“Just listen to me. You need to understand how meaningless it was.”
“Precisely what I was thinking.”
“Okay. So it was a fling. I was passing time. We were working remotely from here, a lot of late hours. I was stressed. I felt shitty and I just wanted to feel better. One thing led to another and . . . Come on, Bre, this is nuts. I’m ready to upend my life to make this work. Don’t do this because of her. Fuck Nicole.” Aubrey looked from the amorous photos to her husband. “Okay, that was an extremely poor choice of words. But the point is—”
“The point is it’s over. It was over before I got here.” Aubrey brushed at a tear, considering what else was on his computer—their honeymoon photos, house photos, the rooms they’d painted where their life was supposed to have happened; all of it downloaded alongside meaningless images of Owen’s answer to stress and boredom. “That’s what I came to tell you.” She took a step toward the door. “I still have my set of papers, which I’ll sign. If you’d do the same . . .” Aubrey turned back, seeing him shirtless, hopeless, in the middle of the living room. “I’m sorry I don’t love you anymore. I’m sorry if that makes you feel shitty. Maybe someone,” she said, pointing to the computer, “will lend a shoulder to cry on until you feel better.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The following Monday Gwen and Aubrey stood in Malcolm’s office, chatting. Gwen said she’d spent her weekend planning a Thanksgiving menu. Aubrey listened politely, thinking she’d spent hers planning an alternative life—one that didn’t include Owen. She never got that far, brooding in her bedroom, not ready for Charley’s “You’re better off, dear . . .” speech. Aubrey was resigned to ending the marriage; she had no second thoughts. Still, she’d needed time to process Owen’s betrayal. She’d witnessed his brilliant brain; she’d admired his commitment to the life they’d both wanted. She thought two people falling in love would insulate her from the reality of things like affairs. Most surprising, Aubrey thought, was how not being in love could result in a similar heart-whacking sting.
Aubrey refocused on Gwen, who was in the middle of a sentence about a congealed cranberry salad when Malcolm and Levi came through the door. Gwen abruptly shifted gears. “So what’s all the fuss?” she asked. “Why the on-demand meeting?”
“Hang on a second.” Malcolm held up his hand. “Go with it, Levi. It’s the best we’re going to do for now. Let Gwen and Kim handle the digging as far as Delacort’s claims are concerned. You and Aubrey see if Byrd’s attorney will address the latest statements in some fashion.”
“For whatever either thing is worth,” Levi said. “Proving Delacort’s claim or trying to get corroboration from Byrd via his attorney—they’re both needles in a haystack.”
“But they’re our needles. If we find one, we’ll have something. Gwen,” Malcolm said, turning to her. “I need you and Kim to take a ride over to Holliston’s Hardware & Feed. See if they’re open to talking, letting you look around. The store recently changed hands and according to Levi it looks like they’re stripping the place bare.”
“I drove by over the weekend. I saw a dumpster being delivered. It made me think about what they might be discarding,” Levi said. “Producing anything to substantiate Frank’s story will be tough, but it’s worth a shot. His time in Surrey is ambiguous at best. Holliston’s is the one anchor we have.”
“It’s a ghost of a hope, if you ask me,” Malcolm said. “But it’s all we’ve got at the moment.” Aubrey listened, her editor’s remark on earthbound options resonating. “Being as the Hardware & Feed is cleaning house, I agree. It’s worth the trip.”
“I knew the grandson sold the business,” Gwen said. “Emmett Holliston’s been out of the picture for years, dead the last ten—Alzheimer’s. He wasn’t terribly helpful during the original investigation. I believe his memory was failing then. After he passed, the grandson all but drove the place into the ground. But I did hear the new owners are from Surrey.”
“They are, and that’s good,” Levi said. “It will give them a sense of community. They may be willing to let you and Kim poke around.”
“I’m all for pursuing a lead, Levi, but it would be nice if Kim and I had some idea what we’re looking for.”
