Not Quite Mine

by Lyla Payne

  There’s no one in the front office, just a cluttered desk and a bunch of file cabinets. The walls are covered with corkboards that are layered in fliers of all different colors. The papers crinkle and flutter in the breeze that wafts through the open windows.

  It’s cold in here without the benefit of the sunlight, and I pull my jacket tighter around me. There was nothing so quaint as a bell announcing my presence, so I move farther into the building, following the sound of someone talking to an inner office near the back.

  I peek inside and see a weathered old man talking on a phone that has an honest-to-god cord. He reminds me of Gramps a little bit, a few years before his health started to fail. The man in the office wears a faded pair of overalls under an open flannel shirt. Both are stained and this whole place smells like fish, but he looks like he takes care of himself—his white hair is clean and his jaw is clean-shaven.

  He spots me and raises one finger in a classic just a minute gesture. I nod and back up several steps, trying to give him some privacy.

  “Yeah, Joe. Six. I’ll see you there. Me too.” The phone clatters back into its cradle. “Can I help you?”

  It’s the second time today someone has asked that of me in a defensive tone and it’s only lunchtime. If I manage to track down Trent Boone, I’m guessing the count will rise to three.

  I take a deep breath and adjust my face into a friendly expression. If Trent’s not around and this guy knows his whereabouts, it might take some charm to coax them out.

  “Hi!” I stretch my lips into a smile and hold out my hand, finding that I don’t have to force it so much in the face of this man who really does remind me of another I loved with every last piece of me. “I’m Gracie Harper.”

  He grasps my fingers in a hard grip, squeezing for a solid five seconds before letting go. My knuckles pop, but that only makes me smile bigger. Gramps always said that an introductory handshake is your first chance to let someone new know who you are and how you deal with things.

  “Don Darby. You can call me Darby, everyone does. What brings you to Seabrook?”

  It’s a valid question. Seabrook might have been a cute seaside town a hundred years ago, but the commercial fishing industry that kept it alive has dwindled to almost nothing. It took the town with it, and the fact that tourists prefer Hilton Head to the south and Myrtle Beach to the north didn’t help matters. At any rate, it’s no longer a place that strangers wander into every day. Especially not in December.

  “I’m looking for Trent Boone,” I confess. The truth had worked with Mrs. Hargrove. May as well keep rolling with it. “I have some information about an old friend of his who’s missing.”

  That gets his attention, though he does his best to keep his interest professional. Darby’s from a generation that values minding its own business. A motto I generally fully support.

  “He brought the Angel Face in early this morning after doing a night run. Said he was headed home to get some sleep and grab a shower before the meeting tonight.” He looks toward me, a question in his pale eyes, then goes on when he sees I’m keeping up. “So I suppose you could catch him there.”

  “I was hoping to talk to him today so I could get back home. It’s a long drive.” I give him my best innocent, hopeful smile and try not to look like the creepy ghost-seeing girl. It’s sort of nice, being in a room with someone who doesn’t know that about me. “I promise, he’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  His gaze stays steady on my face for several seconds. I can see his deliberation taking place, and I breathe out the moment I glimpse him relenting. I really don’t want to wait until tonight to see Trent. For one thing, I really would like to get back home and work on one of the other mysteries currently stacked up in my mind. For another, if I’m going to miss dinner, I’ll have to call Beau and let him know where I am.

  It’s not that he expects me to stop seeing ghosts, but I do think he’d like to know before I go jumping into any situations where I may or may not end up confronting whoever did away with poor Ellen Hargrove.

  “You can probably catch him at the Tin Shed. He likes to have a drink on his days off.”

  I glance down at my watch and see that it’s almost two. Seems a little early to be hanging out at a bar, but I’m not one to judge. “You think he’ll be there now?”

  “If not now, it won’t be long. In the meantime, try their tuna melt.” He winks. “And if you’re some kind of reporter, it would be nice if you’d show up at the meeting tonight. We could use the coverage.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I assure him. I am dating a man from a politically connected family, but that’s neither here nor there.

