When Secrets Kill

by Zoe Carter

  He nodded. “You call your sister. I’m going to call Paretti to see if he’s tried to track down CJ Spinner. Maybe the guy didn’t like being rejected.”

  Trevor walked to the opposite side of the boardinghouse’s porch and punched in the THPD’s number. A minute later, he was shaking his head. “What a surprise. Paretti’s not in, and of course I got his voice mail.”

  “It could mean he’s out investigating leads on your sister’s case,” Lauren said without a shred of conviction in her voice.

  “I appreciate the attempt at making me feel better,” he said. “Reach your sister?”

  “She’s not happy that we’re investigating on our own, but she agreed to meet us,” Lauren said. She stared at him for a moment, then reached a hand up to his shoulder. The touch, the contact, the soft weight of her hand felt good. “CJ Spinner is a good lead. Tuck it away and let’s focus on the woods right now. If Spinner knows we’re looking for him, he may clean up his evidence. Let’s try to find her campsite.”

  Trevor nodded and closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus. Lauren was right. But once again, he had no idea how the hell he’d handle what they’d find.

  Chapter Six

  Exhausted from the completely useless miles of hiking in the woods—they had found nothing and had to put up with Jennifer warning them to be careful at least twenty times—Lauren pulled up in front of her new office and parked, her mind on Trevor. She had to watch her step. When they’d been standing outside Catch of the Day after Trevor found out his sister had been staying at the crap boardinghouse or the woods, she’d instinctively wrapped her arms around him.

  Because that was what Lauren did with men. She’d sidle up to an easy mark, a hot guy who needed comforting. Down because you got fired from your job? Brokenhearted because your girlfriend dumped you? Here’s Lauren with a hug. Yes, see? Lauren has nice breasts you now feel against your chest. A few vodka tonics later: bed. And then Lauren would have herself a new boyfriend for a few days. Sometimes a few weeks.

  Pathetic. That was what Lauren had been. That girl. That woman. No more.

  Except, unless she was rationalizing, and she was really good at doing that, the way Trevor had stiffened and then relaxed against her had felt different somehow. He wasn’t some hot jerk. He was in the middle of something that mattered to her too. And the way he’d accepted her comfort, like she had something to offer, meant something to her. It wasn’t “for a good time, hug Lauren.” It was “You get it. You understand. We’re in this together.”

  They were in this together. And they’d stay in this together as long as she stuck to the promises she’d made herself. No drinking. No looking for validation in a man’s bed. Putting her future ahead of her present, no matter how bad her mood. Which meant work was everything. The Townsend Report was her shot at redemption, and she was taking it by the brass balls.

  That settled, she stepped out of her car as dusk gathered on the quiet street. She walked up to her storefront office. Ooh—in the dim light cast from a streetlamp she could see that the aluminum 3D sign that had been on the old Report office had not only been delivered but hung. Wow—thank you, Lucky Martin. Granted, her late boss’s father-in-law now knew that she wasn’t the one who’d killed his beloved daughter’s husband, but the man had never been all that nice to Lauren. Lucky had never thought much of the Townsend Report. First of all, it didn’t bear his own name—and he’d been the major investor. Second, he’d wanted his son-in-law to work for the family business. Despite all that, Lucky had been nice enough to fund the Report through the transition until Lauren could get the newsblog going on her own. Which she most certainly would. Maybe Lucky was being actually kind and helpful because he felt bad for how he’d treated her in those first days after Victor’s murder. But that wasn’t really his style. The Martins were loaded like the Blakes and operated in their own universe; they didn’t deign to be “nice” to anyone.

  Deciding to channel her sister Nova, who’d say, “Do not look a gift-horse in the mouth,” Lauren stared up at the beautiful signage, industrial chic the way Victor had liked, the sight of it buoying her spirits and sagging energy—until she noticed the rock-sized hole on the right side of the window, almost dead center. As if someone had aimed for the area above her desk, where she would be sitting.

