“Any leads yet on who did it?”
“It was somebody who worked in corporate,” Frank said, “but that’s a good thirty people. It stands to reason it was one of them, or somebody one of them trusted…”
“I assume the police are looking into all of them.”
“And my investigators are, too. Cote’s been good about supplying them with information. He’s a good guy, but I think he knows he’s in over his head.” Frank’s eyebrows lowered over his dark eyes, and he glared at Dylan. “It’s good to be self-aware like that.”
“Uncle,” Chelsea said. “Dylan knows what he’s doing.”
“I’m just saying, the guys at Neely have a lot of experience.”
“They’re a good firm,” Dylan said. “Offered me a job when I left the Manchester PD. I turned them down.”
Frank sat back. No answer to that.
“Did they learn anything else?” Dylan asked.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll call Mike Neely,” Dylan said, “update him on what we’ve learned and ask him to keep me in the loop. I’m sure you don’t mind if we share information.”
Frank just shrugged. Then he turned his attention to Chelsea. “Accounting has been getting your bank and credit card information cleared up. And your phone should be working again by the end of the day.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you.”
He looked around. “Are you going to be here?”
Dylan said, “No. We’ll find someplace to hole up tonight, someplace with no ties to any of us.”
Frank pushed back in his chair and stood. “That’s a good idea. In fact, I think it would be best if you’d make yourself scarce, maybe go back to Paris until this is all cleared up.”
“I can’t do that,” she said. “I have to get into Hamilton, take my place—”
“That can all wait until we figure out who’s trying to kill you. I can keep things running—”
“No.” Chelsea stood and faced her uncle. “Hamilton is my company now. I’m not leaving New Hampshire again.”
His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He hugged her, patted her back. “When I look at you, I see your mother. But when you talk, I hear my pigheaded, brilliant brother.” He leaned back, kissed her forehead. “Be safe.”
Chapter Eighteen
By the time Frank left, Chelsea was exhausted. Although they’d gathered a lot of information, she felt no closer to finding out who was trying to kill her and why.
Her mother had lied to Frank about Chelsea’s decision to stay in Europe. Why?
What did it mean?
Across from her at the table, Dylan was making notes in his little book. She didn’t have the energy to ask what he was writing.
He looked up. “I’m going to call Eric, see if he’ll run that plate for us.”
“Why didn’t you ask Frank about it?”
“I didn’t want to muddy the waters. He seemed overwhelmed. And Eric’ll get us a name.”
A flimsy excuse, but she didn’t press him. Dylan didn’t know Frank like she did. If he suspected her uncle of wrongdoing, so be it. She wouldn’t try to talk him out of it. He’d learn eventually that Frank wasn’t the enemy.
Dylan stood. “Why don’t you get your things together?”
She hobbled down the hall to her bedroom. Mum had redecorated the room for her a few years back, replacing the purple unicorn-and-rainbow bedspread she’d chosen as a little girl with a soft gray comforter and coordinating jewel-toned throw pillows.
Chelsea stared at the painting Mum had bought in Manhattan, an original by some up-and-coming artist Chelsea had never heard of. She liked the still life well enough, but right now, she imagined the Nick Carter poster that had adorned the space before Chelsea had been shipped off to England. She’d loved The Backstreet Boys. After her dad’s death, she used to blast their song, “Incomplete,” and cry and think of how she’d never be the same, never be complete, without him.
Now, Mum was gone, too.
The lyrics flitted through her mind, but she had no time to throw herself onto her bed and weep. She was an adult now with adult responsibilities.
So why did she feel like an orphan?
She’d hated being an only child, but Chelsea could claim one thing that kids with siblings rarely could—she knew she’d been her parents’ favorite. She’d seen the love in their eyes every time they looked at her. People had always complimented Chelsea on her confidence. When she was a kid, she’d never understood that. Why not feel confident? What was there to be afraid of?
She knew now that, in those early years before Daddy’s death, her parents’ love and support had made her fearless. Why worry when you had two people—people who’d seemed infallible and invincible—in your corner?
They hadn’t been infallible or invincible. Chelsea’s support was gone. Now, nobody was in her corner.
She was nobody’s favorite.
Tears dripped from her eyes as she gathered her things.
She changed her clothes, ditching the shorts and tank top—both sweaty after the trip up the mountain—for black capris and a short-sleeved blouse. She had to try several shoes to find one with the same height as the ugly boot and finally settled on a sandal with a one-inch heel.
Ten minutes later, she dragged her suitcase into the living room and set it by the door.
As she did, sounds came from her purse—the dings of incoming text messages and the chime of voicemail.
She checked the screen. Her service was back.
She scrolled through all the notifications. Uncle Frank, of course, some friends in England who’d heard of Mum’s passing. There were a few calls from a number she recognized as HCI’s corporate line.
One series of messages surprised her. Her old friend, Tabby, had called three times and left multiple text messages.
The first had been left late Monday afternoon. Are you okay? I heard a weird rumor. Call me.
On Tuesday, Tabby had written. Where are you? I thought you were coming in yesterday.
More texts read: I’m getting worried.
