Well, since she was still a child, anyway. She’d been thirteen when their parents were killed, along with their business partner, in a small commuter plane crash. Lance had been nineteen. Barely an adult. Only in his second year of college, he’d suddenly been faced with the responsibility of running the medical device company they’d inherited half of from their parents, and with raising his younger sister. They had no grandparents still living, their aunt on their mother’s side was a missionary in South America, and the aunt on their father’s side didn’t particularly like children. So with help from the wife of their parents’ business partner – she hadn’t been on the plane – Lance became like a surrogate father. Caitlin had deeply resented their altered roles at times, but for the most part she and Lance were very close.
She wished, with an almost tangible desperation, that he were here to hug her.
But he wasn’t, so Caitlin was going to have to toughen up and deal with the situation alone. At least until Connie got here, anyway. And thinking of Connie, Caitlin pulled out her temporary phone to see if her friend had responded to her text.
She hadn’t.
Caitlin tried not to feel dispirited, because she knew that Connie was en route to Savannah and didn’t text while she drove.
She did call, though. And Caitlin found it rather odd that Connie hadn’t called her, given the circumstances. But she surely had an excuse. Surely.
Slipping the phone back into the pocket of her shorts, Caitlin continued walking. The air wasn’t as syrupy thick as she knew it would become next month, but the sun shining through the mossy oaks which lined the streets was still hot enough to make her feel like a starfish left on the wrong side of the high tideline on the beach. Desiccated. Helpless.
No. She wasn’t helpless. She wouldn’t let herself fall into that kind of thinking. It was an emotional pit.
Prying off the lid of the cup, Caitlin tossed it in a nearby trash can and then lifted a piece of ice to run along her forehead. Then she froze, the ice melting in her hand, when she realized where she was.
She wasn’t as lost as she thought. In fact, her internal GPS seemed to have subconsciously directed her back home.
Her townhouse was one street over.
Caitlin’s stomach twisted, and the legs she’d thought were steadier suddenly felt like wet cement – heavy and fluid at the same time.
She should probably turn around. She wasn’t sure she was emotionally ready to look at it just yet, and had no idea whether the police were still there. Would they consider it suspicious if they saw her?
And just how badly did her life suck right now that she wasn’t even sure she should walk past her own home?
Caitlin dropped what was left of the ice cube, and then backtracked a few steps to toss the entire cup in the trash. She turned around, looking toward the direction of her townhouse like one might gaze at the open door of a supposedly haunted house – with a mix of horrified trepidation and undeniable curiosity.
She had to know. Had to know if the police were still in her home, poking through her things. Had to know if now that she’d had a chance to calm down, at least a little, if she might… remember something. Or notice something that was off.
Something.
Because panicking and trying to run out of her own skin clearly weren’t accomplishing anything other than making her physically sick.
Her heart felt like it was beating in her throat, but Caitlin walked with determination. She had to face this. Had to be proactive. She couldn’t rely on the police to determine what happened, or on her brother to protect her, or on Jack Wellington to defend her innocence. She had to do some of the legwork herself. As much as the thought of the events of last night sickened her, she needed to know what happened.
And she wasn’t going to figure that out by feeling sorry for herself.
Her blood seemed to alternately rush into her head and out of it as she got closer, finally pooling in her feet when she saw the yellow crime scene tape stretched over her front door. Her house was clapboard, a particularly dull shade of blue that she hoped to repaint eventually, and the yellow tape stood out against it like some sort of obscene decoration for a party that no one wanted to attend. Caitlin felt mortified that people would pass by and gawk, wondering what had happened. The neighbors, of course, would speculate and talk.
Not that she really blamed them. It was human nature to be curious, particularly about scandals. Even more so if that scandal involved a gruesome death.
But she hated that it was her life, her scandal, currently providing the fodder for the curiosity. And she hated that this gruesome death – even if it had been an act of self-defense – would forever be on her conscience.
Her throat felt thick, making it difficult for her to swallow. Caitlin shrank back into the shadows of the house that stood cattycorner from hers, watching her front door as if she expected the Boogey Man to emerge from it at any moment.
She had no idea how she would ever be able to sleep there again.
The sound of a beeping car horn caused her to jump. Clutching her hand to her thundering heart, Caitlin whirled around.
Lance.
But then her head cleared a little, and she realized it couldn’t be her brother. There was no way he could have arrived from London in this amount of time. It must be Connie, driving Lance’s car. And when the ancient, familiar Land Rover drove closer, she could see that her guess was correct.
Connie whipped the car into the empty space at the curb near Caitlin, despite the fact that it was in front of a fire hydrant. And then she jumped out, leaving the driver’s side door open. The mechanical warning beep was drowned out by Connie shouting her name.
Within moments she was enveloped in the arms of her best friend since childhood.
“I just need to touch you,” Connie murmured in Caitlin’s ear, after rocking her back and forth for what had to be a solid minute. “Just assure myself you’re really okay. Or as okay as possible, anyway. My God, Caitlin. My God. What the hell happened?”
“Why didn’t you call? Or answer my texts?”
