiss my ass, and also that my nose is a perfectly normal size, thank you very much. But I can’t say anything with this scarf in my mouth, and even if I could it would just screw up my chance at surprising them.
Her steps fade back toward the office, where she and Bobby Caruso make plans to come back for me with some of their guys after sunset, which is apparently sooner than I think.
It was only a little after three when I followed her in here like a trusting, inexperienced idiot, so that chloroform or whatever she used must have knocked me out for hours. The fact that the light filtering into the shop is weak and pale seems to reinforce my calculations, and if Bobby’s crew is coming from Charleston, they can be here in less than an hour, ready to mop up my blood.
Hadley and her shady-ass boyfriend slam through the back door, and in the empty, dark building, the sound of the locks engaging sounds like the bang of a coffin lid. Once they’re gone, I stay still for a while, my eyes closed, trying to conserve my energy while forcing my brain into action.
It’s early September, which means sunset isn’t until almost eight o’clock. Amelia expected me for dinner around six or six thirty, and even though punctual isn’t one of the top ten words people would use to describe me, she would have started to worry by now. Aunt Karen hasn’t seen me, either, and Beau hasn’t talked to me unless the town’s newest diabolical hairdresser texted him on my phone.
The problem is that the last people who did see me—the Ryans and Leo—aren’t going to be the first ones anyone asks. Then again, the Ryans are cops. If Millie’s worried she’ll ask Travis right off, and if he knows, then there’s a chance Tom will tell him I was at Westies and that Hadley Renee ran down the street after me when I left.
Unlikely, at best.
My fingers explore the bottom of the waxing table, searching for a rough edge or a jagged screw that might tear into the silk scarf. There’s nothing. It’s as smooth as a baby’s butt, and frustrated tears burn in my throat.
Okay, Gracie. How else can we get out of this?
My hands are bound together beneath the table but not tied to the table. What if I could wriggle my body so that I could slip them out from under the table? I’d still be tied but if I could get into that cart there might be an implement I could use to cut myself free. Get to my purse and phone, at least.
Providing Hadley is confident enough in her knocking-out and knotting skills that she left my things in the office where I must have dropped them.
I scoot toward the top of the table an inch at a time, my shoulders screaming at being twisted and tugged in this position. The feat, if it can be accomplished at all, might require popping things out of joint, but temporary pain is better than waiting to be executed by low-level Charleston mobsters.
I mean, if a girl is going to get rubbed out and don cement shoes, they should be fashioned by someone from the Corleone family, not freaking Bobby Caruso. He sounds like a character on Parks and Recreation, for heaven’s sake.
My arms stretch and my heels dig in to the foot of the table, pushing my butt up. Sweat drenches my forehead and tr
ickles between my boobs. The gag muffles my grunts of pain, but it’s no use. There’s an inch left and my arms won’t twist the way they need to in order to come over the top of the table.
I slump, panting and thanking God I can breathe through my nose. In the silence of the salon, a phone rings. The ringtone is Taylor Swift, which means its mine. Hadley seems like an angry-girl-country type and Bobby’s is on probably just on the factory setting, if I had to guess. The song stops for a count of ten, then rings again. Repeats. Between rings, the loud dings of text messages are music to my ears.
People are looking for me.
Sadly, no one in his or her right mind is going to look for me here. I avoided that damn haircut for months, and Hadley and I are barely acquaintances. The clues that indicate Hadley is involved in this whole thing just barely connect for me, and I’m the only one who’s been looking into another guilty party in Beau’s case.
Travis is sharp. If he realizes Bobby Caruso is dating someone in Heron Creek, he might put it together.
Maybe. But I can’t count on it.
The salon gets darker, then darker still, and panic encroaches on my deep-breathing attempts to stay calm. I try again to swing my arms loose from the table, and at the sound of the locks disengaging in the back door, I press my toes down hard, clamp my lips together, and force one last push.
