“They wore black jackets with something gold on the back.” He glanced at me. “I’m Shawn, by the way.”
“I’m Joey.”
He shrugged, almost looking embarrassed. “Yeah, I know.”
“Did you tell the police what you told me, Shawn?”
“Not yet. I didn’t realize he was the guy who’d been killed until about an hour ago.”
“Did this guy, by chance, say what kind of work he was doing while he was in the area?”
Shawn shrugged. “Survey work, I think.”
A chill rushed through me. Survey work? It could be surveying land, I supposed, like for an upcoming building project. But I wondered if it meant surveying me. Who would have hired him for that? The paparazzi? I just didn’t know.
“He was kind of weird,” added a woman wearing a flowered, floppy beach hat.
“How so?”
“I don’t know.” She tugged on her floppy hat and frowned. “He seemed like he was creeping around, if you ask me. It was just the way he moved.”
“And his shoes were always muddy,” the man beside her said. “I can understand sandy around here, but muddy? That raised some red flags.”
“I thought he smelled like fish,” another person added. “Then again, who doesn’t in this area?”
“Thank you all for your help. If you remember anything else, you can find me at Beach Combers on the main highway.” I paused. “In the meantime, would anyone like an autograph?”
Finally, the crowd began to dwindle until there was just me standing at the imaginary police line. A shiver ran up my spine, and my throw down from yesterday replayed in my mind.
I glanced around, suddenly feeling paranoid. Was someone watching me now? Waiting for just the right moment to pounce? I knew one thing: I wouldn’t feel safe until whoever killed Mark Hamill was behind bars.
I could only think of one way to find out why so many police were here. It wasn’t my first choice, but I had no other ideas. I was desperate.
Zane had a friend with loose lips who worked for the police. Lips that would share things that weren’t meant to be shared. Lips that would sink ships. He was a living and breathing piece of the Graveyard of the Atlantic.
After a moment of contemplation, I texted Zane and asked him to see what he could find out from his friend. Just as I expected, Zane seemed more than willing to help.
Sure thing. I’ll let you know what he says. #thisisfun
Zane and his hashtags. Texting him now reminded me that the two of us needed to have a serious talk about the whole drugs/Claire thing. Later.
“What are you doing?”
Jackson’s voice made me jump out of my skin, and my phone nearly tottered from my hand. I quickly grabbed it and turned the screen away before he could see the text message.
“Nothing.” I straightened my jacket. “Are you in the habit of scaring innocent bystanders?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not so sure you’re innocent.”
“We’ve been over this. I didn’t—”
“That’s not what I meant, Joey.” He glanced at my phone. “What are you being so secretive about?”
“What did you find inside his place? Tit for tat.”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
At that moment, my phone buzzed. Did Zane already text me back? I looked up and saw his officer friend—I thought his name was Danny, but I wasn’t 100 percent sure—at the door to Mark Hamill’s condo. He winked at me.
My cheeks heated. I had such a hard time hiding my guilt. How had I ever made a living as an actress?
I shrugged those thoughts aside. “I guess there’s nothing left to see here.”
“Now that I’m leaving, you mean?”
Jackson thought I’d only come here to see him? Now that was embarrassing and needed to be immediately corrected. “That’s not what I meant—”
He chuckled, obviously in a much jollier mood now than earlier. “Goodbye, Joey.”
“Very funny, Jack—I mean, Detective Sullivan.” The man did have a sense of humor. What would happen next? Ricky Gervais would be asked to host the Golden Globes for a third time?
“Joey, just call me Jackson. Really.”
“Okay . . . Jackson.”
As soon as I was sure he was gone, I looked at Zane’s text. I held my breath as I read what he wrote.
Note found at Douglas’s place reading “we know who you are.”
A chill washed over me. That sounded an awful lot like my stalkers. They’d always said “we.”
Was Douglas one of my stalkers? Had he written the note with the intention of delivering it to me? Or had my stalkers—who tended to both threaten me and watch out for me—sent the note to the man after noticing he was watching me?
I didn’t know, but I somehow needed to find out.
Chapter Seven
I arrived back at my duplex in time to see a pretty honey-blonde with amazing platinum highlights leaving Zane’s place.
A woman departing from my neighbor’s wasn’t an unusual sight. Zane wore many hats, including Realtor, surfboard restorer, and licensed massage therapist. He worked out of his home doing thus-said massages, which still sounded sketchy to me, but I supposed it could be legit. At least it explained why a different woman left his place each night.
In his defense, Zane definitely knew how to work kinks out of muscles. I’d been the recipient a few times, and his fingers felt amazing on my neck and shoulders. He tended to make me want to ignore my boundaries and jump into a relationship. But I had many issues with that, including the fact that I wasn’t sure Zane was the committing type. Double plus, I wasn’t sure I could trust him after the whole drugs and Claire fiasco.
I slipped inside my house, wanting to compose myself before talking to Zane. The two of us had developed a little routine. Every night we went out on our connecting balconies to look at the ocean. The joint space was only separated by a wood divider, so if we leaned over the railing, we could see each other and talk easily.
