Yet it never failed to do so.
The bar was dim and mellow two minutes ago. She had been filling a desultory trickle of orders and listening to the band. Watching Jon-Michael.
Then the front door banged open and reporters and camera people poured through with their lights and their microphones, yelling questions at her that drowned out the Muddy Waters cover Ragged Edge was performing.
At first the words themselves were incomprehensible. All she heard was a babble of voices, chaos coming not only from the journalists with their lights and mics and avid expressions, but from patrons voicing their confusion as they looked on. Then little by little the meaning of the shouted questions sank in.
And her heart began to pound.
"Hayley!" They surged nearer, squeezing customers out of the way until only the width of the bar stood between her and their ravening curiosity. "Is it true you strongly oppose the death penalty? How does it feel to know you could be directly responsible for sending a man to his death? Hayley! Look over here! What is your opinion of capital punishment?"
Oh God, Oh God. The pitcher she was filling hit the counter with a thud, and the beer tap snapped back as her fingers went lax. Her vision grew white and a harsh buzzing sounded in her ears, as if she had suddenly stepped into a swarm of angry bees.
Only vaguely aware of someone issuing terse threats of bodily harm, she registered without real interest the agitation of a crowd being jostled. The journalists directly in front of her were shoved roughly aside and Jon-Michael appeared.
"Take a deep breath," he ordered the minute she focused on him. With a hard elbow to the ribs, he fended off the reporter jockeying for position next to him. "Back off!"
Vaulting over the bar, he wrapped his long-fingered hand around the base of her skull and pressed. "Head between your knees, darlin'." He pushed it there himself when she did not immediately comply. "Dammit, Hayley, breathe!"
She sucked in air and the buzzing faded from her ears and color slowly reemerged in her vision. She tried to order her thoughts.
Jon-Michael's intervention had momentarily diverted the journalists. But they were sharks whipped to a feeding frenzy and she was the hemorrhaging chum. Hayley didn't fool herself his presence would be enough to divert them for long. Not this time.
Is it true you are strongly opposed to the death penalty? She felt naked, exposed, and she remained seated on the floor behind the bar, her forehead resting on her kneecaps. Logically, she understood her violent, gut-felt opposition to the death penalty was not of monumental import. At least not in a sane world.
But this was the world of New Age media, where a senator from the other side of the country traveled all this way to confer with the victim’s wife about the same man’s execution. Where a woman's beliefs—in lurid juxtaposition to the testimony responsible for convicting a killer—would be reduced to a thirty second sound bite and accorded the same sensationalism one might expect had she sold national security-sensitive secrets.
Hayley knew exactly how it would work. The journalists would examine and reexamine her convictions on the five o'clock, six o’clock and eleven o'clock news. Newpapers would do likewise, if not as often, in more depth. Until not a single nuance escaped their combined scrutiny.
She was so damn tired of her every thought being afforded its own notoriety. And emotionally, this public airing of privately held views felt like the worst sort of violation.
How on earth did they even know this?
She was aware of Bluey emerging from his office, demanding to know what the hell was going on. The babble of voices increased.
“I’ve told you folks before not to bring it in here," he rumbled in his deep, bad-tempered, cigarette-raspy voice. "Now, get out or I will call the sheriff."
"Would that be Sheriff Brutus, Mr. Moser?" one of the journalists demanded snidely and several snickered. They had obviously learned Bluey had snowed them the last time he’d wanted to rid himself of their presence.
"No, son, that would be Sheriff Benson," Bluey snarled right back. "And it's a funny thing about our Paulette: she is a real stickler for the law. For instance, she upholds my right to deny service to anyone I deem a disruptive influence in my establishment." The false jocularity in Bluey's voice dropped away. "Now take it away from my property, or be arrested for trespassing," he said flatly. "Your choice."
