Games of Zeus 02- Silent Echoes

by Aimee Laine

  The other two women hummed agreement.

  “I’m Tanya, by the way.” She held out a hand.

  “Taylor.”

  “You got a boy name?”

  Taylor gave a small snicker. “How else would I get by owning a construction company?”

  “Girl, you got it goin’ on. What’d you do? Stiff a client? Shoot someone with a nail gun?”

  “Plaster their head into a wall?” one of the others asked.

  “Put up the wrong tile? You know them southern women. You mess with their shit, and they’ll sue.” The third whooped.

  “Actually, I didn’t do anything,” Taylor said.

  Loud guffaws accompanied hoots of laughter. “That’s what they all say.”

  It seemed the game called ‘Taylor Marsh’s innocence’ had already created two sides.

  • • •

  The flight back to North Carolina proved uneventful. Tripp picking Ian up at the airport’s curb in his black Jaguar suggested nothing out of the ordinary. Though, when they bypassed the turn-off from the freeway that would take them to Tripp’s house, Ian narrowed his eyes. “Where are we going?”

  Tripp gave a slight bobble of his head. “We have a client to see.”

  “Is this the client you wouldn’t tell me a rat’s ass thing about? Or something else? Because if it’s something else, drop me off at your house first.”

  Tripp’s eyes stayed fixed straight ahead. “It’s the client.”

  “Why the hell are you being so secretive?” Ian twisted so he could face Tripp. The Jag blew past the few cars on the road with them. Ian glanced at the speedometer, found Tripp going over ninety. “I hope you got your can’t-catch-me-o-meter on.”

  A light chuckle breezed from the driver’s side. “You know I can’t use my talents without Lexi right next to me.”

  “Get a radar detector then.”

  Tripp shrugged.

  “Your funeral, if you get a ticket and Lexi finds out.” Ian smiled at the thought of the argument the two would have. Lexi would tear into Tripp without a doubt. “So, you wouldn’t tell me when I was in New York, and you’re not telling me now. What gives, Fox?” Ian’s body tensed. “Wait … you’re not telling me because something happened. What happened? Is Lexi—”

  “Lex is fine. This is about the woman you so affectionately refer to as ‘blondie’.”

  “Wait … you brought me back here for her? Her! What the—”

  “She was arrested last night, Ian.”

  “Blondie? You’re shitting me.” Ian’s mind whirled with curiosity and uncertainty. “What for? She saw someone up with one of those power tools? Drill into them with one of those thingamabobs? Ooh … a wood chipper—”

  “There were bones found on her property.”

  “She buried someone? That’s not very creative for someone in construction.”

  “And, that’s a pretty big leap for you to assume,” Tripp said. “Why’d you jump to her burying someone?”

  Ian realized he had no idea why. “Logical guess.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “So, tell me why you’re involved.”

  “She hired me as her attorney.”

  “For what? I mean, why would you even take a criminal case? Which again, since you haven’t said, I’m guessing is the truth. That’s not your kind of deal.”

  Tripp glanced toward Ian. Trees lining the edge of the freeway rushed by as Tripp picked up more speed. “Because, sometimes, it’s necessary.”

  “Necessary?”

  Tripp eyed Ian as they came to a stoplight. “Yes. Necessary. We can’t have the girl of your dreams rotting in jail, Ian.” Tripp oozed sarcasm.

  “She’s not—” Ian couldn’t finish the comment without lying. She’d been exactly that for months and throughout the previous night. Any time he closed his eyes, she took over. He thought himself good with women, attentive and never shy, but the fantasies that played in his mind put her in the lead with him following. In everything. “Why would you tell me we got a gig then?” Ian’s earlier curiosity moved into downright suspicion.

  “I didn’t, remember? You assumed. Would you have come down here if I told you blondie asked for a lawyer because of some bones in her yard and cops in her face?

  “Of course …” not. A knuckle to the temple relieved some of the pressure building behind Ian’s eyes.

  Tripp shook his head. “Ian, Ian, Ian. I took it because I know she’s innocent.”