“I wish I knew,” he said, his hands rising in a vague gesture. “Like I said, a needle in a haystack—anything that might help validate Frank’s claims.”
“It’s a fox-hunt long shot, no doubt,” Malcolm said, looking up from a tablet where he was making notes. “But it’s up to us to keep this investigation going. We’ve informed the authorities about Delacort’s claims. They listened, but I wasn’t feeling a whole lot of traction—particularly when it came to accusing Tom Flannigan of sexual abuse. The police, the DA, are satisfied that they have their guy and all the evidence they need. They’re not about to drag the victim’s father through the mud, not on Frank Delacort’s word. As for the rest, Byrd’s sitting in a cage at the county jail and he’s not about to sing. Not if it cuts his own throat.”
“Agreed,” Gwen said.
“Sticking with the status quo is where following this murder investigation went terribly wrong last time,” Malcolm said, “this paper’s complicity included. Twenty years ago and today, the one thing this story has lacked is Missy Flannigan’s voice.”
Dragging in a long low breath, Aubrey clasped her right hand around her left arm. She felt the old indentations. Two marks, just to the right of her wrist bone, a little deeper than the rest. She stared at Malcolm’s desk, unmoved and unmotivated by an endless maze of information. “You’re right, Malcolm. The one thing missing from this story is Missy Flannigan’s voice.”
After leaving Malcolm’s office, Aubrey went straight to her cubicle. She needed to keep the distractions small. She gathered reporter essentials: notepads, several pens, a badge identifying her as a member of the Surrey City Press. She remembered her camera was in photography. Aubrey opened a bottom desk drawer, pulling out a sunny yellow sweater. She tugged it on.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going wearing that?”
Levi stood at the cubicle entrance, inadvertently—or not—blocking her path. She shrugged. “To cover a house story.”
“What kind of house story?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve done a damn good job of avoiding me, Aubrey. But I saw the look on your face in Malcolm’s office. I heard what you said. Tell me, was the word ‘ghost’ some kind of cue? Where are you going and why?”
“Levi, I don’t have time for this. I need to stay focused. Suffice it to say, if all goes well, you’ll have some answers about Missy Flannigan soon.”
“I don’t give a damn about Missy Flannigan answers.”
“Liar.”
“I’ll rephrase. I don’t give a damn if the stakes are too high. Fair enough?”
“It’s not your call.” She continued to go about her business, stuffing a few sheets of paper in her satchel, leaving others on her desk.
“Maybe not. But at the very least, you’re not going anywhere until we discuss it. That and a few other things we need to settle. I called you yesterday and the day before . . .”
“I saw,” she said, trying to avoid other emotions. “Is that what you wanted, to tell me about the dumpster outside Holliston’s? You could have left a message.”
“You could have answered.”
“I was busy.” Wringing my hands over Owen . . . Thinking how I’d like to wring his neck . . .
“Busy . . . I see. Just so you know, I wasn’t calling about any dumpster. But right now, if you’re going where I think—”
“Blake,” Aubrey said, looking past Levi. The chief photographer of the Surrey City Press came toward them. He held her camera in his hand.
“Excuse me.” Blake made his way into the cubicle, squeezing Levi out of the frame. “I can’t find a thing wrong with your camera, Aubrey.
Every shot I take, not a single bright light floating around. I have no idea why that keeps happening to you. I adjusted your exposure setting. Maybe that will help.”
“Right, the exposure setting.” She took the camera from him. “Thanks for taking a look. I really thought I had it mastered.”
“Sure thing. Keep at it. Photos are tricky, even if the subject is a house full of furniture.”
Blake went on his way. Levi watched until he was out of earshot. “It’s not the exposure setting, is it?”
Aubrey shook her head. “He’s been trying to improve my photography skills since I came to the Surrey City Press. About a year ago, I started photoshopping out the orbs. I haven’t had time lately. Look, Levi, added emotion is the last thing I need right now. If you’d just let me by . . .”
His arms stretched across to either side of the cubicle, impeding her exit. “Not if your intention is to go to the Byrd house.”