  “Too bad. The boys would just love to meet you.”

  I leave feeling vaguely harassed by the comment and decide the old man isn’t all that much like Gramps after all. I’m confident in my ability to take care of myself, but I’m no longer sure that a room full of burly, angry commercial fishermen is where I want to spend my evening.

  Ellen’s not in the car when I get back. There’s no need to wait for her, of course, since she can show up—or not—whenever and wherever she feels like it, but when I spot her shimmering form over by one of the moored boats, I slam the door and walk over.

  The grass crunches under my feet, dormant and brown. Her shoulders tense at the sound of my footsteps, and her hand drops from where it rested on the bow. The name of the boat, Angel Face, is painted there in stark black letters that feel somehow foreboding.

  A sad smile tugs at her lips when she turns to look at me, and this time, when she raises a finger she uses it to point at herself, then at the boat, then at herself.

  I nod. “You’re Angel Face. Trent named her after you.”

  It’s Ellen’s turn to nod. The sunlight hits her blond hair and makes it glow like an actual halo. A tear slips down her cheek, but still, anxiety vibrates in my chest. I can’t gauge whether she wants me to talk to Trent or she just saw his boat and wandered over here to reminisce.

  Frustration builds in my chest. “I’m going to some place called the Tin Shed to have a tuna melt and maybe talk to your ex. You coming?”

  She shakes her head and lifts herself on board the Angel Face with zero effort, then disappears toward the back of the boat. Must be easy to lift yourself with no body mass.

  “Fine! You’re welcome for the ride!”

  “Who in tarnation you talkin’ to?”

  I whirl around, my heart slamming in my chest, and come face-to-face with a rugged, good-looking guy in jeans and a flannel shirt. His hands are strong and callused, and concern winks in his deep-brown eyes as they slide over me, heating my whole body with embarrassment.

  Yep, definitely embarrassment.

  “No one.”

  “Well, it was someone, but if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.” His gaze slides to the boat. “You lookin’ for Trent?”

  I nod, licking my lips to force some moisture back into my mouth. “Yes. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “I’m about to meet him over at the Tin Shed for lunch.” A smile finds his face, and it’s sort of blinding. He looks as though he can’t decide whether to tease me or commit me and there’s something incredibly charming about the confusion. “Do you want to come along?”

  Chapter Six

  “I’m Knox, by the way.” He shoots a quick glance my direction before returning it to the road. He’s one of those guys who drives like he’s lounging in front of the television, slumped back in his seat with one arm draped over the wheel.

  His truck is huge and cluttered with crap, and the diesel engine emits a roar and a cloud of stinky smoke on the bumpy gravel road behind us. I can’t believe I got into a vehicle with a stranger while I’m investigating the disappearance and death of a young girl. It’s like he hypnotized me or something. I only vaguely recall agreeing to leave my car at the marina.

  “Graciela,” I respond, still not all that worried even after the internal lecture.
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  “You know, Trent’s not big on the aggressive type, so if you’re thinkin’ about chasin’ him, you might want to think twice.”

  “What?” The comment surprises me out of my dream state. “No. I have a boyfriend. I just need to talk to him about something, that’s all.”

  Disappointment flashes across his ruddy cheeks. He must have been looking forward to sitting back and watching Trent squirm when he showed up at lunch with a stalker. Which apparently happens a lot?

  “Well, that won’t be nearly as entertaining.”

  I snort. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m awfully boring.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  My face gets hot again, but Knox leaves me to wonder exactly what that means for several silent minutes. My brain gropes for conversation, for small talk, which should be easy considering we’ve known each other all of five minutes.

  “So, you’re a fisherman?”

  “I guess you could say that. I mean, yes, I am, but business has been pretty rough lately so I’ve been making most of my money taking out charters.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means tourists pay me to drive the boat, bait their hooks, reel in their rods, and unhook the fish they catch after I drive them to the right spot.”