The journalists grumbled, but they went. Hayley knew the reprieve was temporary at best, but at this point she was grateful for whatever she could get. She had to pull herself together. She held up her hand for Jon-Michael to pull her to her feet and immediately turned to her employer. "I am so sorry, Bluey. I know you didn't anticipate anything like this when you hired me. Do you want my resignation?"
"Don't be an ass, girl," he snapped and went back into his office.
"How did they figure it out?" Dazed, she turned to look up at Jon-Michael. "How the hell did they figure it out?" She felt raw and bruised and thought she had surely hit a personal low point.
Mercifully clueless it could get much lower.
Fighting her way through the gamut of reporters outside the bar at closing time was like wading upstream through a river of molasses. She felt surrounded by an omnipresent malevolence determined to attach itself to her. To feed on and suck out every ounce of energy she had left.
Which was pitifully little.
Jon-Michael shoved and pushed, trying to clear a path for the two of them to his Harley. But for every journalist he displaced, two more immediately filled the void, each and every one of which was loud and intrusive, buffeting her with the press of their bodies and their glaring lights and cameras, demanding answers to their questions.
She was shaking by the time the bike roared to life. Jon-Michael gave the throttle some gas and wheeled the Harley out of its slot. She buried her face against his damp back and clung to his waist as he swore and shoved encroaching reporters away with his feet, ruthlessly keeping the bike moving forward, daring all comers to stand in its path.
When they reached the alley behind his loft, he helped her off the bike and held her by the elbow for a moment to steady her until the strength returned to her knees. "Come on," he said gruffly. "We need to get inside. I doubt the vultures are far behind."
Her head snapped up. "You think they know where we are?" she asked in a panic.
"Do you doubt it?"
"Oh, God. It never occurred to me. They haven't staked out your place before."
"I don't pretend to understand it. I just know there are damn few secrets in a town this size and odds are decent by now someone’s discovered you're living with me. Once they have that, finding my place is probably child play." He pushed the bike into the hallway and rocked it back on its stand.
"Of course." She followed him inside, then checked and rechecked the door she had closed behind them to make sure it was locked. "I'm naive not to have thought of it myself."
He looked up at her from where he crouched next to the bike. "No reason you should. I don’t know why they never bothered us here before. Dad's got clout in this town. Maybe they think I wield similar power." His shoulders moved in a negligent shrug. "Whatever their reason for leaving us alone, all bets are clearly off. Something set them off and it’s a whole lot stronger than fear of retaliation by the so-called heir to the Olivet fortune could ever be. If that's even what gave us breathing room in the first place."
He watched small tremors wrack her slender frame and surged to his feet, frustrated by the entire damn situation. He wanted to put his fist through the nearest wall and roar obscenities. "Come on," he said gently instead, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and hugging her to his side. "Let's get you upstairs."
They reached the second floor a moment later and he opened the freight doors on the elevator. Stepping into the hallway, the first thing they saw was Kurstin sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest on the floor outside Jon-Michael's door. She struggled to her feet.
"You look nearly as stresse
d out as Hayley," Jon-Michael greeted her. "You’ve heard the news, I take it." Releasing Hayley long enough to unlock his door, he ushered both women inside. His eyes narrowed on his sister. "How the hell did you get in here, anyhow?" If there was a gap in the warehouse's security, he needed to know so he could plug it before the vultures descended en mass.
Kurstin cleared her throat twice before she said, huskily, "Your neighbor recognized me and let me in."
Hayley left Jon-Michael's side and crossed over to his sister. She felt shell-shocked and in need of the comfort of her oldest friend's embrace. Wrapping her arms around Kurstin, she bowed her forehead into the curve of her neck. "God, I am so glad you're here. Thanks for coming." Another tremor shook her. "I don't understand how they found out, Kurstie."
Kurstin, who had stood stiffly within her embrace, pulled away. She pulled her iPad from her purse and walked over to perch on the arm of an overstuffed chair. She turned on the tablet and brought up a page. Standing, she shoved the iPad into Hayley’s hands.