The pain when my right shoulder pops gushes tears down my cheeks, but my gagged grunt is quiet enough not to attract immediate attention. It’s impossible to breathe for a good thirty seconds, but if those two aren’t idiots—fifty-fifty—they’ll check and make sure I’m still here and out of it, so I need to move fast.
Ignoring the agony that is my arm as best as I can, I sit up and turn my back on the cabinet, sliding open the drawer on the torture cart. For the first time in my life I wish I were in a dentist’s office, where instruments of great pain are in abundance, because all that’s in here are Popsicle sticks, tubs of cold wax, and little sheets of paper. There are a couple pairs of tweezers, but even though airport security insists they’re weapons when scanning carry-on bags, I remain dubious of being able to wield them and inflict any significant damage on a silk scarf. There’s nothing I can use with any efficiency with my hands still tied behind my back.
Footsteps click on the tile floors, headed this direction. I snatch a pair of tweezers with my teeth and hide behind the open door. I’ve got a dull three-inch weapon and the element of surprise.
It’s Hadley. Her blond hair comes into view, and the moment she sees the empty table I shove into the door. It slams into her forehead with a crack that makes me wince. Her head snaps back and rams into the wall before she slumps to the floor, not unconscious but disoriented enough to miss my leg when she makes a grab for it. I step over her as she starts to scream, no doubt alerting her boyfriend and whoever else might be making plans for my doom. I run for the front of the store, realizing too late that I don’t have keys to get out.
Through the window, I can see that the streets are dark and empty, puddles from the streetlights landing on bare pavement and dashing the hope that welled in my chest. I stare, so close to freedom but so far, and wonder if anyone can see past the current specials spray-painted on the outside anyway. It’s unlikely that anyone is going to happen by in the first place.
My eyes race around the salon and land on one of the stools they use when giving pedicures, but I can’t even lift it with my hands tied, never mind toss it through the window.
I spin around, the glass at my back, at the sound of footsteps on the linoleum. Two men, both hulking and sporting short-sleeved black Tshirts and oiled mullets, rush out of the back room. I run but it’s useless. There’s nowhere to go and one of the men trips me, sending me flying face-first into another cart full of beauty supplies. Shit goes everywhere—cotton, clippers, polish—and a giant bottle of acetone spills over the floor. The fumes make me gag as the men yank me onto my back and then into a sitting position, their rough handling ripping a gasp of pain and a sob from my chest. At least my gag slips off in the process.
“Well, well. It turns out my little lady was right about your industrious nature, anyway.”
A shorter man with the same thick shoulders snaps his fingers and the muscles part way. It’s the man I’ve glimpsed around town with Hadley Renee. Bobby Caruso, I presume. His voice matches the man’s from earlier.
He’s as handsome as the day is long and has one of those evil, dangerous glints in his eye that drive some women crazy. I’m guessing Hadley Renee falls into that category, since she has a similar sparkle of madness in her icy gaze as she walks up, holding a piece of gauze to her forehead.
Her foot lashes out, smashing me in the ribs. “Bitch.”
I barely hear her from my spot on the floor, doubled up in pain and living in a black world full of stars. I seriously underestimated this girl.
“Leave her alone. When they find her body there’s going to be enough questions with the way she’s fucked up her shoulder, and now you’ve probably added a couple of cracked ribs.” Bobby’s rough voice is impatient. Hadley sniffs, but doesn’t argue. “Questions are almost always the enemy, my peach. As Miss Harper here would have done well to figure out before now.”
“I’m a slow learner. That’s a documented fact,” I gasp, righting myself again. The tile’s cold against my butt and the spilled nail polish remover evaporates against my skin.
“Get her things,” Bobby barks at his girlfriend, who walks back toward the office with the air of a woman who isn’t used to being ordered around like the help. Her boyfriend squats in front of me and I struggle not to shrink away from the hard cruelty in his gaze. He’s going to get off on this. Watching. “You know the funny thing? You’re going to die and you can’t even hurt us. Can’t prove anything. But now that you know Had was involved in this whole setup and our agreement with Chandler is compromised, I have to agree that elimination is the prudent path.”