Praying for you.
Please call me. Strange things are happening here.
Chelsea listened to Tabby’s voicemails. The first had been left the morning before, the morning Chelsea had been shot at.
“Hey, it’s Tabby. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but there are weird things happening around here. Cops and PIs in the building, stories of a break-in, and all sorts of other crazy rumors. Call me as soon as you get this. I’m really worried about you.”
Chelsea deleted the message and held the phone to her chest. Once upon a time, Tabby had been her Very Best Friend in the Whole Wide World. She smiled at the title they’d given each other when they were nine. They’d climbed Chelsea’s favorite tree in the woods beside her house. Seated side by side at the top, they’d been sure they could see all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. They’d promised eternal friendship and devotion. And they’d vowed never to leave Coventry, “to stay here forever and ever,” Tabby had said, her messy ponytail bouncing with the vehemence of her words. “Except, like for college, and even then we’ll go to the same school, and then we’ll come right back.”
Chelsea had made the promise easily, certain nothing could keep it from coming to pass. How innocent. How foolish.
She and Tabby had kept in touch, but they hadn’t remained close. Tabby had tried over the years to keep their friendship alive, but it had been too hard for Chelsea. Too hard hearing Tabby talk about Chelsea’s former school and her former teachers and her former companions, knowing life in Coventry was going on without her while she’d been trapped in a boarding school with a bunch of rich English kids.
And then she’d become just like those rich English kids, the kind of kid who wore a uniform with a plaid skirt and knee-highs, who earned stellar grades and never climbed trees or made silly vows with best friends.
The kind of kid who had no true friends. Because fathers could die
and mothers could send you away and friends could be separated by an ocean, and life was too uncertain.
Chelsea slid her phone into the pocket of her capris and headed for the back door. The heat hit as soon as she stepped onto the wraparound porch. The temperature had to be in the upper eighties now, a scorcher for northern New Hampshire.
Dylan was on the lawn, staring at the vista. He looked her way as she walked toward him.
“Eric ran that license plate for me. The car belonged to someone named Zeke Granger.”
“Never heard of him.”
Dylan angled his phone, and she saw a driver’s license. The man was forty-two. Dark hair, dark eyes.
Big nose.
She looked from the photo to Dylan, who was studying her reaction. She asked, “Is that the guy who shot at us?”
“I think so. Does he look familiar?”
She took the phone to better see the image, then closed her eyes and tried to remember the hooded man on the mountain.
“It could be the man who pushed me. But I’m not sure.” She handed Dylan the phone back. “What do you know about him?”
“Not much yet. He lives in Plymouth. How far is that from here?”
“Twenty, thirty minutes,” she said.
“At this point, all we have is a picture of his license plate drawn by an autistic guy.”
“But…” She closed her eyes, tried to bring her thoughts in line. “But this means that… that the guy who shot at us, probably also the guy who pushed me off that cliff, was on the mountain when Mum was in the accident.”
Dylan didn’t say anything. Just waited.
“Which means… Maybe she went there to meet him. Maybe…” Because Chelsea couldn’t come to terms with it. Her mother’s death had been ruled an accident. A tragic accident, but not… She met Dylan’s eyes. “My mother was murdered?”
“We don’t know anything for sure.”
She gazed at the view but didn’t really see it. Why? Why would somebody do this to her family?
“We have the license plate,” Dylan said.
She forced herself back to the conversation. “And a picture of the guy who pushed me. I didn’t get a good look at the man’s face, but that image looks like Dougie’s drawing.”
“I’m going to call Cote and tell him what we’ve learned.”
“Tell him to take Mr. Early with him to question Dougie. He’s a special needs teacher. Last I heard, he still worked for the Coventry school district.”
“Cote will know him?”
“If not, he should be able to find him easily. If Mr. Early can’t do it, I can accompany Cote to see Dougie.”
Dylan’s head bobbed, but his lips closed. “At this point, I’d like you to keep a low profile. Not sure I want you back up on that mountain anytime soon.”
She slid her cell from her pocket. “It’s working again.”
“Good news,” he said.
“I got a few calls from an old friend who works at HCI. She left a message saying she’d been hearing rumors. Maybe we could go see her, see if she has any information that might help us.”
And maybe Chelsea just wanted to see Tabby. She needed a friendly face.
“She’ll be at Hamilton?”
Chelsea shrugged. “I assume so. Shall I call her? Maybe we could meet somewhere.”
He looked past her, seemed to be thinking. After a moment, he said, “I’d like to see the company, get a feel for it.”
“You think it’ll be safe?”
“I doubt our friend Zeke would try anything in plain sight. And even if he would, we’re not going to warn them we’re coming.”
The ride to the HCI offices was quiet. Chelsea couldn’t wrap her mind around what they’d learned.
Her mother had been murdered.
Ten days before, she’d learned of her mother’s death. For ten days, she’d fought the urge to imagine what happened. Internalizing the horror wouldn’t help her deal with the death. Better to press on than to look back. But now, tired, shocked, horrified as she was, she couldn’t stop herself from wondering what had happened on that mountain.