Zane would make up conversations that the people on the beach were having. From the leotard-wearing yoga guy, to the ultraserious photographer, to the chronic jogger man with the fluorescent jumpsuits, to numerous other regulars in the area, Zane purported to know what each of them was thinking and offered his free commentary. There was something comforting—and entertaining—about the routine.
But tonight I had a bone to pick with Zane. A big one.
I stepped out and pulled a warm fake-fur blanket around me. Tonight, the ocean smelled fishy and the waves were loud and constant. Stars fluttered overhead, and the sliver of a waning crescent moon teased like a hanging chad. This was one of my favorite places in the world.
A few minutes after I stepped out, I heard the adjoining sliding-glass door roll across its track. Zane’s head popped around the divider. “I’m so sorry, Joey.”
His pronouncement threw me off guard. I hadn’t even scolded him yet. “Sorry for what?”
Could he possibly know I’d found out about his exaggeration? This wasn’t going how I’d envisioned.
“I saw the article,” he said.
My muscles were suddenly tight, and my blanket no longer felt warm at his ominous words. “What article?”
“You didn’t see it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Wait right there.” He disappeared for a second before returning. His hands gripped the divider as his feet appeared on the railing, and he pulled himself up.
“Zane, you’re going to kill yourself!” We were two stories high, and there was nothing to catch him except mounds of hard sand below.
“I’ve got this!” Like a skilled rock climber, he maneuvered his way over the railing and landed in one piece on my side of the balcony.
The whole exhibition both fascinated me and disturbed me. It made me realize how easy it would be for someone to get into my place, if they wanted to. I pulled the blanket closer, feeling more expo
sed than ever.
Zane bounced before straightening. I studied his outfit quickly: bright-orange lounge pants and a tank top. Somehow, the clean-cut hippie look worked for him.
He grabbed something on the other side of the divider and plopped it in my hands. “This.”
I glanced down at a print copy of the Instigator, and my stomach sank. It was a picture. Of me. From yesterday.
I wore high heels and a coat with what appeared to be nothing beneath it. My hair had dried in a wet bun on top of my head, giving it a greasy effect. Between the water, cold, and accusations thrown at me, my face looked pale and gaunt. I was leaving after my interrogation, and a sign on the door behind me clearly stated Police Station.
The headline read, “Joey Darling arrested on prostitution charges.”
My mouth dropped open. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“I know. These people are jerks, Joey.”
“What’s even worse is the fact that this picture totally looks legit.” I squeezed the skin between my eyes. Please don’t let my dad see this. Please. “What am I going to do?”
He flipped the magazine open and pointed. “And there’s this.”
I scanned the text. It was a quote. From Eric, my jerky ex. I read it aloud. “I’ve been worried about Joey’s erratic behavior for a long time now. I just pray she can get the help she needs. Our marriage didn’t survive, but I truly hope she can pull through this and get her life back together again.”
Fire swept through my veins like lighted dynamite waiting to explode. “You have to be kidding me. Eric said that. The little two-faced, poppy-squatting jerk.”
“We’ll address your poor use of name-calling later, but for now, I’m really sorry.”
I shook my head again, hoping this was a dream and I’d wake up soon. But I knew it wasn’t. “How could he do this?”
“Some people will do anything for publicity.”
Just then my cell rang. It was Rutherford. No doubt he’d just seen this article also and would be worried about how it might affect ratings of Family Secrets. I let it go to voicemail.
“Men can be jerks,” Zane said.
As soon as the words left his lips, I remembered how mad I was at him also. All my man frustration was suddenly focused on every man who’d ever lied to me, starting with Zane.
“Speaking of which—Zane, you told me that Jackson stole Claire from you. That wasn’t true. She’d already broken up with you when she met Jackson.”
Zane glanced away from me, toward the ocean, and narrowed his eyes. “This wasn’t exactly the subject change I’d been hoping for, but since you mentioned it, Claire and I were going to get back together. We’d broken up many times before. It was never permanent.”
I raised my chin, ignoring the fact that my nose was an ice cube. I’d invite Zane inside for this conversation, but I didn’t want him to be too comfortable, not until I knew the truth. It was another move I’d learned from Raven.
“Why?” I asked.
A hood came down over his gaze. “Why what?”
“Why’d you tell me that Jackson stole your girl, Zane?” I needed an answer, and he wasn’t going to charm his way out of this one.
“Because it’s true.”
I paused, feeling like I’d been plopped into the middle of a Nicholas Sparks movie. All the elements were in place: the idyllic beach, the small North Carolina town, the melodramatic secrets. If one of us died by the end of this, that would seal the deal. Rutherford would rush to get the film rights and pad his bottom dollar.
“I get that you don’t like Jackson, and I even get that you might feel that he stole her. But you know it’s not the truth.”
Zane’s jaw flexed, and his hands tightened on the railing. “Jackson moved in on Claire during a weak moment. It was a cheap play.”
I licked my lips before asking my next question. “Is it true that you were on drugs? That your relationship with Claire was volatile because of it?”