“The Byrd house,” she said quizzically. “What makes you think . . .” She stopped. “Fine. Yes. Are you satisfied?”
“Aubrey, if you think I can be a stubborn pigheaded bastard, you’re about to find out just how much. You’re not going to the Byrd house. It’s not going to happen.”
“Yes, Levi. It is. It’s time. We’re out of alternatives and realistic leads. Do you really think a scavenger hunt at Holliston’s or ambushing Byrd’s attorney is going to turn up anything?”
“Probably not. But I’m fairly certain that going those routes will leave you in one piece at the end of the day, physically and emotionally, and that’s what concerns me most.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, which she did. “But you can’t stop me.”
“Okay, how about the police stopping you?” he said calmly. “I have no objection to you sitting one cellblock over from Dustin Byrd. His property is still under the domain of the Surrey police. How do you plan on getting in the house without breaking and entering?”
She smiled, returning the placid tone. “The Byrd house just came on the market.”
“It’s for sale?”
“I spoke with Marian Sloane earlier. You might remember that Happy Home Realty tends to get the listings nobody wants. Marian was anxious to share her news. She’s just contracted what is sure to be a hard-sell Cape on Wickersham Lane, small commercial art studio in the rear. Marian absolutely gushed when I said I’d do a home portrait piece, paint the place in a family friendly light.”
“Why are they selling?”
“According to Marian, Violet Byrd needs the money. Apparently, she’s rather distressed over the idea of living there after such a grisly discovery. Can you blame her? And you’re right, the police still have domain. But our realtor managed to bully her way past protocol and through the Byrd’s front door—just to measure square footage, note the amenities. She also mentioned having installed a lockbox.”
“And you think you’re going to . . .” Levi stood firmly in front of her, his presence now a human roadblock. “No way, Aubrey. You’re not,” he said, his voice raising just enough to turn nearby heads.
“Interesting that the universe would deliver such a timely window of opportunity. In fact, I’d say that house is almost begging. I’m taking it. I’m going to give Missy Flannigan the best possible setting to connect with me—no matter the outcome.”
“No matter the outcome? That’s just swell.” Levi stared hard. “Over my dead body.”
“Whatever works,” she said, flicking her gaze up and down all six feet and two inches of him. “If you like, we can finish the argument when you’re on the other side.” Every ounce of that pigheadedness pumped through his body. If she wanted out of there, she needed to appeal to his logical side, maybe tempt the reporter in him. “Levi, if Dustin Byrd killed Missy, he needs to pay for his crime. But I have another reason. No, make that an unyielding need for doing this. Let me ask you something. Do you believe it was more than happenstance or my press credentials that encouraged Frank Delacort’s decision to talk to me?”
“I’d say that’s a fair assessment,” he said, one arm dropping to his side. “But I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“I need to know the driving force behind it.”
“The driving force?”
“What brought Frank to me—or me to him? We assumed it was something good at work. As human beings, that’s our natural conclusion. You saw it yourself, how it was all touching and beautiful when Laurel came through. And if it was in the spirit of closure, fine. But what if it wasn’t?” Aubrey gripped tighter to the leather satchel. “Consider that. As witnessed, evil can produce some amazing things—I doubt posing as a good intention is a difficult trick. Do you think it’s unfathomable that evil put Frank Delacort in my path? Because from what we do know, I’d say the jury is still out as to which side he comes down on.”
“No. I hadn’t considered the possibility.”
“I’ve come a long way, but understanding this gift has no rational end. At least none I can see. If evil can so easily mislead me, I want to know. Did it deliver me to Frank Delacort? Is evil sometimes the voice I hear; can it make me draw something without my own intent? Does evil wield enough power over this gift to summon me to a house with a horrific history? Is it the reason I’ll end up talking to Missy Flannigan?” she said, all but hugging the satchel. “There are people who would swear my gift is nothing but evil. And if you don’t think that hasn’t kept me up a few nights . . .”
