No One Can Know

by Lucy Kerr

  There were times I could push Charlie, could bait her just for the fun of seeing her blow up, but this clearly wasn’t one of them. “Got it.”

  “Good.” She turned to Noah. “I take it she’s in trouble with you too?”

  “No, but it’s still early in the day.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Give her some time to warm up.”

  The bell above the door jangled, and we turned in unison to greet the customer.

  “Toilet plungers?” the man asked desperately.

  “Aisle seven, right over here.” Charlie led him through the store, calling over her shoulder, “Take this outside, you two. Some of us are trying to run a business here.”

  Noah shepherded me onto the back porch. “You went to Josh Miller’s house.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Heard it from a neighbor,” he said. “She mentioned a little bitty redhead came by last night, peeking in the windows.”

  “Bitty?” I said, straightening my back to gain an inch. “That could be a lot of people.”

  “‘Looked like Little Orphan Annie,’ she said.” He rubbed a lock of my hair between finger and thumb. “As eyewitnesses go, she seemed pretty reliable.”

  “Hold on,” I said, folding my arms. “You were at Miller’s place again this morning? What were you looking for?”

  He stared past me, lips moving slightly. He was counting to ten, I realized after a moment. Possibly one hundred. Finally he said, “Not your concern.”

  “The neighbor said Josh came back. At least, she thinks it was Josh. Something’s keeping him here, Noah. I bet if you rounded up some of his associates, or even the customers, one of them would know …”

  I trailed off. Noah’s face had darkened during my recitation, eyebrows drawing together, muscle in his jaw jumping. Now he took a step toward me, authority and anger mingling in the movement. I eased back, but the distance between us narrowed.

  “Stop,” he said quietly. “Just stop.”

  So I did. I closed my mouth, forced myself to breathe normally, and tried to focus on what he said next, instead of his nearness or the way he smelled like coffee and clean cotton.

  “Do you think I haven’t been out tracking down anyone connected with Josh Miller’s so-called business? I’m not a rookie like Anderson. I’ve been doing this job for eight years. We’re running down every angle you’ve thought of and some you haven’t. So while I appreciate that you are on a mission to help, you need to leave Josh Miller alone.” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my cheek, his words rumbling in my ear. “I will not ask nicely next time.”

  “This is you asking nicely?” Noah wasn’t the only one with a temper, and I felt mine spark. I drilled a finger into his chest, harder than strictly necessary. “Because I didn’t hear you say please. Not even once.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Please, Frankie.”

  “Please what?”

  “Please leave this alone.” He met my eyes squarely. “Or hand to God, I will slap a pair of cuffs on you and stick you in the back of my squad car.”

  I stuck my chin out. “Liar.”

  “I’ll let Charlie watch.”

  “That’s just mean.”

  “I’ll let your mom visit you in the holding cell.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “Hang out with Riley,” he ordered. “Have fun. Let her spend a couple of days basking in your undivided attention, and stay out of my way.”

  “Or you’ll arrest me?” I snorted.

  “Try it and see.” There was no humor in his smile now, only surety. “I’m not messing around this time.”

  He wasn’t. It might have been twelve years, but I could still read Noah. Whatever was happening with the case, he didn’t want me involved—and not simply because of macho posturing.

  “What is it?” I asked softly. “I’m not being nosy. You’re worried.”

  Not merely determined, or driven, or outraged by Kate’s death. He was worried.

  Which worried me.

  Before he could answer, my phone rang. He stepped away from me as if he’d been caught stealing.

  “Noah, what’s going on?”

  He gestured to my coat pocket. “You going to get that? Might be the hospital.”

  I pulled out the phone. Peter.

  “It’s not,” I said as he craned his neck to get a better look at the display.

  “The surgeon, right? You sure you don’t want to pick up?”

  “Positive.” I sent the call to voice mail, but the damage was done. Noah retreated behind his cop face: unreachable, unreadable, and infuriating. Any connection, any sense of familiarity or warmth, had disappeared. He was looking at me as if I was any other citizen, and the sting of it turned my words waspish. “Thanks so much for your concern.”

  He nodded, unfazed. “I need to be getting back to the station. Good talk, Frankie.”

  And with that, he jogged down the rear steps, leaving me fuming on the porch.

  “That sounds like it went well,” Charlie said as I stalked inside.

  “You heard us?”

  “No. But I heard the door when you slammed it, and you’re stomping around loud enough to knock over displays.” She watched me pace in front of the counter. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I’m supposed to be at the hospital by now. Can I trust you not to break anything while I’m gone?”

  “No guarantees,” I said. “He might come back.”

  *

  I’d turned my anger into cleaning energy, dusting shelves, rearranging displays, and filling inventory. I also answered the same questions—“How does it feel to be back?” “How long are you staying?”—approximately a billion times. If everyone who’d come in to catch a glimpse of me had spent ten bucks, Stapleton and Sons would have been set for life.

  By the time Charlie and Riley returned, I was helping a woman with an unfortunate bowl haircut decide on the perfect grout for her bathroom retiling project. “It looked so easy on the Internet!” she’d exclaimed when she walked in. Riley settled in at the counter with her homework. When the woman left, she gave a world-weary shake of her head.