  Ian’s eyes widened. “You convinced Lexi to use your moojoo-joojoo on a person?” According to Tripp, and Lexi herself, she refused—as in flat-out, punch in the face, don’t-go-there—to use her Zeus-given gift to search for people.

  “Sorta.”

  Ian huffed. “So, now that the fun is gone from the game, who dunnit?”

  “No idea.”

  “What the hell?” Ian thumped the dash with his fist. “How do you—what do—what good is your voodoo-mental-mojo if you can’t even find that answer?”

  Tripp chuckled. “I didn’t say we looked for a killer, Ian.”

  “You know that’s the logical thing to do, right?”

  “Who says it’s a murder?”

  “Well, if she’s in jail …”

  Tripp eyed Ian.

  “Okay, so yeah, there are innocent people in jail.” Ian waved a hand through the air and air quoted. “I’ll believe that when I see it. What did you look for, what did you find, and if she’s ‘innocent’, why is she in jail?”

  “I don’t kno—”

  “Fuck that, Fox. This whole marriage thing went and made you soft. If you wanted an answer before, you’d have gone and gotten it.” Frustration ebbed from Ian. “You know what? I’m calling a cab when we get to wherever-the-hell we’re going and getting on the next flight home. This is not a job I signed up for. We don’t do stuff without information. We made a deal twenty-five years ago, and until now, you’ve stuck to it. But I’m not—”

  “You didn’t let me finish, Ian.” Tripp brought them into the jail’s parking lot. “And, you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Watch me.” Ian kept his voice serious, with a hint of ‘don’t fuck with me’.

  The jail, in all its bland glory, loomed ahead of them—a ten story building in sandstone brown. As soon as Tripp pulled into a spot, Ian unbuckled, jumped out and slammed a fist on the roof.

  His emotions went every which way when Taylor became a part of the conversation. He had to get her out of his system—to purge her from his mind.

  Tripp walked around the car and laid a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Have I ever, in those twenty-plus years you referred to, done anything to steer you the wrong way? Ever?”

  Ian clenched his teeth. Tripp hadn’t. “There’s always a first.”

  From within the car, Tripp withdrew a briefcase and a stack of folders. “And, it’s not now.” He handed Ian the pile. “You get to be my assistant in here. Take copious notes, keep your mouth shut, don’t ask any questions, don’t say a word, and no matter what you do, don’t touch her.” He strode off. “Oh, and I am going to need you to bail her out.”

  “What the—Fox! Have you gone fucking mad, man?” Ian stood, gawking, waiting for Tripp to return. When he didn’t, but drew closer to the building’s entrance, Ian took off after his so-called friend. “You want me to give up my money for a woman I know nothing about. Son of a bitch got balls.” Ian nearly bumped into Tripp as he reached the doors. A grab of Tripp’s bicep had him spinning toward Ian. “Say something … anything … that’ll make me want to walk through those doors.”

  Tripp closed one eye, scrunched his nose and shut the other. “I’ll give you five million dollars if you don’t ask her to marry you by—” He turned his watch toward himself. “—the end of May.” The sliding glass opened on a whoosh, and Tripp slipped inside, leaving Ian standing alone.

  On a deep sigh, and with multiple head shakes, Ian followed.

  5

  The buzz of the lock release sounded a moment before T
aylor’s cell door opened. “Taylor Marsh?” a guard asked.

  “That’s me.” She held up her hand as if in kindergarten, waiting to be picked by the cool kids.

  “This way.”

  Being escorted by two armed guards to a small, empty, white-walled room had an upside. The claustrophobia Taylor had begun to experience faded.

  The small conference room held one table, three seats and nothing else. Taylor sat when told to sit. Walked when told to walk. Waited when told to wait. If she had a clock, she’d have guessed five minutes passed before the door opened.

  Tripp, in tieless suit, and Ian, in cream slacks and a seafoam green button-down, strode in.

  Taylor’s breath stuck even as her eyes riveted themselves to the second man. Her heart hammered in her chest. She hadn’t expected Ian. Hadn’t he gone to New York? She drew her fingers through her mess of hair as if that would do any bit of good and tucked them below the table, between her knees.