  What the hell?

  She unlocked the door and rushed in. A large rock lay a few inches from the wall, a bad scuff where it had hit the pale yellow paint. She bent down to examine the rock, careful not to touch it in case police could get prints off it. Something was scrawled on the rock in black marker. She leaned closer.

  MYOB.

  Mind. Your. Own. Business.

  “This is my business, asshole,” she said to the empty room.

  She was glad she’d taken her laptop with her when she’d gone to meet Trevor earlier, locking it up in the trunk of her car instead of leaving it behind; she had no doubt whoever had thrown the rock would have tried to break in to steal it. She’d have to be careful with her stuff, lock up her files every night, make sure her laptop was always secured.

  Someone knew she was investigating the Tammy Gallagher case and didn’t like it. Who?

  CJ Spinner? Had someone at Catch of the Day let the guy know that Tammy’s brother and a reporter were asking questions?

  Lauren thought of the guys she’d turned down for dates or slow dances at the pool hall’s “dance floor” over the past several years. Unsavory types. None of them had tried to kill her. It didn’t matter that Tammy’s coworker at Catch had said CJ was a nice guy. Anyone could hide behind a nice exterior, seething under the surface. Lauren had seen that time and again. And Tammy Gallagher was dead. CJ Spinner with his unrequited feelings was the first good lead they had. And he’d mysteriously stopped coming to work when Tammy had too?

  She grimaced at the hole in her otherwise shiny, clean window and called her dad to report the vandalism. In minutes, her father and two sisters were standing in her office, shaking their heads, the refrain of “we told you this could get dangerous” echoing in Lauren’s brain as she watched her dad tape cardboard over the hole for the time being.

  “I hate this,” Tommy Riley said, standing back on Rush Street and surveying his handiwork. “I had to see you in a jail cell on murder charges. I finally get my middle daughter back. And now my youngest is putting her life at risk with her job.” He waved his hand in the air and turned away, his face contorted with a grimace.

  Lauren walked over to her father and put her arm around him. “I love you too, Dad. And I am being careful. But this is my job. Reporting the news. The truth. It’s the first thing I’ve ever been good at.”

  “And if it kills you?” he asked, shaking his head again.

  “Dad, you’re one to talk. Just like Jennifer. A police chief and a New York City police detective trying to get me to give up potentially dangerous work?”

  “Lauren,” Nova said with the tone she’d used for the last twenty years when her kid sister was being stubborn, “Dad and Jennifer have guns. And they’re trained.”

  “My job is going to put me at some risk,” Lauren said. “I accept that. I will be careful. But that’s all I can promise you.”

  Tommy sighed and called in an old buddy with a glassworks business; the Townsend Report would have a fixed front window in a few hours.

  “And I will pay that bill,” Lauren said pointedly.

  * * *

  An hour later at home, Lauren thought the lecturing had stopped, but by the time Jennifer had set out her taco bar, Nova was back to the subject of how creepy it was that someone was hiding in the woodwork, throwing warning rocks into offices.

  “I’m really scared for you, Lauren,” Nova said, her hand paused on a taco shell. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to ruin your life not too long ago. Now someone else is threatening you.”
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  Tommy Riley heaped black beans on top of the shredded chicken in his taco. “Did you know that the library is looking for an assistant in the children’s room, Lauren? You used to love going to the library when you were little.”

  Lauren stared at her father. Again with this? “Dad. I have a job. One I’m not giving up. End of story. Look, I appreciate that you care about me—that you all care,” she added, looking at her sisters. “But this is who I am.”

  Jennifer’s green eyes narrowed and she set down her forkful of Mexican rice. “Victor Townsend started the Townsend Report and now he’s dead, Lauren. Murdered.”

  “He wasn’t killed because of the newsblog or what he was investigating,” Lauren reminded her sister. A fact Jennifer Riley knew firsthand. “His spurned lover killed him, likely in a jealous rage, because Victor tried to break up with him. You found the texts on Victor’s cell phone—the phone Jamie Chen almost killed you to steal.”