  “Pinterest fail?” she asked knowingly.

  “Don’t knock ’em,” Charlie muttered. “Internet DIY is going to send you to college.” She turned her attention to me. “Are you ready to talk about what Noah wanted?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and she snorted. “Just to chat.”

  “Noah doesn’t chat,” Charlie said. “He definitely doesn’t want to ‘just chat’ with you.”

  “Why not?” asked Riley. “What does he want to do with Aunt Frankie?”

  “Nothing.” Wring my neck. “Noah’s busy, honey. That’s all. He’s busy with police stuff, so he doesn’t have time for anything else.”

  Charlie faked a coughing fit to cover her laughter. “Finish restocking,” she croaked, pointing at me. “Riley, you sweep. Let’s get out of here in time to have dinner before it’s dark.”

  Thirteen

  “You need to take care of the office this morning,” Charlie told me over breakfast. “I can’t move for all those boxes.”

  “It’s not that bad,” I said, waving her off. “All you need to do is sort of … shove them out of the way.”

  “I’ve tried,” she said dourly, “and nearly set off an avalanche. At least shift the bulk of it away from the file cabinets, will you? I have a system.”

  Of course she did.

  “I could help,” Riley said. She pulled back her sleeve and flexed her skinny little arm. “I’m strong.”

  I whistled. “Look at those muscles, kiddo!”

  “You have school,” Charlie cut in. “Which you’re not ready for, so get on upstairs.” After Riley had stomped off, still flexing, she added, “Remember, we have the funeral this afternoon.”

  As if I could forget. “You’re sure you can take the time off?”


  “Half the town will be at the church,” she said. “It’s not as if we’re going to be overrun with customers, but Mom said she’d cover the store.”

  “Since when does she pass up the chance for gossip?” I asked through a mouthful of cereal, but Charlie was already heading out the door.

  Charlie left for the hospital; I dropped Riley off to school and then drove over to the store.

  “Did Charlotte ask you to organize those boxes?” Mom asked as I came in. “It’s going to require a lot of lifting.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” I helped myself to coffee and went to unlock the door that led upstairs. “I moved it all back here myself, didn’t I?”

  Mom trailed after me. “Let me call someone to help you.”

  “No way,” I said, spotting a familiar gleam in her eye. “No helpers. Do not call anyone.”

  “But—”

  The door jingled, and I waved a hand at the front counter. “You take care of the store, and I’ll take care of my stuff.”

  Charlie had a point, I thought as I surveyed the office again. There was barely room to move from the kitchenette to the table we used as a desk, and the sour scent of so many cardboard boxes made my nose wrinkle in disgust. I made my way over to one of the windows just as something shot from the kitchen to the bathroom. Something orange and white and bedraggled.

  “You’re not supposed to be up here,” I said. The cat, slightly less skinny than it had been when we first met, stared at me without remorse. “There’s not even anything to eat, unless you like cookies. And I draw the line at sharing cookies. How’d you get in here?”

  If it was possible for a cat to radiate disdain, this one was practically glowing with it.

  Once I propped open a window, the cat sashayed past and leapt gracefully to the sill, stretching out to sun itself, ignoring me as I began shifting boxes and trying to restore order to chaos. A few bags went into the car to take back to the house; another slowly growing pile could go to the thrift store. Progress, however, was slow and tedious—so much so that when my phone rang, I answered without looking, willing to talk to a telemarketer or anyone else.

  The good news was, my caller wasn’t a telemarketer.

  “Hello, stranger,” came a familiar voice.

  I closed my eyes, tried to talk myself out of the sinking feeling in my chest. “Hello, Peter. How are you?”

  I’d meant to call my ex-fiancé. To return one of the many, many messages he’d left me. But every time I’d found a spare moment, I’d also found another excuse to keep from dialing. Peter and I hadn’t spoken since the breakup; I’d left for Stillwater before we had figured out how to be around each other without being together. I waited for a pinch of regret or a pang of melancholy, but all I felt was awkward.

  “I’m good,” he said. “I had a surgery canceled at the last minute, and I thought I might have better luck reaching you in the morning—I wasn’t sure you got my messages.”

  He sounded both wounded and amused, like he knew exactly what was happening to his voice mails.

  “Family emergency,” I said weakly. “It’s been a little busy around here.”

  “I heard,” he replied. “Someone said you were on administrative leave? Does that mean you’re coming back once your niece discharges?”

  Hospitals were like small towns. It was no surprise that Peter had heard all the details about Rowan and my return to Stillwater. What I hadn’t expected was the way my answer seemed to stick in my throat. “I’m playing it by ear,” I finally managed.

  Peter was silent for a long time, and I fought the urge to fill the gap with some sort of explanation. Finally, he said, “I wanted to talk to you about the wedding.”

  “Oh?” It wasn’t only the cloying scent of the boxes making my stomach churn.

  “The hotel said they’d refund our deposit.” We’d split the wedding costs fifty-fifty—I would have been happy with something at City Hall, but Peter had wanted the works, so we’d met in the middle: a civil ceremony with a big party afterward. Now that there was nothing to celebrate, the deposit was the last remnant of our failed relationship.

