Beguiled

by Deeanne Gist

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  He puffed on his cigar. “Not yet you don’t.”

  The leash stiffened as Cocoa strained forward.

  A group of tourists ambled through the trees, gazing up at the monument. From their laughter and the way they wobbled, she could see they’d had plenty to drink. Cocoa let out a bark.

  “Stop that,” she said, then took advantage of the new arrivals to break contact with the bald man.

  Skating onto Murray Boulevard, she tugged the leash and Cocoa fell into step. Glancing back, she saw the man following, so she put on speed all the way to King Street, cutting the turn sharply. Cocoa charged ahead. The man’s silhouette grew smaller, but he was cutting diagonally across the park. Toward her.

  Is this the man who’s been stalking me? Prickly tingles raced up her spine.

  In an instant, the city’s vibe transformed. The moon hid behind clouds, plunging the side lanes into shadow. The partygoers were off the street, their doors firmly shut.

  She glanced back again and missed seeing the fissure in the sidewalk. Her skates caught, wrenching her foot sideways. She tried to compensate but landed on knees and palms, barely managing to keep hold of the leash.

  Cocoa pulled up short, torquing her foot even more.

  Gasping, she rolled to a sitting position, grabbing her throbbing ankle.

  The man crossed South Battery, still heading her way. As he passed under a streetlight, a cloud of smoke swirled around his head.

  Ignoring her ankle and her skinned knees and palms, she scrounged in her bag for her phone.

  “Are you all right?”

  She glanced up, momentarily dazzled by the streetlight overhead. A pair of teenage girls decked out in party dresses and costume jewelry clip-clopped toward her. One of them hunched over Cocoa, cooing and caressing.

  The other one, big-boned and orange from sunless tanner, helped Rylee to her feet. “You didn’t break anything, did you?”

  Rylee put some weight on the ankle. “No. It’s fine.”

  The other girl started laughing as Cocoa licked at her face, dodging his tongue as best she could. “He’s so sweet. What do you call him?”

  Before Rylee could answer, the girl who’d helped her up gripped Rylee’s arm, staring at something behind them. Rylee whipped around.

  Cigar smoke enveloped them, filling the air with the scent of decay and dried leaves.

  He stood twenty feet away, a look of satisfaction on his rounded features. “I guess this makes me the tortoise and you the hare.”

  “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” she snapped.

  The two girls glanced at each other, stiff as plastic dolls, while Cocoa moved closer to Rylee’s unsteady feet.

  “You got me all wrong, little lady. I’m not here to stir the pot. I just figured it was about time I got a look at you. And it was quite a look.” His eyes sparked, appreciative and threatening. “Now there’s a favor I want from you.”

  “I’m not doing anything for you.”

  He chuckled. “We’ll see.” He took a puff on his cigar, cinders glowing in response. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk in front of these ladies.”

  The girls backpedaled in baby steps, but Rylee stopped them with a pleading look. The orange one stood firm, her friend cowering behind her.

  Rylee adjusted the leash in her hand. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

  He shrugged. “Last Tuesday, around two o’clock, you were in the yard at the Petries’ house, and George Pendergrass was there with you. The two of you had a nice little chat.”

  She felt a surge of defiance welling up. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  The man turned, flicking his cigar butt into the street, where it sparked into ash and ember. “I’m telling you. You were with George Pendergrass on Tuesday at two. If anybody comes asking, you tell them so.”

  He disappeared down the street, leaving the three women and the Lab alone. They took a moment to catch their collective breath, nervous smiles all around.

  “Thanks for staying.”

  The girls nodded. “Who was that guy?”

  She glanced into the darkness that had swallowed him. “I have no idea. But I bet I know someone who might.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After returning Cocoa to the now-empty house, Rylee pulled off her rollerblades to examine her ankle. A bit of tenderness, but it seemed okay. Her hands and knees were pretty skinned up, though. Painful to touch.

