by Zoe Carter
The heavy pressure lifted off Lauren’s chest. Burgers and baseball were a lot easier to talk about than big-deal stuff that had gone on in the past. She tried to imagine her father, so desperate for his cancer-ridden wife to receive life-saving treatment, making a deal with the devil. And then Charlotte Riley, honest to the core, saying no—no more.
The heavy pressure was back. Lauren excused herself to her room and shut the door and got under the covers in the dark, letting everything she’d been through today, everything she’d learned over dinner, settle into her mind.
She grabbed her phone and texted Trevor. What I would give for a Trevor Gallagher hug.
She was finally getting it. People who cared about you needed to know you were safe in this world. And Trevor cared about her. He might not be able—willing—to share his life with her or anyone, but he cared about her. She had to cut him a break about worrying whether she’d make it from her office to Sunnyside Coffee alive. Someone did want her dead.
Those are free and here anytime you need one.
She texted back, Good, I’ll need a few tomorrow, then took a deep breath and changed into a T-shirt and yoga pants, then slid back under the covers.
She heard two sets of feet come up the stairs, then a knock on her door. “Come in.”
Her sisters poked their heads in.
“You okay?” Nova asked, her blond hair up in a loose topknot.
Lauren shrugged. “I can’t stop thinking about how Dad must have felt when he told Blake he wouldn’t look the other way anymore. Knowing what that meant.”
“I know,” Jennifer said, sitting down in the rocker across from the bed. “He broke his own heart to do the right thing.”
“Mom was so sick,” Nova said. “In my heart, I know we would have lost her anyway.”
“Dad never told you?” Lauren asked. “In all these years?”
Nova shook her head. “I think it would have devastated him to tell me. He told Jen because transparency—with her—is critical to finding out what the hell has been going on in this town.”
“And I’m still on a need-to-know basis,” Lauren said, eyeing Jennifer.
Jennifer nodded. “It’s how it has to be.”
“Well, next time make sure what I need to know is in my ears before I do something stupid and threaten to expose a fistfight until the charges are dropped.”
Jennifer smiled. “I can’t be everywhere. All we can do is the best we can.”
Nova walked over to Lauren’s dresser and picked up a photo of the three Riley girls with their mom. She sat back down on the edge of Lauren’s bed. “Lauren, you were two here. Jen was fourteen and I was sixteen.”
Jennifer smiled at the photo. “Were we ever really that young? I feel a million years old.”
“We miss you, Mom,” Lauren said to the beautiful blond woman in the photograph.
Lauren and her sisters sat gazing at the photo, and for the first time in a long time, all she felt surrounding her was love.
* * *
In the morning, Trevor wanted to take his phone and bang it over his head.
Oh, I forgot to tell you, Trevor’s mother had texted him. I know you think I’m a royal bitch for not coming to Tammy’s funeral, but it’s not like I didn’t save her stuff and yours. I rented a small storage unit over in Piedmont. It’s twenty-five bucks a month and I could only swing two months, so you’d better take the stuff unless you want to lose access, and then that reality TV show might come bid on it sight unseen. Ever seen that show?
Trevor had no idea what TV show his mother was talking about. Or how she could be uninterested in Tammy’s case and focusing on banalities. Where was the “What are the police doing to find Tammy’s killer?” Or “How are you holding up?”
He shook his head and poured himself a strong cup of coffee. His mother had never been any different. Which was why he’d assumed that before Monica Gallagher had left for the West Coast she’d sold anything she could and dumped the rest. They hadn’t had much—some cheap basic furniture and kitchen supplies. And he’d put his own stuff in storage at the base before he’d deployed, not trusting his mother with his treasures—high school baseball trophies, his old collection of vinyl records, the vase Tammy had made him with the alpaca painted on it, and birthday and Christmas cards from Tammy over the years. It never would have occurred to him that his mother would have given a crap about what had been left behind.
And because Tammy had left home, he’d also figured she’d packed a duffel with all her stuff. From the backpack Jennifer Riley had unearthed in the woods, it was clear Tammy hadn’t taken much. So maybe there would be something telling among the old stuffed animals.
Oh again, his mother texted back. The key. I taped it under the middle step of the trailer. Take care.
Guess he was headed back there again. He took care of morning chores with Mack and CJ, then drove out to the Thornwood Heights Mobile Home Park. The little tarnished key was exactly where his mother said it would be.
He pocketed it and drove to Piedmont, the next town over. The storage unit she’d rented was small, the size of a typical gym locker. Everything was stuffed in a black trash bag. He took it out and sat down on a patch of grass across from the units, dumping the contents out next to him. There were a bunch of clothes, shorts and T-shirts, a couple of dresses, a pair of high heels. Some paperbacks. Tammy’s trophies from soccer and lacrosse and some cheap-looking jewelry that his mother liked, necklaces with big red-and-blue stones. There was a bunch of stuff that looked like his mother had just overturned a kitchen junk drawer into the bag: everything from incense and matches to unpaid bills from the cable company and the urgent-care clinic for a strep-throat visit.