His spine straightened, and not even the stars sparkling overhead could soften this Erin Brockovich confrontation. “Look, I’m not the person I was. Neither are you. Right?”
His words hit me. Hard. It was true. I didn’t want to be remembered for everything I’d done wrong. If the Instigator had anything to do with it, that was exactly what would happen. “No, I’m not.”
“If I could go back, I would have done things differently. But I can’t do that. I only have to live with my mistakes now.”
I lowered my voice. “What happened?”
His face looked stony as he stared off into the distance again. Whatever was on his mind was heavy and painful. “I was in a car accident. You know those pictures you saw at my place? The ones where I helped disabled kids learn to surf?”
I nodded. They were in an album on his coffee table.
“Well, my little brother is one of those kids. He hasn’t always been that way. We were in a car accident when he was only ten. I was driving. I walked away okay—long term, at least—and he’s in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.”
Everything went still inside me until all I heard was my heartbeat. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was in a lot of pain because of my injuries for a while, and I became hooked on the painkillers I was taking. When I couldn’t get more prescriptions, I discovered heroin. Anything to stop the pain. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but it happened. I finally got myself clean. Went to college. Got a real job. Then I realized that I had everything I wanted right here in the Outer Banks. Life is too short to get caught up in the rat race.”
“And Claire?”
His jaw flexed, and he looked away. “Claire was the love of my life. We met in high school. She was two years younger. She loved the beach almost more than I did. I’d be lying if I said things didn’t change after that accident my senior year.”
“Did you guys go to school with Jackson?” I couldn’t remember if he was native to the area or not, though I seemed to remember he wasn’t.
“No, he came here every summer on vacation with his family. That’s where he and Claire met. She was surfing, and he was on the beach. And that was the end of my happy-ever-after story.”
“But he didn’t steal her. You had broken up. Right?”
He shrugged. “I guess. It was just a matter of time before we got back together though. I was about to go to rehab. I’d realized I was a train wreck waiting to happen.”
“How long are you going to hold it against Jackson?”
He finally looked at me. “Why? You have a thing for him or something?”
“It’s like I told you, Zane. I’m not looking for a relationship.” I held up the Instigator and pointed to Eric’s quote. “I’ve got a bad track record. Besides, Jackson hates me.”
Zane let out a quick puff of air and an almost bitter chuckle. “Yeah, sure he does.”
“Really. He does. I’m a thorn in his side.”
He ran a hand through his hair, leaving curls standing on end. “More like a rose.”
“What does that mean?”
Zane shook his head, the tension radiating from him practically transforming him into a different person. He snapped his head up and turned toward me. “Listen, I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”
“I forgive you, Zane.” How could I not? He’d been there for me since we met. “Of course I do. I just want us to shoot straight with each other.”
“We will. I will.”
“Excellent.”
He turned toward me, his features softening. “This is all serious. This isn’t us. We have fun together. We relieve stress. So can we talk about something else?”
Silence fell, and I tried to think of something to say. I tugged the blanket closer. “You had a client tonight?”
“A client?”
I mentally sighed. “I saw her leaving when I came home.”
“Oh, April? No, she’s not a client.” He chuckled slowly, almost awkwardly, and his hands went to his hips. “She’s . . . uh,
she’s . . . my girlfriend.”
I blinked. “What? I didn’t know you were dating someone.”
He’d just kissed me a few weeks ago. Men were so confusing. Or maybe I was the type not worth waiting for or who could be gotten over quickly. That seemed most likely, given my track record.
“Well, we went out a week or so ago and hit it off, you know. She just started working at the realty office with me.”
“I had no idea. That’s . . . that’s great, Zane.”
“Yeah, she’s a pretty cool girl. We’re heading out of town for a wedding together this weekend, FYI.”
“A wedding out of town together? You guys got serious fast. Aren’t weddings usually level two of dating?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? Go big or go home, right? Anyway, listen. I have some fondue I was going to make. You want some?”
Fondue? The thought made my mouth water. Veggies and cheese. I could do that. No meat. No bread. I could stick to my diet . . . if I could remember which one I was on right now.
But . . . “What will April think about us hanging out?”
“She’s knows about you. She’s cool with the fact we’re friends. Why wouldn’t she be?”
Exactly. Why wouldn’t she be? It wasn’t like we’d kissed or anything.
Except we had.
It was my turn to shrug. “No reason. And fondue sounds good.”
“Great. Then I’m going to tell you about that guy over there fishing.” Zane pointed toward the beach. “He actually told his wife he had to go into the office . . .”
That evening after fondue, I went to a spare bedroom of my rental and to the little closet where I kept all the information on my dad’s disappearance. Zane had bought me a dry-erase board—he’d said it was because every detective in those TV shows always had one to organize their clues.
On one side, I’d written all the facts I knew connected with my dad’s disappearance. So far, I had:
Bloody oriental fan
A torn paper with random numbers
A key to something unknown
A picture taken of my dad with Jackson only days before Dad disappeared
Reign of Error (The Worst Detective Ever Book 2) Page 5