  She’d been afraid at first, but now she was just angry. As soon as she got to her car, she was going to call Logan and find out just who that guy was. After all the criminals he’d told her about at lunch, she felt sure he’d be able to find out.

  She locked the Bosticks’ door and headed down the street. She’d parked Daisy a block away, thinking nothing of the distance until she was halfway between the house and car. The alley suddenly seemed to stretch indefinitely, the darkness full of danger.

  She set a brisk pace, her keys bristling between the fingers of her balled fist, her other hand clutching her phone, ready to dial Logan’s number when she reached the safety of her car.

  She made it to Daisy without incident, pulling the creaky driver’s door open and slinging her bag into the passenger seat. The dome light had long since burned out. When she dropped into the seat, she felt something sharp stabbing against the back of her thigh. She sprang up, brushing a shard of glass off her capris.

  Squinting into the car, she saw a jagged hole where the passenger window had been. Someone had broken into Daisy.

  She glanced up and down the street. Wind crept through the treetops. Otherwise everything was still. Too still. Goose bumps raised along her bare arms. She felt eyes in the darkness, watching.

  A song began to silently play in her head. Her go-to song when she had no dog at her side and needed extra confidence. The same one Maria von Trapp sang when she was about to meet her seven charges.

  I have confidence in sunshine. I have confidence in rain. . . .

  She retrieved her messenger bag gingerly, wiping the studded glass away. The passenger seat sparkled with fragments. Digging inside the bag, she groped for her flashlight.

  . . . I have confidence that spring will come again. . . .

  With the flick of a button, the flashlight came to life. She pointed it into the neighboring shadows. Nothing but cobblestones and vines. No one lurking in wait. She bathed the car’s interior in cold white light. The glove compartment hung open, all its contents strewn on the floor. The cds clipped to her visor were gone.

  . . . Besides which you see, I have confidence in me. . . .

  In the backseat, her gym bag was unzipped, its contents dumped. She moved the beam of light over them.

  . . . Strength doesn’t lie in numbers. Strength doesn’t lie in— The song in her head came to an abrupt end. Something was missing.

  She turned the bag over. It was empty. Her underthings were gone.

  In spite of the warm night, she shivered on the curb, then glanced back toward the Bosticks. The distance yawned in darkness. She had no desire to plunge into it. Besides, going back would solve nothing.

  Every instinct she had was screaming at her to dial 9-1-1. But the detective’s words echoed in her mind.

  Don’t call us. We’ll call you.

  She thumbed through her saved numbers for Logan’s. His phone rang forever before he finally picked up.

  “Well, hello.” His voice was low. Husky. Pleased.

  She found she couldn’t speak.

  “Rylee?” His tone changed. “Hello? Rylee?”

  “Some sick pervert broke into my car.” She barely recognized her own voice.

  “What? Are you okay? Where are you?”

  “Meeting Street. Down the block from the Bosticks’ house. Cocoa. And my car. It’s . . .” Her words stacked up at the back of her throat.

  “Do you have a dog with you?”

  “No.”


  “You’re alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get back to the Bosticks’. Go to the house and lock yourself in. Now. And don’t hang up. Stay on the line.” On the other end of the phone, she heard doors slamming and footsteps pounding. His breath quickened.

  “Logan, there was this guy earlier—”

  “Do it! Now!”

  She closed Daisy’s door, even locked it, then realized the futility of the gesture. Glancing around, she saw nothing. But that didn’t mean someone wasn’t out there.

  “Are you moving, Rylee? Tell me you’re moving.”

  She hitched the messenger bag over her shoulder and started walking. “I’m moving.”

  “How much farther?”

  She heard his car ding, as if he’d inserted the keys before closing his door. The engine started. A blast of guitar, a crash of drum and cymbal, and then the music switched off. “How far are you from the house?”

  “Four doors down.” She picked up the pace.

  “Anybody behind you?”

  She turned around, walked three steps back, then faced forward.

  “Not that I can see.”

