by Mira Gibson
As he scraped, plastic grinding off ice flakes until huge chunks broke free, Lucas puzzled over how he might stop this freight train before it flattened him or Holly.
He shouldn’t have admitted their one-night stand.
Satisfied he had cleared the glass well enough to drive, Lucas climbed in behind the steering wheel and got his Focus idling. After blowing on his fingers to get a little feeling back, he adjusted the vents so cold air wouldn’t hit him and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, hoping Tammy would be willing to pull information and be discrete about it.
He called the receptionist’s phone, as he squinted through the glare, angling to see her desk beyond the first floor windows.
When she greeted him with a sultry sigh—York?—having recognized his number on the caller ID, he made an honest effort not to roll his eyes. “Can you help me out with something?”
“I don’t see why not.”
He could hear the smile in her voice, a promising sign. “I need the name of the high school and address for a girl named Roberta King and if she’s employed anywhere, I’ll need that information also.”
“When do you need it by?” she asked, but she was already typing, her manicured nails clicking across her keyboard.
“Now would be ideal.”
“And how might you return this favor?”
He was tempted to remind her that this was her job for Christ’s sake, but something told him not to get cocky. Cody could’ve pulled her aside already, instructed her not to help Lucas, implying he might not be working there much longer. So he went with, “I’m always up for a beer.”
“Yeah?”
Crap. He forced a smile, “Sure...”
“Got a pen handy?”
At first he assumed she was about to suggest a time and place for said beer, but when she barreled ahead with the high school address, he exhaled in relief, clamped his cell between his ear and shoulder, and fished for a pen and scrap of paper in the backseat.
“Looks like she also works at Tony’s Pizzeria,” Tammy added then grumbled, “too many calories...”
“What’s the address?”
He jotted both down quickly, thanked her, and checked the clock on the dashboard, vaguely aware Tammy was chirping something about Shiraz at Harbor Inn. It was just before noon, which meant Roberta should be in class. Catching her wasn’t likely, but he started for the high school anyway, thanking Tammy again and setting his cell on the passenger’s seat after hanging up.
The drive south to the high school was arduous—crawling along Kelsea Ave, tires spinning over black-ice, the likelihood his Ford would careen off the road increasing with every passing second.
Laconia High was an ominous brick structure that was one barbed-wire fence shy of a prison. Students were walking lazily towards the parking lot, their shoulders rounded against the wind. Lucas guessed they were upper classmen, seniors with cars who would rather spend their lunch period in town.
Carefully eyeing each student as though he might get lucky, he drove slowly through the parking lot, tires crunching over dirty snow, slush spitting against mud-flaps every time his car rolled through a puddle. He came to a stop in-between two clunkers and pulled the key from the ignition.
This was a terrible idea.
Interviewing a teenager without her guardian present was a reprehensible offense, not to mention that if Roberta had been involved in the murders, then being seen with her in public wouldn’t exactly be Lucas’s smartest move. But talking to Mary Cole was out of the question. He’d get nowhere confronting the girl who had cast suspicion on him and even if he did, she would surely tattle to Cody.
Reasoning that things couldn’t possibly get any worse for him, Lucas stepped into the snow and made his way towards the entrance.
But he didn’t get far.
Behind him, a girl said, “Hey, Killer, you’re not looking for me, are you?”
Lucas whipped around and found Roberta—muddy green eyes that swallowed the light, a coy curl to her lip, her sandy-blonde hair wavering in the wind, her bohemian coat billowing open—eyeing him with the same familiarity he’d come to despise.
She was enjoying this.
Advancing on her, he wasn’t certain what he was doing until he had her by the upper arm, forcing her towards his vehicle. She didn’t so much resist as bat her lashes at him as if mildly curious about where he was going with this.
It set his teeth on edge.
When he had her braced against the passenger’s side of his car—Roberta grinning, daring him, Lucas breathing hard, his stomach lurching at his own impulsiveness—he glanced around, scanning the parking lot and entrance for any administrators who might misunderstand their exchange.
“Get in,” he ordered, thrusting her off his car and throwing the door open.
She shoved him off, straightened her coat, and lowered willingly into the seat, not at all intimidated as she shut the door.
He stared at her through the windshield as he rounded the hood, his thoughts racing for just what in the hell he was going to say to get her talking.
After triple checking that there were no prying eyes watching them, he climbed in behind the steering wheel and squared his shoulders at her.
“I know you don’t like that name,” she said easily. “But I like teasing you.”