“You don’t believe that. I certainly don’t.”
“But maybe my father did. Maybe he had good reason. Whatever tortured him . . . I’ll be damned if it’s going to do the same thing to me. I will own this gift,” she said, slinging the satchel over her shoulder and smoothing the sweater. “You see my reason for visiting the Byrd house as dangerous investigative reporting. I see it as the chance to answer a burning question. If, in doing so, an encounter with Missy sheds light on who killed her, it would be a nice bonus, maybe a grand headline.”
Levi still held on to the edge of the cubicle. He stared, his face confident. “Evil wasn’t responsible for Frank Delacort’s decision to talk to you. It didn’t mastermind that kind of meeting.”
“Really?” she said. “And what proof do you have? What possible St John logic could you file in that folder?”
“Neither proof nor logic. Instinct.”
“Reporter’s instinct?”
“Human instinct. Aubrey, I have no idea how or why you can do what you do. But I can’t imagine someone so inherently evil would get the privilege of experiencing a gift like yours. I heard Frank Delacort confess to killing people in a war zone. I saw the burden that haunts him. We know what it’s done to his life. Damaged as he is, what I did not see was a man who willfully murdered the girl he said he loved. I’m siding with faith here. I refuse to believe that the universe, and whoever’s running it, would allow you and your gift to be used that way.”
“That’s a long way from a man who doesn’t believe life is subject to any more influence than random chance. What was it you said . . . ‘win the lottery . . . get hit by a bus’?”
“Your influence on how I view the world is a different conversation for another time. But that’s where I am.”
“That’s some change of heart. I wish I had your faith. But this time around, I’m the one who’s going to need solid evidence.”
They were quiet, a moment idling between them. “Aubrey, there are so many reasons not to do this.” Levi stepped closer, paying no attention to a room full of reporters. He reached toward the crescent-moon scar. He brushed his thumb over it. “I’m asking, please don’t do this.”
His hand fell away and Aubrey clasped it. “Thank you for being . . .” Aubrey squeezed it. “So extraordinarily pigheaded.” A glimpse of a smile passed between them. “But after thinking about Frank and listening to the straws we’re all grasping at .
. . I know my role, Levi. I’m supposed to go to that house.” She let go of his hand. There was a sliver of an opening and her thin frame slipped past his.
“Wait.” She stopped and turned. “Do you still agree that this is our story—no matter what avenue we’re pursing?”
“It is.”
“Then assuming there’s no way of talking you out of this . . .”
“There’s not.”
“The way I see it, I have a right and an obligation to come with you.”
She wanted to say no. She couldn’t.
“For whatever it’s worth,” he said. “Let me go with you to the Byrd house.”
“It’s worth a lot, Levi. But only if you’re sure. You understand what we may be walking into . . .”
“Whatever’s at the Byrd house, we’ll walk into it together.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Initially, Aubrey approached the Byrd house like she did hundreds of other properties—making a quick street-side assessment of its curb appeal. The Wickersham Lane house sat on a hilly plot—uncommon for Surrey. If Aubrey were to write a home portrait, it might be the first thing she’d embellish—“charmingly private hilltop setting . . .”
Together, she and Levi trudged up a steep driveway, shuffling through leaves no one had raked. The architecture showed off a quaint Cape. It was picturesque in terms of New England buyer appeal, less the giant X of yellow caution tape that marked the front door. “Kind of kills the homey atmosphere,” Levi said as if reading her mind. They avoided the tape, walking around to the rear of the home where they discovered an ill-fitting addition. It wasn’t visible from the front, built right into the slope of the land. A peek inside a window revealed Violet Byrd’s ceramic studio. Aubrey tried the studio door, which was locked. It didn’t matter as they quickly located Marian Sloane’s lockbox hanging from the house’s back door. Aubrey recalled the realtor’s remark about being a Christmas Day baby, including the year. She punched in the code and the box popped open. But as Aubrey reached for the lock, Levi intervened by grasping her wrist.
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