  “How are you, Taylor?” Tripp asked.

  She eyed him before answering, “Peachy.”

  Ian snorted a laugh but hid it between pursed lips a moment later.

  “You look like a woman caught in the middle of a tragic comedy,” Tripp said after a few seconds.

  Her head tilted. “What exactly does that look like?”

  The two men pulled chairs from across the table and sat. Ian dropped a stack of folders and paper on the solid surface and, with pen in-hand, began to write. From upside down Taylor could read her name. A moment later, Ian rested his elbows on the flat surface, fingers intertwined.

  “So … tell me what you found yesterday,” Tripp said.

  Taylor’s entire body tensed. They were just bones. Someone’s skeleton. A cemetery for sure. That’s all. She relayed what she’d been doing before they showed up—as if they didn’t know. “The bones though—I don’t know. It was … really weird. I mean … the face was pointing to the sky with the jaw open. That’s all I saw.” With my eyes. “I don’t know where it came from or why it was there. I have no idea who they were. Are.” She shook her head at herself. “I bought the house with the shed. I tore it down so I could put in a garden. I don’t understand any of this, or why they think I’m connected to this in any way.” Taylor clasped and undid her hands underneath the table.

  “Can you tell me about the previous owners of the house?”

  “Not really. Other than it came through the original estate, but the place had been a rental for years. I snatched it up on a foreclosure. Did the entire renovation myself—just like on your place.” She closed her eyes, bringing to mind Tripp’s farmhouse. “I picked my house because I fell in love with the land and the possibilities … and because it’s the last of the Weaton farm bungalows.” The image of cars, people, equipment, tools and anything else running itself over her roses and the new lawn she’d sodded no more than a few weeks before had her grimacing. “I’d just bought it when I came back from Alabama and was just starting my company. I wanted a showpiece, but not like this.”

  Ian separated his hands and fiddled with the gaudy, gold monstrosity of a ring around his finger.

  Tripp clasped his hands in front of himself. “The press, obviously, has gotten wind of this, and there’s talk about something happening before you came back here. I can get the files, but I’d rather hear what happened from you.”

  “In Alabama, you mean?” She knew, at some point, that experience would come back to bite her.

  “Yes,” Tripp said.

  Anger boiled. “I should have killed him.” Good gracious, what are you thinking, saying that out loud? She closed her eyes, drew in a breath and exhaled. “Strike that. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

  “Okay. Who?”

  “An ex.” Memories of that day flooded her mind.

  “Tell me.”

  Ian picked up the pen again.

  “He staged his own death—a murder of all things—and set me up. I’d come home to blood all over my apartment, a shotgun on the table and a lack of a body. Of course, despite the number of cop shows on television, I went straight for that damn gun and grabbed it, coating my hands in blood. Cops showed up ten minutes after I got home, as if they’d been called. I never even dialed 9-1-1.” She heaved air. “Took ‘em two days to test the blood, found out it was his, figured I stashed the body. They spent over a week interrogating me, and the newspapers were all over it. ‘College student murders boyfriend in jealous rage’. That’s what the headlines said. I was guilty before I ever got a chance to get my story told.” Her hands clenched even with the cuffs around her wrists. “I lived in the county jail, in podunk Alabama for two weeks, going back and forth with their investigators until someone at a bar saw the bastard—alive and well—and reported him.” Taylor’s cheeks flushed with heat as anger filled her. “He ended up in jail, himself, but not before I had the full experience.” She faced Tripp. “I never imagined I’d see the inside of another one of these places, especially for yet another trumped-up charge.”

  “Didn’t they test the blood to find it wasn’t all his? If there was that much of it, it can’t have been, right?” Tripp asked.

  Taylor remembered that question being her own at the time. “He’d planned ahead. He drew his own blood and stored it in a garage fridge. Then, when he needed it, he made one hell of a mess and scattered to the wind.” Her nails dug into her palms.

  “What was his name?”

  “Tanner Meadows.”

  A visible shiver ran through Ian as one made its way down Taylor’s body. She forced herself to calm.