“Or you could trust me to keep my mouth shut,” I suggest.
“From what I hear, that’s not likely.”
Fair enough.
Hadley returns and tosses my purse down onto the floor after pulling my cell phone free. She blinks at the screen, which must show several missed messages and calls, then pitches it at the floor. The sick crack of the plastic doesn’t satisfy her; she brings down the heavy heel of her espadrille on it once, twice, three times until there’s no doubt I’ll be purchasing a new one.
If I’m not hanging out with my ghosts on a much more even playing field very soon.
Most of the crap in my purse spills over the floor. Bobby starts to give instructions to his mute enforcers as far as how to get rid of me, but I tune it out, my eyes on one singular object—the book of matches I picked up at the Lowcountry Bistro the other night. The smell of acetone hangs heavy in the air, and even though I would Google whether or not it’s flammable if I were home, I’m going to guess that it is.
While I don’t fancy being encircled by flames and smoke twice in one week, I do fancy a distraction.
Hadley’s listening to the men and everyone’s ignoring me. It’s a long enough break for me to scoot an inch to the right and grab the matchbox. It’s not easy to figure out how to do this with limited hand movement, but the scarf isn’t the best tool for binding; all of the tossing me around has loosened it just enough for me to maneuver. My right arm screams in protest as I grip the matchbook hard, and I wince as I try to swipe the match across the ignition strip once, twice.
It catches the third time, just as Hadley sees me and yells.
Too late.
I drop it into the rapidly drying puddle of acetone and it goes up like a blowtorch. The shit must have flown everywhere when I knocked it over because a stool and two of the leather chairs catch fire within seconds. The flames leap to a second cart, find the nail polish remover there, and start all over again.
One of the muscle men’s pant legs goes up next, and that’s when the panic really starts. B
obby grabs Hadley by the arm, yanking her back toward the office.
I scramble after them, forgotten.
I’ve never seen a fire spread like this, not ever, and I’m guessing there’s more than one combustible substance hanging out in here. The smell of burning flesh and hair makes me gag as the first guy goes down, the second giving up on trying to stamp out the flames and running after us to the back of the salon.
The fire follows us. Smoke turns thick and black, choking me and forcing hacking coughs from all of us.
“We have to get out of here,” Bobby sputters. “The place is going up. We haven’t got much time.”
Hadley nods, her eyes watering. They’re huge, fear and panic spilling over as she cuts a glance toward me. “What about her?”
“We leave her here. Fire’s a great cleaner.”
My heart jams into my throat. I sputter, trying to find the words to protest and knowing it’s useless. The moment before I can break down and beg, Bobby shoves me. My back slams into Glinda’s old desk and wrenches, flopping me onto my knees. By the time I struggle back to my feet they’re gone, and I know before my hands grab the door handle and pull that it’s not going to open.
Fear crowds out rational thought. I stand in place, gasping in smoke and coughing it out, panic freezing me in place. I’m in a burning beauty parlor with one dead mobster and no weapon, my hands tied. Literally.
A thought claws its way into my brain and I drop to my knees. Fire safety: stay close to the floor. I dig my chin into my chest, using the gag that’s fallen around my neck to breathe through as best I can. The front of the store is an inferno, but I have to get to the front windows. Hadley’s going to tell the volunteer fire department no one is in the store. If they don’t see me, they won’t get me the hell out of here.
I crawl to the doorway on my knees and peer into the salon, trying to guess the path the fire will take. It’s mostly on the manicure-and-pedicure side still, consuming chairs and melting plastic tubs. Some of the dryer stations that separate it from the sinks and hair-cutting stations are starting to smolder and spark, but the left side of the room is clear of flames. For now.