  “Huh.” I think about that for a moment, and it makes me sad. “Basically you’re fishing but they get to snap pictures and send them to their rich friends back in Piedmont, North Dakota?”

  He reaches over and pats my knee, holding the wheel steady with his other hand. “You’re a smart cookie.”

  I laugh, ignoring the tingle in my knee and trying to figure out why I feel so comfortable with this guy. I’m pretty sure he’s not a ghost. None of them have been able to drive cars before, plus he’s talking, but it’s been a long, long time since a new person didn’t make me tense up. “My grams used to tell me that.”

  “I bet I would have liked her, then.”

  “Yep. Everyone did.” I pause, still smiling and oddly curious about this whole commercial fishing thing. “The meeting tonight is about increased regulations on fishing, right?” He nods, not looking as carefree as he had a moment before. “The charter boat thing doesn’t fall under the same umbrella of rules?”

  “Right. Not as many regulations and I’m damn good at finding fish, so the tourists pay me well.”

  I have a feeling there’s not much Knox isn’t good at. He’s oozing the kind of confidence that makes me want to trust him with anything from questioning Trent Boone to delivering a baby in the bed of his truck.

  “Here we are.” He turns into a restaurant that lives up to its name—it looks more like a shed than a place that serves food.

  Maybe a drink would be a better idea than lunch. At least alcohol is sterile.

  “Oh, come on,” Knox says, apparently picking up on my hesitation. His dark eyes sparkling as he leans over and unbuckles my seat belt. “Live a little.”

  He’s a big guy, but he somehow manages to get out of the truck and around to my side before I gather my bag and my courage from the floorboards, and he pulls open the passenger door. One hand waits for mine, a silent offer to help me down, and I’m suddenly glad I didn’t put on a skirt or a dress this morning. There is a trick to getting into and out of giant trucks without flashing your ass that my Southern friends mastered from a young age, but I still haven’t figured it out.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, letting go of his rough hand as soon as my feet are solidly on the asphalt.

  “Shall we?”

  The inside of the Tin Shed does nothing to alleviate my concerns about contracting my first STI from a random surface, but the smell of toast and melting cheese and other delicious but unidentifiable scents confuses my stomach into a growl. I would have eaten a huge breakfast if I’d known lunch would be in a place like this.

  “Howdy, Dolly. We’ll take a table for three.” The waitress, a middle-aged woman with fake hair, giant boobs, and a smear of bright pink lipstick, leads us to a booth with wooden benches. It’s under the front windows, which are so dirty only filtered sunlight makes its way through, and my forearms stick to the top of the table. “Thanks. Send Trent over if you see him, too, okay?”

  “Sure thing, baby. You want coffee?” Knox nods, then looks toward me. “Graciela?”

  “I’ll have a Bloody Mary. Spicy, please.”

  She sets down one menu and then leaves us alone.

  I raise an eyebrow as Knox nudges the piece of thin paper in my direction. “You come here often?”

  “Hey, that’s my line!” He grins. “I mean, if I were the kind of lame guy who used lines.”

  “Hmm.” Dolly the waitress returns with our drinks, and I take a long pull, thankful she let me unwrap my own straw. The drink is delicious and perfectly made, and it begins to revise my opinion of the place. “Is the tuna melt really as good as I’ve heard?”

  Knox chuckles. “Let me guess, you talked to Darby?”

  “Guilty.”

  “First of all, I wouldn’t let my sister alone in a room with that old coot, so be more careful. Second, the tuna melt really is that good. You can’t go wrong.”

  I abandon the menu for my drink. May as well take their advice. “So, you have a sister?”

  “So, you talk to people who aren’t there?”

  We watch each other for several seconds, but it’s clear Knox isn’t going to crack. I have no idea why a question about his sibling status would put him on the defensive. It makes me curious, even though I’ve already got a pile of things to be curious about that all have higher priority.