Caitlin was mildly horrified that the first thing out of her mouth sounded like an accusation. It felt so incredibly good to have one of her people here that relief washed over her in waves. But she was still shaken from looking at the crime scene tape on her house, and the emotional roller coaster she’d been riding all morning. She was afraid of not knowing how to answer Connie’s question, and even more afraid to discover the truth. And being shaken and afraid, she guessed she couldn’t help but lash out just a little. Like curiosity in the face of scandal, it was human nature to save our worst behavior for those with whom we felt safe.
“Ugh, I’m sorry about that,” Connie said, pulling back to frame Caitlin’s face with her hands. Then she rolled her long-lashed brown eyes in disgust. “My car was broken into yesterday. The bastards stole my phone and my laptop, which I’d been dumb enough to leave in the car for fifteen minutes while I grabbed a cup of coffee. They smashed my passenger side window, which is why I’m driving Lance’s heap. Anyway, I’ve been dealing with all that, and had to pick up a toss away cell since it’s a company phone and our carrier was being an asshole about Lance coming in in person to order the replacement. Anyway, I called Lance this morning to tell him what happened, and he filled me in. I tried to call you afterward, and called him back to tell him you weren’t answering. So he told me the police had your phone and he didn’t know your new number yet. I wrote down the number of your attorney but then I freaking forgot it when I rushed out. And of course I haven’t been able to get hold of your brother again, probably because he’s trying to get on a plane, and I didn’t know where you were staying and was basically driving around town like a crazy woman trying to figure out how I was going to find you. This is the second time I’ve driven by the house. Poor baby.” She leaned in and kissed Caitlin on the forehead. “God, you must have been so scared.”
Caitlin processed only about half of
what Connie said, because her friend tended to ramble when she was upset, and because she became conscious that the woman who lived in the house behind them was peeking out the front window. Probably wondering what the commotion was. Since Caitlin definitely didn’t want to discuss this where the neighbors and the general population of Savannah might overhear – despite Jack Wellington’s admonitions, she hadn’t been planning on doing so anyway – she asked Connie if they could talk about it in the car.
“Of course. I – yeah, up yours, asshole!” she called when the driver of a passing car honked at her for leaving her door open, partially obstructing the road. “Sorry,” Connie said when she turned back toward Caitlin. “I know you don’t like it when I make a scene, but my tolerance for humanity is about all used up. Come on.” She took Caitlin by the hand. “Get in.”
Caitlin obeyed, which was pretty much the dynamic of their entire childhood friendship. Despite the fact that she stood only a few inches over five feet, Connie was a force of nature, a human F5 that cleared anything and everything out of her path when she had an objective in mind. Caitlin, who was far more docile, usually just went along for the ride. There were occasions when Connie’s brazen pursuit of whatever the hell she felt like pursuing at the time had gotten them into trouble – like when they’d ridden their bikes to the next town over to visit a traveling circus without telling anyone. Caitlin could still remember the look on her father’s face when he’d arrived to retrieve them from the observant police officer who’d questioned why two ten year old girls were riding their bikes alongside the highway. But more often than not, it was a comfort to know that a woman like Connie had her back.
“You look like hell,” the woman in question said after Caitlin was buckled in.
Caitlin rolled her head to the side to stare at her always put-together best friend. “Gee. I can’t imagine why.”
Connie shot a frown at Caitlin before easing the Land Rover into traffic on the cross street. “I say that because I’m concerned, okay? Not because I’m judging you for your appearance, although I do have to question where you got that T-shirt, because the place should probably be burned to the ground as a concession to good taste.”
Caitlin glanced down at her shirt, on which the word GRITS was spelled out in glittery pink letters. “You’re a Girl Raised in the South yourself,” Caitlin pointed out.
“Not that South,” Connie countered, stopping at a red light. “That South involves sleeveless flannel shirts and cases of Busch Light. Although per usual, you can make even redneck chic look amazing.”
“I thought you said I look like hell.”
“What I meant is that you look sick still,” Connie clarified, tucking a lock of silky dark hair behind her ear. “You told me you were feeling better.”
“I am. Was,” Caitlin said. “I can’t say that I’m feeling so hot right now.”
“I’m going to kill Leslie,” Connie muttered, stepping on the gas a little harder than was warranted after the light turned green. “None of this would have happened if she hadn’t flaked last night.”
“Not her fault. She had a flat tire.”
“I didn’t get that part,” Connie said, still not sounding mollified. “Lance just told me she didn’t show and some asshole spiked your drink and… God, Caitlin. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say, and you know that’s a first for me. You really don’t remember anything? And who was this guy? Did you know him?”
“No,” Caitlin shook her head. “I don’t know his name. And I’d never seen him before.”
Connie was quiet for several seconds. “I want to ask you exactly what you do remember, but you look like some kind of wilted magnolia flower sitting there. I’m afraid to speak, because what I really want to do is scream and scream and scream.”
Caitlin closed her eyes and reached across the middle console. When Connie took her hand and squeezed it, something inside her began to uncoil. She couldn’t exactly say she wasn’t still wound with tension, but at least she didn’t feel like she would explode or break at the slightest bit of pressure.