  Squealing tires on his end of the line. The throaty roar of German engineering. “How many more houses?”

  “One.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “I twisted my ankle.”

  “You’re hurt? You didn’t say you were hurt!”

  She reached the Bosticks’ front door. “I’m here.”

  “Good. That’s good. Now go inside and lock the door. As soon as we hang up, you call the police.”

  “No.”

  “Listen, I understand how you feel, but this needs to be reported. That’s what they’re there for. And most of the guys are really good guys.”

  “Except for Nate.”

  “Believe it or not, he’s a good guy, too. Just a little rough around the edges.”

  She wiggled the first key, finally freeing the mechanism.

  “Are you inside?”

  “They have three new locks now, remember?”

  He swore under his breath.

  A half-minute later, she pushed the door shut behind her, flipped all the locks, and sank onto the floor. “Okay. I’m in.”

  He sighed. “That’s good. Now call the cops. Okay?”

  She slid her eyes closed. “Okay.”

  “And if anybody shows up in the meantime, you sic the dog on them, you hear? I’ll be right there.”

  “Logan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.”

  A hum of silence. “You’re welcome.”

  Quietly, she hung up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  Within minutes, she was surrounded. First the police arrived and walked her to her car. Then Logan showed up in shorts and T-shirt. The Bosticks, passing by on their way between parties, stopped to see what all the commotion was, and Mrs. Bostick ended up hugging Rylee so hard she could barely breathe.

  All the attention numbed Rylee—apart from her ankle, which felt like an acupuncture experiment gone wrong.

  Once the reports were made and the police satisfied, Logan pressed his car keys into her hand. “You drive mine and I’ll follow in yours.”

  Dazed, she stared at the keys. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  She blinked. “Okay.”

  But it was more than okay. She hadn’t realized until that moment that she didn’t want to go home alone.

  They walked to his car, where she settled into the leather driver’s seat, cocooned by the flared wings on either side. The swell of the wheel felt firm under her hands. He bent down, raising and lowering the seat with the touch of a button until it was adjusted just right. Then he pushed a numbered button on the door until it beeped.

  “What was that?”

  “I stored your seat settings in memory,” he said.

  “Oh.” Stored settings. That seemed significant.

  Logan snapped the door shut, motioning her to power down the window. As she did, Mr. Bostick appeared at the curb, offering to have his shop take a look at Daisy’s busted window in the morning.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Logan said. Then he looked at her. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  He tapped the roof twice, then jogged toward her injured Civic, the keys dangling from his fingertips.

  She buckled up, then pulled onto the street, the reassuring burn of Daisy’s headlights in the rearview mirror. The dash of Logan’s BMW glowed orange in the darkness, the air-conditioning cold enough to freeze lava.

  She shifted into third. She’d learned to drive a stick from her grandmother, who’d taken her to the abandoned high school parking lot one summer weekend for some sink-or-swim tutelage. After a gazillion stalls, she’d finally gotten the hang of it.

  Remembering Nonie’s patience, she smiled. Back then, Nonie had seemed a bit absentminded, nothing more. She’d never have imagined how much things would change. Nor how fast.

  Now, she had . . . no one.

  Everyone she could have turned to, everyone she could have relied on, they were gone. They’d left her, willingly or not. Her dad was off living a new life, probably never sparing a thought for her.

  Her mother was in the grave. And Nonie, the way she drifted in and out of sanity, might as well be gone most days. She had friends—she had Liz, anyway—but Liz didn’t understand. No, all she had was her clients—and remembering Mrs. Bostick’s bear hug and her husband’s offer to fix Daisy, she told herself they were enough.

  But she hadn’t called one of them. She’d called Logan.

  He’d come running, too. Rushing from his home, running interference with the police, and now following her home.

  She glanced again in the rearview mirror. She had every intention of living her entire life without a man, never again relying on anyone who could walk away. But there was something to be said for a little coddling.