Whoa. There was something else in the bag. Something that might be very useful. A puppy-and-kitten wall calendar with appointments and reminders scrawled in the little boxes. His mother’s monthly appointments at the tanning salon. Teeth whitening. January through March devoted to noting how many hours she’d spent Skyping with her new online boyfriend. Late May was a countdown to when she was leaving.
And interspersed with his mother’s handwriting was Tammy’s. Her schedule at Catch of the Day. A Thornwood Heights Community College seminar called “Is College Right For You?”
A dental appointment. “Feed Mrs. Hanegan’s cat in #3.” And on June 8: “Carlington.”
Bingo. She had been there. He wished it said something else. Like a reason for going.
And farther down in the notes section was “Avoid C.” Underlined.
Whoa. Avoid C?
Avoid Carlington?
What the hell? He racked his brain for a reason Tammy would have gone to the mansion. On Victor Townsend’s bike. She’d seen the article in the Report about the missing girls. Had gone to Victor with information. Tammy had had something on Carlington and wanted to talk to him, but needed a way to get there; Victor had given her one of his many bikes.
Except she’d been trying to avoid Carlington. Maybe she’d gone to the mansion to talk to Maris, hoping Marcus wouldn’t be around? Again, why? Maybe Tammy had suspected Marcus of being involved in the disappearances of the girls?
Trevor had no goddamned idea. But she hadn’t been able to avoid Marcus. That much he’d bet his ranch on.
Chapter Seventeen
That afternoon, Lauren stood in front of the bulls’ pasture, watching Klondike and his new buddies swat flies with their tails, her mind on the new information Trevor had found.
Avoid C. It had to be Carlington. Who else?
She froze. “Trevor, I have to put this out there because we have to put everything out there. Could the C in ‘Avoid C’ be CJ?”
They both turned toward the horses’ barn, where CJ was just visible grooming Lulu, the black-and-white mare.
“I thought
of that too,” he said. “But it’s weird to refer to him as C. Everyone calls him CJ. And based on what I now know of the guy, my instincts about him were right. He’s a really good kid, a hard worker, wears his heart on his sleeve. You should hear him talking to the animals when he thinks no one can hear. Yeah, I guess a person can snap under very wrong conditions. But I just don’t see CJ as the guy.”
Lauren nodded. She didn’t either. Which left Carlington, who fit the bill in every way. Trevor had brought up the idea that Marcus might have something to do with the missing girls. A mild-mannered former mayor and investment banker and philanthropist and award-winning pie baker who was afraid of mice? The most depraved serial killers in recent history had fooled everyone with their good-guy demeanors. You never knew.
Girls and young women had vanished into thin air. Someone in this town was responsible. And walking among them.
“So how do we proceed?” she asked. “Should we even bother showing the calendar to my dad?”
“What’s the point? They dismissed everything we had to say yesterday. The calendar might prove she meant to meet with the Carlington or go to the house, but so what? None of it proves Carlington is guilty.” He hit the fence post with the side of his hand.
Lauren looked at him in worry. “We could show Carlington the calendar as proof that Tammy did have an appointment with him or his wife. And then we’ll show him ‘Avoid C’ and watch his reaction.”
“And what? He’ll suddenly confess and hand himself over to the PD? We need evidence. Even finding the bike hidden at his house would help get your father interested in bringing him in for questioning.”
“Except no one’s going to offer us a tour of the mansion or the garage or where the bike might be hidden in the backyard.” Shit. They were so close. Carlington was involved and they had to prove it. “Hey—we could just sic Jen on him. Let a New York City police detective question him and make him crack.”
Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Will she do it?”
“I think so—especially given the calendar,” Lauren said. “The family meeting last night brought us all a bit closer. And Jennifer did comb the woods and find Tammy’s backpack and sleeping bag. She’s closer to believing that Tammy’s case could be connected to the bigger one with the missing girls. And her heart is with that case.”
She pulled out her phone to call her sister, but it started ringing with an unfamiliar number. She shrugged at Trevor.
“Lauren Riley,” she said, phone to her ear.
“Ms. Riley, this is Marcus Carlington.”
Holy crap. “Carlington,” she mouthed to Trevor, and watched his eyes narrow.
“I would like to meet with you and Mr. Gallagher to discuss what I may remember about that young woman,” Carlington said, his voice shaky.
“Where and when?” she asked.
“My house at eight p.m. Maris has a fund-raiser dinner, so she’ll be out. We can speak privately.”
“We’ll be there,” Lauren said. Tell me everything right now, she wanted to scream. But Carlington sounded so tentative and nervous that she knew she shouldn’t push it.
As she put away her phone, Trevor turned to her. “God, is he going to admit to killing Tammy?”
Lauren had a bad feeling. Maybe the whole thing was a trap. Remembering the men who had tried to kill her, she wouldn’t put it past Carlington to try to make them disappear.
“I’ll call Jen and let her know what’s going on. We definitely want someone to know we’re going over there and when and that we don’t trust him.”
“Why not call your dad?” Trevor asked.
“He’ll steamroll over it,” Lauren said. “He’ll insist that we don’t go at all, that he’ll go and talk to Carlington, and the chief of police knocking on his door will just make him clam up. The man is a nervous wreck.”
“Good point.”