  “You’re right,” Jennifer said. “But still, someone is warning you, Lauren. That’s what ‘MYOB’ and a damaged office window means. Next time, there might not be a warning. Just a bullet.” She shook her head. “You’re my kid sister, Lauren. And I love you.”

  “We all love you,” Nova said. “And we can’t take this.”

  Lauren was quickly losing her appetite for the awesome beef and guacamole taco with the works that she’d just made for herself.

  “Lauren, just shut down the Townsend Report,” Nova said. “Enough is enough. It’s too dangerous.”

  Tommy Riley bit into his second taco. “That’s three against one, Lauren. It’s too dangerous. I want you to shut down that gossip rag.”

  “Gossip rag?” she repeated, feeling as though her father had just slapped her. “Is that what reporting the news, reporting the truth is?” she asked, unable to keep herself from raising her voice. “I’m a reporter. And this is what reporters do. We report the news, we investigate, we dig. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m twenty-five years old, and I finally found what I want to do with my life. I want your support.”

  Tommy Riley pushed Mexican rice around on his plate, his cheeks reddening with anger. “You’re not getting it.”

  Jennifer let out a breath, and Nova folded her arms over her chest.

  “When do we get to stop worrying about you, Lauren?” Nova asked, disapproval etched on her pretty face. “To be really honest, I’m friggen tired of it.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Lauren said, standing up and throwing down her napkin. She took her plate into the kitchen, threw away her half-eaten taco and then headed upstairs to her bedroom.

  Maybe she should move out, get her own place, she thought as she closed the door behind her and dropped down on her bed. If her family couldn’t support her, if they treated her like a child who got into scrapes, then maybe it was time to remove herself from that kind of disapproval.

  But she thought of her finding her dad sitting in his favorite chair in the living room last night, his gaze on the photo of his late wife, wistfulness in his expression. She thought of Nova, who’d taken care of Lauren since she was five, giving up her own dreams in the process. She thought of Jennifer, finally back home after twenty years.

  And Lauren was going to ditch them because they wanted her to be safe?

  She hated that growing up had so much irony attached.

  Lauren’s gaze caught on the photo on her dresser, of Lauren at age four being swung by her older sisters in a pool on vacation somewhere, Jennifer holding Lauren’s hands and Nova carrying her feet. A big happy smile on Lauren’s freckled face.

  Lauren got up, went over to her closet and pulled out the shoebox tucked in the back corner under a heap of winter scarves. She carried the box over to her bed and was about to take the lid off when there was a knock on her door.

  “Come in,” she called. But enough of the lectures, whoever you are.

  “It’s me” came her sister Jennifer’s voice as she opened the door and stepped inside.

  Lauren sat on her bed, cross-legged, the shoebox on her thigh.

  “Bought new sandals?” Jennifer asked, nodding at the box as she shut the door behind her. She sat on the rocking chair by the window, the one Nova had always rocked Lauren in when she was little and missed their mother, crying in the middle of the night.

  Lauren shook her head. “Letters. Unsent.”

  “To?”

  “You.” Lauren pulled one out and opened the unsealed flap, taking out the Hello Kitty lined stationery. “I was ten when I wrote this one. ‘Dear Jen, I miss you. Nova was mean to me. She told me to ask her for help with my test but I got a D because she was too tired and Dad was asking when dinner would be ready. Sometimes I don’t think I should ask for help, you know?’”

  Oh, Nova. How hard those days must have been.

  Lauren glanced up at Jennifer, who had tears in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you two. For you three,” Jennifer said, pushing her blond hair behind her shoulders. “I didn’t know you wrote me letters. I only got two from you, back when you were really young.”

  Lauren remembered the one time she called Jennifer, behind Nova’s back. Why don’t you ever come home? I need you. And her sister’s silence and then I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t. Click.