  “Sometimes. You’re telling me you never talk to yourself?”

  “I try not to do it in public.”

  “Yeah, me too, but sometimes I think I’m alone when there’s some creepy guy lurking behind me.” I smirk as he acts like an arrow went straight into his chest, and then I order my tuna melt from Dolly.

  “I’ll have the oysters,” Knox says, winking at the indignation on my face. “What? I said you can’t go wrong with the tuna melt. I didn’t say I was ordering it when oysters are in season.”

  “December is oyster season?” What I really want to ask is if ordering seafood that spoils easily in a place like this is like walking on the edge of a crumbling cliff, but I stop. Maybe this is exactly the sort of place to order food like that.

  “Yep.” He looks up and over my shoulder, recognition sparking in his eyes. “Trent! Over here, man.”

  The man who slides into the booth next to Knox looks so much like Leo that it takes my breath away for a second. All of the Boones look alike—always have—with inky black hair and blue eyes so bright they don’t seem real. Trent Boone’s skin is more weathered than Leo’s, he’s got lines in places my friend might in another decade, and there’s no easy smile. That said, there’s no denying they’re brothers.

  He squints at me, like maybe he can’t put his finger on how he knows me. It’s been years. Guilt flares in my chest, making it tight. What will Leo think about my seeing his brother without telling him? It would be an even bigger betrayal to ask questions about what happened between Leo and the other boys, or between them and Lindsay. They were always all so close, and so protective of their only sister.

  “Don’t you two know each other?” Knox asks, picking up on the weird vibe between us.

  “We did as kids.” I force a smile at Trent. “Graciela Harper. We used to play on opposite teams in Creek Wars?”

  He nods slowly, not smiling back. He doesn’t look like he trusts me, but he has no reason to—he’s the youngest of the Boones and we didn’t know each other all that well. “I remember. You’re the one who helped get my sister out of jail, too.”

  “Oh, well, I didn’t really do all that much.”

  “Not what I heard,” he grunts. Dolly comes back, and Trent orders a beer and a basket of French fries with honey mustard dressing.

  It makes me smile. Leo orders the same crap all the time, and afte
r I think about it, I feel sad instead. Leo and Trent were so close when we were growing up. What had happened?

  That’s not why you’re here.

  Trent glances between Knox and me. “What are you doing with him?”

  His friend, or co-worker or whatever the two of them are, holds up his hands. “Hey, I just found her.”

  I shoot Knox a look that hopefully says thanks a lot and figure it’s time to explain myself. It would be better if Knox weren’t here since I have no idea how Trent is going to react to the news about Ellen, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

  “I have some news about Ellen Hargrove,” I say.

  Dolly sets down his beer. Trent immediately orders a second and starts peeling the label off the first, then sucks in a deep breath before looking me in the eye. “Let’s hear it.”

  There’s resignation in his voice, the same kind I saw on Mrs. Hargrove’s face this morning. It sucks, but this must be the moment the family and friends of every missing person waits for, dreading it but also knowing that the truth is the only thing that could possibly provide any sort of relief.

  “She’s… She died.” Again, I wish I knew how to do this better. I sound like an asshole. “I don’t know how, but I’m looking into it. I was hoping you could tell me anything you remember about when she disappeared.”

  He cocks his head to one side, pain darkening his face. “Are you a cop? I don’t remember hearing that nugget in the rumor mill.”

  “Not exactly.” I glance at Knox. This is about to get weird.

  “But you said you’re looking into what happened to Ellen.” Trent squints at me, trying to figure it out. Maybe trying to focus on anything besides what I just told him. “How do you know she’s dead?”

  I close my eyes for a count of three, remind myself that he’s the one who’s lost someone he cares about, and find the courage to sound like a fool. Again. “I see ghosts. I saw her ghost.”

  “Excuse me?”