  Hitting the blinker, she took the ramp toward Folly Beach, Daisy right on her tail.

  His steering wheel had more buttons on it than her entire car. One side managed the cruise control, the other music. She switched on the stereo.

  The car boomed with sound, picking up right where Logan had interrupted the song. After a few bars, she still couldn’t place it. Nasally vocals charged with attitude, a pounding, unsynthesized beat.

  They whizzed down Fleming Road, passing one apartment complex after another—each a bit shabbier than the last. Hers loomed on the right, a two-story brick building modeled on a drive-in motel, with all the doors opening to the outside.

  A metal staircase at the end of the building went up to the second-floor porch, which was cluttered with brown ferns and dirty grills, chained bicycles and folding lawn chairs with frayed seats. Thanks to the manager’s loose grasp on the concept of maintenance, most of the sconces beside the doors were burned out. Liz and the tenant two doors down from her were the only ones with working outdoor lights.

  The gravel crunched beneath the tires as she pulled to a stop. Before she could get the door open, Logan was at her side. He took her hand as she exited, his eyes roaming the apartment block and the empty lot across the street. He frowned.

  “Upstairs,” she said, looking up.

  Liz’s curtains flickered.

  Logan saw the movement and tensed.

  “Wave to Liz, Logan. It’ll make her day.”

  He obeyed, but the gesture was stiff. The surroundings were clearly not to his liking. They weren’t to her liking either, but she’d learned to put up with them. Liz pulled the curtain wider, smiled, and waved down at them.

  They climbed the stairs, then picked their way through the accumulated debris on the wide balcony. Logan skimmed his hand along the railing, then paused, holding up his fingers for inspection.

  “Here we are,” she said, stopping at her door. After turning the key in the lock, she had to butt it open with her hip. “It sticks sometimes.”

&nb
sp; He rattled the doorknob, staring like he’d never seen one before.

  Crossing the threshold, he closed and opened the door a few times.

  Before she knew it, he was on one knee, peering into the gap between the knob and door.

  “This thing’s a joke,” he said. “And you don’t even have a deadbolt or a chain.”

  Dropping her purse on the kitchen bar, she flipped on the lights.

  “I don’t need a deadbolt, Logan. There’s nothing worth stealing here.”

  He closed the door one final time. “Living on Fleming Street, you should have four deadbolts.”

  She hurried through the den, grabbing her gym shorts off the back of a chair, scooping up a pair of Latisha Petrie’s hand-me-down red stilettos.

  “Where’s your dog?” He still had his hand on the doorknob, ready to flee, perhaps, if the need arose.

  “No worries. I don’t have one.” She scurried into her room, grabbing a pile of dirty clothes from the floor, then dropped everything on the dresser and closed the bedroom door behind her.

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shrugged. “Much as I’d love one, my work schedule would keep him penned up all the time.”

  It wasn’t just that, though. It was the expense. And if she had any extra money at all—which she didn’t—she needed to spend it on her car.

  He frowned. “Then you absolutely need a deadbolt. Promise me you’ll get one.”

  “We’ll see. You thirsty?”

  He sighed. “I guess.”

  He stood at the threshold, giving the room a once-over. His long navy athletic shorts hung on his hips. His nicely shaped calves belonged to a man who’d climbed a million stairways and run a million miles. On his feet, he wore what looked like the original pair of Reeboks—pieces of them, anyway.

  She pulled two glasses from an upper cabinet. “Do you like Kool-Aid?”

  “Kool-Aid?” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t think I’ve had any since fifth grade. What flavor is it?”

  “Black cherry.”

  “Sounds great. Can I help?”

  “No, no. I just have to pop the ice out of the tray. Make yourself at home.”

  He took her literally and flipped through cd jewel cases, shook random paperbacks to see if anything would fall out, and then discovered her box of dvds. The Sound of Music—played so often the disc had permanent scratches—got a cursory look, then he went back to the books, pulling out a copy of Last of the Mohicans.