Then took a step back.
Hayley was aware of Jon-Michael coming up behind her as she stared blankly at the headline for an online newspaper. It screamed to the world a pithy version of her dueling views on the death penalty. She grew increasingly cold as she read the article.
It was as if someone had climbed into her head. Climbed in and scraped down to the bottom of her brain to mine her barely-acknowledged-to-herself thoughts. The article exposed her inability to reconcile her long-held belief that the death penalty was wrong with her current ping-ponging between being sorry she was the one whose testimony was responsible for Wilson being on death row and not being sorry at all.
Jon-Michael swore with soft-voiced viciousness just as she glanced at the byline photo.
"But, that's Ty," she said numbly. "What is he—“
"Apparently he works for a newspaper in Rhode Island and has all along," Kurstin replied in a monotone. "He lied, Hayley. About everything. All the stations have been talking about his exclusive."
"Exclusive?" Hayley echoed in confusion. "My life is his exclusive?" She went back to the article. Ty actually presented her story with a gentle, sympathetic touch, but still she bled a little harder with each word she read. "How does he know all these things?" She felt as if he had reached inside her soul and exposed her innermost feelings.
Which would have been awful enough.
But he then thrust it forward with bloody hands as if it were so many entrails offered up to the carnivorous masses. Her pain was lion-and-the-gladiator style entertainment. Glancing over at her best friend, she saw that Kurstin's face was chalky.
And she saw the guilt written there.
No. Hayley's lips formed the word but no sound emerged from her throat, which felt lacerated and raw, as if she had swallowed a rusty razor.
"I didn't know I was talking to a journalist, Hayley," Kurstin said in a voice that begged understanding.
No! Hayley kept trying to swallow, but her throat felt pulpy, closed, destroyed by the dull-edged blade of betrayal. How could Kurstin have done this to her? Oh, God, how could she have done this?
"I thought I was talking to the man I was falling in love with, the man who loved me." To speak aloud of Ty's betrayal sent needles of pain stabbing along Kurstin's nerve endings, but she swallowed hard and forged past them in an attempt to make Hayley understand. "I didn’t even set out to do it. I said the word 'secrets' and he said he didn't have secrets, who did? And somehow it just...came out." She extended a beseeching hand. "Hayley, please…"
"No!" Hayley twisted sideways, stepping back before Kurstin's hand made contact. She truly feared the touch would eat like acid through her flesh to burn a destructive path to the bone. "No, don't touch me."
She could not stop staring in horror at her best friend, the one person in the world she had believed she could count on until the end of time. Her eyes shut with the pain, but she immediately forced them open again. She parted her lips to speak, but no words emerged.
So she simply turned away in silence and forced her weary muscles to carry her up the stairs to Jon-Michael’s bedroom.
Eighteen
Ty was packing to leave when the phone rang. Even as he rose to answer it, he cursed himself for hoping it was Kurstin.
He knew it wouldn’t be. She had too much style to give him the time of day, especially after the way he handled the termination of their relationship.
He hadn't had the balls to tell her face to face he had lied to her, used her. He sure as hell hadn’t attempted any sort of explanation to try to make her understand why. Taking the coward's way out, unable to face having to see the betrayal on her face, he had allowed her to find out for herself. For that alone, he knew she would never forgive him.
He’d had a shot at a once-in-a-lifetime relationship and hadn’t tumbled to the fucked up choice he’d made until it was too late to do him any good. But life went on, right? The decision had been made and couldn’t be changed. He would just have to learn to live with it.
Snatching up the phone, he snarled a hello. The caller turned out to be a head hunter from the New York Times, confirming their appointment in New York Monday afternoon. Hanging up moments later, Ty stood at the window and assured himself this made up for everything.
Hell, yeah. He was on his way. The upcoming interview would be the first vital step he had been waiting to take forever. Straight into the big-time. Ty Holloway, son of a dirt-poor miner, was mere days away from reaching the fast track and the realization of all his dreams. Rubbing his chest over the hollow spot in his heart, he stared moodily out at the green.