  “Why were you in Alabama in the first place?” Tripp asked.

  “School. I wanted to start over. Yes, even just at twenty, I wanted change. Get away from Mom and Dad. Used my middle name while I was there … or for part of the time. Never expected to get involved with a psycho.”

  “I believe you,” Tripp said.

  “What?” Her lips refused to curve. “Not that I—I mean, I’m grateful you do. But—no. Never mind.” She waved her combined hands in the air.

  “Stop.” The forcefulness of Tripp’s tone had her freezing, hands mid-air. Even Ian’s blank expression had moved to wide eyes.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Taylor’s gaze flitted between Ian and Tripp.

  “Let me see your hand. Lay it on the table,” Tripp said.

  Taylor lowered them—a bit at a time—until they both lay flat against the tabletop.

  Tripp and Ian both leaned forward.

  “May thirty-first,” Tripp said.

  • • •

  Ian couldn’t believe it. He knew exactly why Tripp had stopped Taylor, had her put her hands down, but not why he repeated the date—six weeks from then.

  “What’s going on?” Taylor asked.

  “Your finger.” Tripp pointed to her hand. “Where’d you get that tattoo?”

  Taylor rubbed at the blue lines snaking around the top bone of her right ring finger. Her hands shook while she continued to twist and turn as if the ink were a ring—and she could pull it off. “It’s not a tattoo. It’s been there all my life.”

  Yup. Knew it.

  Tripp turned to Ian. Ian to Tripp. Both adjusted back to her.

  “Tell me about it,” Tripp said.

  Yes, please do.

  “Why? How is this related?”

  Yeah, I’m with her. How is this related?

  “It’s not. Just humor me.”

  Taylor took a deep breath. “Okay. When I was little, this looked like a vein wrapped around my finger funny. My parents took me to doctors and everything, trying to find out what it was. They just all said to leave it be unless it changed.”

  “And did it?” Tripp asked.

  Nope.

  “A few times. Usually, when it gets itchy, it’s doing something. It’s a little darker right now than usual, but it’s not abnormal … to me, at least. I think I’ve gotten used to that weirdness in my life.”

  Hers changed? Why? How? Ian leaned and
shifted until he met Taylor’s gaze again, but he said nothing, per Tripp’s orders.

  “You normally wear a ring around that finger, don’t you?” Tripp asked.

  How did he remember that? Ian slipped his own hands beneath the table, twisting the class ring he kept on his own right ring finger.

  “Yeah, my grandpa’s. He gave it to me before he passed away. I hate that they took it last night.”

  “Understandable,” Tripp said. “Why do you cover it up?”

  Taylor inclined her head and closed her eyes. “Because when you’re sixteen, and your best friend tells you that having a tattoo on your finger is going to send you to hell, it kinda gets old. So, I covered it and have gotten used to it being there. Plus, I like Grandpa’s ring, and that’s the only finger it fits on.” She gave a small shrug. “He gave me my first hammer. Taught me how to drive a nail. How to work with people and how to listen to them.” Taylor pressed at her eyelids. “I miss him.”

  Her pain washed into Ian, making his heart flip flop and bringing up an urge to reach out to her.

  Tripp turned to Ian. “Put it up here.”

  Ian jerked back, lips pursed.

  “Now.”

  On a deep sigh, he raised his hands and set them on the table, like Taylor.

  “And take off the ring.”

  With a huff and a grab of his own ring, he slid it off.

  Taylor gasped. She rose from her chair. “What the—”

  Ian wiggled his fingers. I’m never going to get this woman out of my head.

  • • •

  Taylor couldn’t believe what reflected back at her from Ian’s skin. Her tattoo. Her mark.

  Her symbol etched into his finger.

  Under the gold and platinum, the same blue lines decorated his finger. “Please tell me … that’s … a real tattoo.”

  Tripp waved a hand toward Ian.

  Ian said nothing.

  Taylor caught each of their gazes.

  “Go ahead, Ian,” Tripp said.

  Ian still said nothing.

  Tripp ran a hand over his head. “You are hereby authorized to speak, Ian.”