“I’ll tell you everything when we get to the hotel,” Caitlin said. “Turn right up here. I think it’s on this street.”
“You think?”
“I was sort of in a fog when I checked in, and when I started walking. And I still don’t know the city all that well.”
“Because you’ve been living like a hermit.”
“Because I’ve been trying to finish my book. And because I’ve been living like a hermit,” she admitted when Connie shot her a look.
“Bastard,” Connie muttered, moving around a horse-drawn carriage that was decorated with red, white and blue ribbons for Memorial Day. “I should have castrated him when I had the chance. Your ex-boyfriend, not the carriage driver.”
“Let’s not discuss Ryan right now, okay?”
“Fine,” Connie agreed. “Hey, are you hungry? You want me to swing through a drive through and pick up something?”
“I’m starved, actually. That would be great.”
The musical sound of chimes caused them to look at each other. “Is that your phone or mine?” Connie asked.
Caitlin looked in the cup holder between them, where they’d both placed their disposable phones. “Looks like mine.”
With trepidation, she studied the number. Her stomach plummeted when she recognized it, taking her appetite with it.
“It’s my attorney.”
CHAPTER FIVE
JACK glanced at his watch. His client was ten minutes late. Most people thought that appointment times were more suggestion than requirement in the south, and while that may be true for others, it was definitely not so for him. Time was money – a lot of money, in his case. And while Ms. Cavanaugh’s absence didn’t affect his billable hours since her brother had already paid a hefty retainer, it did irritate him. For one thing, he valued punctuality. He’d always been driven, and didn’t appreciate people wasting his time. For another, it was Memorial Day. He’d certainly worked on holidays before, but today he had an appointment with his sailboat.
It had been far too long since he’d taken her out. Far too long since he’d had any significant downtime, really.
A beat up old Land Rover pulled into a nearby parking space, and Jack narrowed his eyes as two women climbed out. He didn’t recognize the polished, slightly exotic-looking brunette who’d been driving, but the passenger was his client. She didn’t look much better than she had when he’d seen her at the hospital yesterday. The dark circles under her eyes suggested the night hadn’t been a restful one. Her bright T-shirt dress – really, it looked more like an oversized beach cover up – should have lent her some color, but instead it only served to highlight her apparent fragility.
Jack’s lips thinned. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate that she’d been through a very harrowing experience, but frail, delicate women set his teeth on edge. Perhaps it was because he was so big, so brusque, that they made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t adept at soothing them or saying there, there. Normally he would have handed a client like Ms. Cavanaugh – particularly since her case involved a potential sexual assault – off to his junior associate, Ainsley Tidwell. But Ainsley’d had to go and get engaged to some mountain man from North Georgia. She was currently in those mountains, doing whatever it was women did when they were planning a wedding, and she’d taken her replacement – who happened to be her cousin – with her. Neither would return for a few more days. So Jack was stuck.
“Sorry we’re late,” Caitlin said when they drew closer.
“It was totally my fault,” the brunette said. “It’s been God, years, since I’ve been in Savannah, and I made a wrong turn, then got caught behind a trash truck and… anyway.” She smiled, a flash of perfect teeth. “You’re probably not interested in hearing excuses. I’m Connie, by the way.”
“My brother’s fiancé,” Caitlin said as Jack shook the other woman’s hand. Her grip was strong and sure. “Connie Verzak. S
he arrived last evening.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Jack said, and then turned his attention to his client. “I’m glad that you have a support system available to you. Are you ready? The detectives are waiting.”
“As I’ll ever be.” She drew a visibly shaky breath.
“Should I wait out here or…”
Jack glanced at the friend – Connie – when her question trailed off. “You could come inside, although the amenities suck and the natives aren’t particularly friendly. And I definitely don’t recommend the coffee.”
“Okay.” She smiled that charming, confident smile again. “I’ll find a Starbucks or something. Text me when you’re finished, honey,” she said in a more serious tone to Caitlin, before hugging her. Caitlin couldn’t see it, but the look she aimed toward the police station was far more worried than her voice let on. “Just tell them what you remember, exactly like you told me. You’ll do fine. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” Caitlin murmured before disengaging. Her expression was grim when she turned back toward Jack. “Let’s get this over with.”
“I want you to answer their questions directly,” Jack said as they started walking “with as little elaboration as possible. Don’t volunteer information beyond what’s required to form a sufficient response. And if I tell you not to answer something, do not argue. Some questions seem innocuous, but they’re designed to trip you up. Understood?”
She drew another breath, and then nodded. “Yes. Although I have to admit that strategizing makes me feel like a criminal, like I did something wrong. Like I’m hiding something.”
“What you’re doing is called self-preservation. We like to think that our legal system rests on the presumption of innocence, but far too often that’s not the case. To them,” he tilted his head toward the door of the police station “you are a potential criminal, at the very least. And everyone is hiding something.”
Her brows drew together. “That’s pretty cynical. And suspicious.”
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