Life did not get any fucking better than this.
I listen to my co-workers talk about the newest bit of media hype surrounding Hayley Prescott. See, I think as I methodically work my way through the paperwork on my desk. If you had listened to me, you would not be in this situation. But, no. You had to put your faith in your fucking precious Kurstin. Look where that got you.
Well, never send a girl to do a woman's work, I always say. I will take care of this mess, tidy up all the sordid loose ends, just the way Hayley should have trusted me to do in the first place. I bet she is damn sorry now she did not.
The moment the office finally empties for the day, I reach for my cell phone and make a call. Tapping a quick little rhythm on the desk top with the eraser end of my pencil, I listen to the phone ring on the other end of the line. When it’s picked up on the other end, I toss the pencil aside and straighten my posture.
"Hello," I say with brisk efficiency. "This is Patsy Beal. You and I need to talk."
Jon-Michael stood in the doorway staring down at his sister. "I'm sorry, Kurst," he said and smoothed his thumb and index finger down the creases on either side of his mouth, feeling helpless. "She refuses to talk to you and I just can't get her to budge."
There were shadows beneath Kurstin's eyes as she looked back up at him. Her face was haggard and her expression haunted but she didn’t utter a single word of protest.
She simply turned and walked away.
Ty picked his way carefully through the woods. As dumbass places for a meet went, this one ranked right up there with the dumbest. But when he’d objected and suggested the cafe was a more reasonable alternative, Patsy Beal had simply laughed incredulously.
"If you think I am going to be seen anywhere in Gravers Bend with you, my friend, you are out of your mind," she had replied coolly. "You, sir, are persona non grata around here, and I am not about to have my name linked to yours."
"So why the hell you wanna meet me at all?" he had demanded churlishly. "I thought you were Prescott's good and great friend."
"I am more of a friend than you can possibly imagine," she'd retorted coolly. "And as it happens, I know the complete story, not just the portion you weaseled out of Kurstin." She had fallen into silence for a moment, before adding flatly, "It will play well above the fold, Holloway, but the choice is yours. Take it or leave it. It makes no
difference to me."
So, he had taken it. Why the hell not? It wasn’t as if he had anything left to lose at this point.
And maybe it would prove to be that one perfect column to add the final luster to his resume.
Jon-Michael climbed the stairs to the loft. This really wasn’t a good idea and he knew it. What he ought to do was remove himself for a while, because he was upset and not feeling a hundred percent sympathetic.
He found Hayley in the bentwood rocker, using her toes to rock herself, her arms wrapped around her middle. She hadn’t bothered to dress in two days and was still wearing one of his T-shirts, wrinkled now and sporting a stain by the hem where she had sloshed her tea. He was losing patience with her apathy. It was unlike her to simply give up. When things went wrong for the Hayley he knew, she came out fighting.
Every damn time.
She looked at him with haunted eyes. "Is she gone?"
"Yeah. She's gone." Jon-Michael went to the dresser and picked up his wallet. He stuffed it in his back pocket and rummaged around for his keys. Locating them, he turned and watched her rock back and forth, back and forth, staring off into space. "Listen," he said gently, "I know you’re feeling betrayed in the worst way. And Kurstie messed up big-time, no doubt about it. But it wasn’t deliberate, darlin', and she’s been hurt by it too. When are you going to let her off the hook?"
Hayley tensed all over and the rocking came to an abrupt halt. "Excuse me?" She slowly turned her head to regard him with dull eyes. She hugged herself harder. "She threw me to the dogs and you’re defending her?"
"I'm her brother, dammit! And you of all people should know this wasn’t a result she anticipated when she talked to Holloway. Not in a million years would Kurstin hurt you this way. And while you haven’t bothered looking at her since you learned what happened, I’ve seen what knowing what she triggered is doing to her."
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