Lauren called Jennifer, who picked up the phone right away. She could hear a foghorn in the distance, which told her Jennifer was investigating at the boathouse again. She quickly explained to Jennifer what was going on.
“Lauren, you need to prepare for the worst-case scenario,” her sister said. “It’s possible that Tammy was blackmailing Carlington, so he killed her to put an end to it, and now he wants to put the only two people investigating him out of commission, as well.”
“There is nothing about Tammy Gallagher to suggest she would blackmail anyone. Based on everything Trevor has said, that’s not who she was.”
“Maybe, Lauren. And maybe Trevor didn’t know everything there was to know about his sister. He was gone for four years. There’s a huge difference between being fourteen years old and eighteen.”
Something wasn’t adding up here. Lauren had no idea what it was, but her gut said that Tammy Gallagher hadn’t been blackmailing anyone. What she believed was that Carlington had stalked her, didn’t get what he wanted and snapped. He’d followed her into the woods, strangled her in a rage, then hidden her stuff and dumped her body farther away, hoping she’d be forgotten.
She wasn’t.
“I’m going to be stuck at the boathouse for a while, going over forensics with an expert Hayden called in as a favor. I’ll try to get over to Carlington’s by eight. Wait for me before you go in.”
“Jen, I can’t promise that. Marcus said eight. He wants to talk, relieve his guilt, probably. Waiting might throw him off.”
“I’ll get there as close to eight as I can and stay out of sight. First sign of trouble, I’m coming in.”
Fine with Lauren.
* * *
At 7:55, Trevor pulled up in front of the Carlington mansion’s circular drive, which was softly illuminated. Lights were on throughout the first floor.
“Let’s do this,” Lauren said, squeezing Trevor’s hand.
“Let’s do this,” he repeated.
As they approached the front door, Trevor had the feeling that this was really it. That the answers he’d been looking for would be had. But instead of relief, he just felt sick to his stomach. He’d forgotten to figure out how to control himself if Carlington did reveal himself as Tammy’s killer.
But why would Marcus Carlington confess when the police weren’t looking at him? This had to be either a trap, or Carlington did want to admit to being Tammy’s stalker—without admitting to killing her. Offering information that might be corroborated without admission of guilt of murder.
Just ring the damned doorbell and find out, he told himself. Conjecture and speculation were meaningless.
Trevor pushed the bell and heard the heavy chimes from inside. He glanced at Lauren, who nodded.
No response.
He rang the bell again. Finally, footsteps could be heard on the marble floor inside and the door opened. Marcus Carlington, his pallor ashen, a panicked look in his brown eyes, held a tumbler of scotch in his hand. He opened his mouth to say something, then pressed his thin lips together. A bead of sweat ran down his left temple. His eyes darted from Trevor to Lauren.
The man was guilty as hell.
Carlington was either drunk or high on his wife’s pills. He just stood there, not saying anything or widening the door to let them in. Trevor stepped inside anyway, forcing Carlington to move back. Lauren came in and shut the door.
“You did see Tammy the day she rode up here on the bike, didn’t you?” Trevor said.
“Drink?” Marcus asked, sweat visible on his forehead as he gestured to his glass.
Trevor stepped even closer to Carlington. “Answer the goddamned question.”
“You asked us here to tell us what happened that day,” Lauren said, clearly trying to keep her voice free of accusation so Carlington would talk.
Carlington turned for a second, rubbing a hand over his face. He put the drink down on a table, then reached inside his ja
cket.
And pulled out a small black handgun.
Whoa. Trevor stepped back, shielding Lauren. “Calm down, Marcus. We’re just here to talk.”
Carlington waved the gun around. “I never meant for anything bad to happen to her. To any of them! You don’t understand. They’re so young and pretty. You don’t understand what he—”
“He who?” Lauren asked.
Tears pooled in Carlington’s eyes. His expression switched between despair and anger. “She kept asking questions, said she saw me. But I never wanted her dead. Or the other...”
“Tammy kept asking questions?” Trevor said. “So she came here that day on her bike and you—”
Carlington pointed the gun at Trevor’s head. “I should kill you. Just like all the others.” When he aimed the gun at Lauren, adrenaline took over from reason and Trevor lunged for the man, knocking him down.
Carlington grunted, keeping his grip on the gun, his thin arm blocking it. Tall, skinny Carlington was no match for Trevor physically, but Marcus was the one with the gun. And Trevor wasn’t going to die tonight. He had to be careful. Just knock the gun from his hand and out of reach, he told himself.
But when Trevor jerked his arm against Carlington’s, the sound of gunfire reverberated in the sudden stillness of the room.
“Trevor!” Lauren screamed.
Marcus’s head fell back on the floor, blood widening on his shirt from the wound in his chest, his arms going slack. He wheezed, then gasped out, “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Lauren said, then stilled, her gaze focused out the window. “Someone’s out there! Someone’s watching.”
Trevor looked up. A tall man in a dark hoodie fled through the backyard into the trees.
The front door burst open and Jennifer rushed in, her gun drawn. “I heard a shot—” She froze, staring at Marcus on the floor, his eyes still open, his head twisted to one side. He wasn’t breathing.