  She’d stopped asking if they could call Jennifer. But she kept writing the unsent letters. “When I turned eighteen I thought about going to New York City to find you, but then I figured if you wanted me in your life, you would have called or written.”

  Jennifer stood up and came over to the bed and sat down beside Lauren. “I’m so sorry I let you down. You were so young, and I was young too and scared and felt so hopeless. I wanted to forget everything connected to my hometown, pretend it didn’t exist. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m just happy you’re back, Jen. But please don’t treat me like the five-year-old I was when you left. I’m a reporter. And I’m good at what I do. Victor knew it—it’s why he promoted me.”

  “But he kept his investigation secret from you—to protect you,” Jennifer pointed out. “Just remember that.”

  Lauren shook her head. “His investigation into Abby Blake’s disappearance and the link to those missing girls—that wasn’t about protecting me. It was about keeping me out of it because of the family connection.”

  “Maybe,” Jennifer conceded. She knew that better than anyone. Jennifer was the one who’d been closest to Abby Blake back then.

  “What do you think happened to Abby?” Lauren asked.

  Jennifer stood up. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

  Lauren nodded. “Good. And I’m going to find out what happened to Tammy Gallagher. Her story is a lot like the story of those missing girls—the ones from the wrong side of the track, forgotten, case closed.”

  Jennifer seemed to be taking that in. “I know I say this a lot. But please, Lauren. Just be careful. You and Trevor.”

  “I will,” Lauren said. “I promise.”

  Jennifer walked to the door, then turned and eyed the shoebox on the bed. “Can I take that with me?”

  Lauren almost gasped. She felt like the Grinch, his tiny heart growing. Not that Lauren had a puny-sized heart with no feeling, but when it came to her sister Jennifer, she’d always felt abandoned. Left behind. Twenty years was a long time with nothing but a birthday card every year. But what Lauren had failed to realize all these years was that Jennifer had lost too, had broken her own heart to flee town and stay away.

  “Of course,” Lauren said, extending the box. But before Jennifer could take it, Lauren threw her arms around her sister and hugged her.

  Jennifer hugged her back and then pulled away, giving Lauren a sweet smile. “Thanks, Lauren.”

  Hugs and old letters and talks aside, Lauren had a bad fe
eling about why her sister was really staying in Thornwood Heights. Yeah, Jennifer was investigating the skeleton found at the boathouse. Looking into the missing girls whose photos had been in Victor’s secret file. Trying to figure out what happened to her best friend, Abby Blake.

  But there was something Lauren wasn’t putting her finger on and wasn’t even close to, not for miles. Yes, she thought, as she noticed Jennifer looking at her, a strain in her expression, before she left. Her sister was keeping something from her. Something big.

  * * *

  Lauren lay in bed that night, unable to stop thinking about the MYOB warning. And Trevor. Someone didn’t like that they were investigating Tammy’s death. Who, dammit? Who’d killed Tammy Gallagher? And why? The girl wasn’t a drug user. And yet a baggie of four ounces of cocaine was found under her left shoulder. If she’d been killed by a dealer or a buyer, the drugs would have been taken in a heartbeat. Come on.

  Planted was more likely. But again, why? To make the crime look like it had been drug-related? Why, why, why? What would be the point? Did it point to Tammy knowing her killer or not knowing her killer?

  Had the spurned coworker snapped and killed her and then wanted to make her death look like a drug deal gone bad so he’d planted the cocaine?

  Anything was possible. Including a lot of other possibilities.

  Why her father or Jennifer or any of the Thornwood Heights police department weren’t asking these questions was beyond her. Was this not their job?

  Because it was like Trevor said. They didn’t care. Tammy Gallagher wasn’t important like Abby Blake was. Tammy wasn’t a golden girl, daughter of the wealthiest family in town. She was eighteen, from the trailer park, a sort-of runaway and a “druggie.” And being a druggie got her killed. The THPD had moved on.

  Lauren would not. Sorry, Jennifer. Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Nova. Not going to happen.