  “I can mail you a check in Stillwater, unless you’re coming back soon.” He tried to sound offhand, but I knew him well enough to hear the hope threading through the words, one last attempt to repair us as delicately as he’d repair a damaged valve or a torn artery. “If you’re not sure …”

  “A check’s fine,” I said hoarsely. “I’m trying not to make a lot of plans right now. But thank you, Peter. For everything.”

  He chuckled ruefully, understanding the finality of my words. “You’re welcome. Don’t be a stranger, Frankie.”

  I didn’t tell him I already felt like one.

  We hung up, and I slid to the floor with a thump. I’d avoided Peter’s calls because I was afraid it would make me miss my old life too much—not him, exactly, but the world he represented, my hectic, high-octane life, the friends I’d made over the last few years. But hearing his voice and the familiar sounds of the hospital in the background had felt nostalgic at best. There was no yearning to get back to my old life. Peter’s call had highlighted the very thing I’d been trying to ignore. I was done with Chicago; it was time to move on.

  Annoyed at the realization, I shifted boxes around, attempting to clear a trail, using work to distract myself from the uncertainty facing me. The cat, still watching from the windowsill, yawned hugely.

  “You can stay,” I told him, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

  Where would I go? My nursing qualifications meant my options were pretty well limitless. In the past, that kind of freedom gave me a jolt of energy; now it made me feel adrift. How did other people make these kinds of plans? My reasons for choosing a new place had always been haphazard—a postcard from a friend, an article in a magazine, a show on TV. Luck, happenstance, or whim: my impulses had served me well for twelve years. But now, when I envisioned what came next, all I could see were the piles of boxes surrounding me.

  *

  A few hours later, I’d arranged the boxes to create narrow pathways around the apartment. It looked like a maze for lab rats, but it was functional, at least for the short term. The apartment was silent, save for my own labored death and the ticking of the kitchen clock, reminding me that Kate’s funeral was this afternoon. Not that I needed reminding—I’d been thinking of her all morning, trying to make sense of her death.

  What had prompted her to set out the night of the accident? By all accounts, Kate had stayed home from Steven’s fundraiser because she wasn’t up to socializing. If that were true, why on earth had she been out driving in a storm when she should have been home eating a quart of mint chocolate chip from the carton? Where was she going?

  How had Josh Miller known she’d be there?

  On impulse, I dialed Noah, intending to find out. As usual, my call went to voice mail, so I left a vague message and got back to work.

  I’d just finished dragging a box of snowboarding equipment into the back bedroom, the cat watching me through smug, slitted eyes, when Noah appeared on the landing.

  “Frankie, I know the motto is protect and serve, but …” He leaned against the doorframe, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, not even bothering to hide his grin.

  “I didn’t call you over here to help me move,” I said, acutely aware that I was sticky with sweat and grime. “I had a question about Kate.”

  The smile fell away, and he straightened. “Nope.”

  “Hear me out,” I pleaded and outlined all the reasons Kate shouldn’t have been on the road that night.

  “We’ve already looked into it,” he said. “Even Steven doesn’t know.”

  “She didn’t call him?”

  “Steven doesn’t carry a phone at campaign events.”

  “What if there was an emergency? What if she’d gone into labor?”

  Noah lifted a shoulder. “I’m not her doctor. According to Steven, all his calls go through Ted Sullivan wh
en he’s at an event.”

  I filled a glass at the kitchen sink, relishing the coolness of the water against my dry and dusty throat. “So Ted would have known where Kate was that night?”

  “If she’d called him—but she didn’t. She didn’t even bring her phone with.” He dragged a hand down his face, dropped into a chair as if he was about to topple from the weight of the case. “We don’t know why Kate was on the road, and my gut says we won’t find out until we catch Josh Miller.”

  “Any luck with that?” I asked, just as my mother poked her head in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the very tip of an orange-and-white tail disappear into the bedroom.

  “Coffee, Noah?” Mom asked.

  “Thanks, Lila, but I’ll pass.” He fixed me with a glare. “I’m not answering that.”

  I didn’t break his gaze. “Mom, are the police having any luck finding Josh Miller?”

  “I don’t believe so,” she said. “It’s a surprise, really, considering how many agencies have been brought in to help.”

  Noah dropped his forehead into his hands. “Lila, where on earth did you hear that?”

  “Oh, around.” She fluttered her hands, doing her best imitation of a fluffy old lady, but neither of us were fooled. “You know how people talk. It’s hard to remember who said what half the time.”

  “The police scanner probably helps,” I added, and she had the temerity to look offended.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Francesca. I haven’t used that thing in years.” Before Noah could question her further, she’d escaped downstairs.

  “Don’t feel bad,” I said, taking the chair across from him. It felt so good to sit, I considered never getting up again. “My mom’s intelligence-gathering capabilities are so good, she deserves her own acronym.”

  “Best if I don’t think about that too much,” he said and then added too casually, “You ever call the surgeon back?”

  My cheeks went warm. “We talked.”

  “And?”