Why had Mum gone there before dawn that morning? To meet someone. Probably. That Zeke character? Chelsea doubted it, or maybe she just didn’t want to believe Mum had been associated with him. So Zeke, or she’d been meeting someone else. Who, and why? And why the clandestine meeting away from town under cover of darkness? It didn’t make sense.
And then… what? Had she been run off the road? Had someone forced her into that tree?
Had Mum understood what was happening? Had she known someone was trying to kill her? Had she known her killer?
The thought brought a shudder.
“Hey, you okay?” Dylan’s deep voice pulled her back to the present. He turned down the air conditioner. “I know it’s a shock.”
“How could this have happened again?”
A pause. He maneuvered the truck around a corner, then glanced at her. “Again?”
“Daddy was murdered, too.”
Dylan said nothing, but a moment later, he pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned building. When Chelsea was a kid, she and Tabby used to ride their bikes here and rent movies. All that was left now was a faded sign—Vacation Video and Game Rentals—and a few broken windows.
He parked and turned to face her. “Your father was murdered?”
“A long time ago. In New York City. A mugging gone wrong.”
Dylan’s lips compressed, eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head, swallowed.
“Dylan, what?”
He didn’t look at her, just put the truck back in drive. “Nothing. Probably nothing. It’s just… I don’t play odds, and real-life events aren’t about odds. But, if I were a betting man… The odds against it are astronomical. That your father was murdered in a random mugging and your mother was killed in a car accident that may have been murder.”
“What are you saying?”
He pulled out of the lot and onto the narrow country road. “Nothing. I don’t know. Just… It feels unlikely, that’s all.”
“It’s what happened.”
He looked her way, forced a smile. “I know. Sorry.” He rested his hand on top of hers and squeezed.
Funny how natural holding his hand felt, considering she hadn’t even known this man thirty-six hours. But he’d become a friend, a trusted confidant. Her lifeline. He was thinking something he wasn’t sharing, but she didn’t demand he tell her. He would, if she needed to know. Right now, she couldn’t handle any more revelations. Maybe Dylan understood that. He seemed to understand her better than anybody else in the world. Anybody alive, that was.
They weaved their way through the traffic of downtown Coventry, with its restaurants and ice cream parlors and souvenir shops and all the tourists taking advantage of the warm temperatures, and parked in front of a three-story brick building with a steeply pitched roof.
Dylan peered through the window. “I imagined something more modern.”
“My parents bought this building when they first started the company because the town was going to tear it down. It’s been here over a hundred years. The original factory was on the first floor.”
“Not anymore?”
Chelsea laughed. “Heavens no. The factory outgrew this building within a couple of years. It’s down the street.”
They stepped into the reception area. Where the outside was rustic, the inside was modern—hardwood floors, straight-backed chairs lining the walls, and a sleek reception desk. Behind the desk, a thirty-something woman stood. Chelsea didn’t know her name but assumed, based on her wide eyes, the woman knew hers.
She approached and held out her hand. “Chelsea Hamilton.”
“I’m Ida.” The receptionist shook but didn’t smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
“We’re here to see Tabitha Eaton. Is she available?”
“Go on ba
ck, seeing as how it’s your company and all.”
She would, if she had any idea where Tabby’s office was. “If you’ll just ring her.”
A moment later, the door beside the reception desk opened, and Tabby hurried into the room. By the time Chelsea stood, Tabby was there, wrapping her in a hug. She whispered, “Thank God you’re okay.”
The hug felt so genuine, it brought tears to Chelsea’s eyes. She backed up, smiled, a little embarrassed by her reaction.
Tabby took her hand and squeezed. “I’ve been so worried. Someone said you were pushed—”
“Let’s discuss it privately.” Dylan’s voice was low beside Chelsea.
Tabby’s attention shifted to him. She started to speak, but Dylan cut her off. “You have a private office, or is there a conference room we can use?”
“Come on.” She held Chelsea’s hand just like she had when they were girls. A muffled buzz indicated the receptionist had unlocked the door, and Dylan opened it for them. The first floor was filled with cubicles and lined with offices. The second floor, Chelsea knew, looked nearly identical. They didn’t go all the way to the office area, though, but stopped at the elevator. Here, with the exposed brick walls, shades of the original interior remained.
Even when they were on the elevator, alone, they didn’t speak. Chelsea stole a glance at her old friend. Tabby had always been a free spirit, a live-out-loud kind of girl. When Chelsea’d seen her at the funeral a week prior, she’d barely noticed her, hardly been aware of anything or anyone. Funny how grief could gray out so many details and bring others into sharp focus. She could still imagine the overbearing scent of flowers and see the cold, hard lines of her mother’s casket. She could hear Amazing Grace, performed by someone behind a curtain, and imagine the feel of the cold pew through her black skirt. But the faces of the people who’d hugged her were blurry and obscure. Their words all melded together in one long string of I’m sorry for your loss… call if you need anything… it’s such a shock… we all loved her so much…
Chelsea couldn’t picture Tabby being there, though she knew she had been, hadn’t left her side. Tabby was so much better at friendship than Chelsea was.
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