Frantically, his thoughts darted from How do you know about my nickname? to You were at the resort after Benjamin’s murder to Were you the caller that morning? But he tempered his urgency and became instantly annoyed when he realized she was riffling through his glove box.
“Stop that,” he said, slapping the compartment closed. “I know you work at Diamonds. I know you were at Benjamin’s hotel room. Christ, I saw you leaving the resort. And I know you and your little friend are trying to set me up.”
Playfully, Roberta tilted her face to the headrest and smiled at him. “I thought we went over this last night.”
Chapter Thirteen
Holly’s hands were shaking as she stood over the toilet—the tarnished porcelain bowl, dingy water, a slew of ad hoc jewelers tools scattered across the tank cover—and tore open the first plastic baggie. Cocaine puffed out, sprinkling down into the basin.
Her eyes felt dry and scratchy she had cried so much in the last twelve hours. There was nothing left. She was drained.
Failing Tucker had split her in two. Emotions raw, terror and guilt at war inside her. She should never have let him out of her sight.
She dropped the shredded bag into the waste bin and grabbed the next 8-ball out of the sink. Methodically, she emptied the contents in the same fashion, tearing the plastic, letting the drug rain down into the toilet, tossing the limp bag in the trash.
She wasn’t going to keep pretending she could slide into her sister’s life no matter how close it made her feel to Rose.
This was the end of the line. Losing Tucker had woken her up as jarringly as a slap across the face.
Flushing the toilet, she keeled over, her shoulders rounding, as a silent sob escaped her. No tears came. She had already used them up. She pressed her eyes shut with her fingertips, reeling in her emotions, and then looked at herself in the mirror.
The black eyeliner rimming her lashes was smudged badly, but masked the puffiness of her eyelids. She had pulled her hair back in a low ponytail, though rosy-blonde strands had fallen around her ears. She seemed pale except for the bright lipstick she was wearing. Dressed in her own clothes, she had made every effort not to look like her twin—she’d even stripped off her sister’s necklace, hanging it that morning on the vanity—but Rose’s likeness was inescapable.
The person staring back at her in the mirror looked like an apparition, Rose incarnate.
She wished she hadn’t driven the BMW to Shackles, but resolved to stick to her own car as soon as she got home.
Home?
Rose’s house was no home, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to pack up and leave, because she feared doing so woul
d be an act of betrayal. There would be no carrying on until Tucker was found.
A shudder of dread rolled through her. Where was he? Who had him?
Was he alive?
She pushed the dark thought from her mind and ran the faucet. Ice water beat against the porcelain sink. She cupped her hands then splashed water on her face, knowing and not caring how badly her eyeliner would run. She felt like shit, she might as well look like it.
Slapping the toilet lid down, it hit her how bizarre she felt having come to the store, which wasn’t at all the sanctuary she had thought. It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, but at least the bad weather was keeping customers away.
She shut off the faucet and sat on the toilet, giving herself a moment to breathe. But the mounting tragedies weighed on her too greatly, bending reality so badly that she felt lost, beside herself, suffocated in grief.
The idea of Lucas kept nagging her, his commitment to helping her, the glimmer of affection in his eyes—unconditional and unsettling because of it. It was only a matter of time before Cody would discover she had been at the resort that night, the security feed would prove as much. Her fabricated alibi—McCoy’s—would soon be dismantled.
Part of her was screaming to accept his help despite the fact that it wasn’t necessary. She was innocent, though she looked guilty. That was the problem—how it all looked. Why not accept Lucas’s help? But a small voice in the back of her mind kept warning her against it—she had snuck out from that motel room all those years ago for a reason. Slipping through the door at the crack of dawn as he’d slept, she had tried and failed to shake his disturbing confession. When he had told her, she had been too drunk to process it. It hadn’t fully registered until she’d sobered up, waking with a splitting migraine after only a few hours sleep.
His mother.
Lucas had been wasted, slurring his words, disjointed admissions shrouded in a dark tone, but still Holly had understood.
The woman who raised him had taken pleasure in destroying his life, his mind, his heart—creeping into his bedroom at night, covering his mouth, pressing her palm hard until his lip split, the taste of blood in his mouth, terror washing over him that he couldn’t breathe because her hand partially covered his nostrils, no air. Her cold fingers had found him under the covers—the part of his body a mother should never touch—in the nightly ritual that had been as agonizing as it was arousing.
It had filled him with shame and paralyzed him with shock. He had been unable to fight. The horror compounded when his father had entered the bedroom—he liked to watch then beat the memory out of Lucas the following day.
It had gone on for years.
I didn’t remember for the longest time, he had told her, lying beside her in bed, his eyelids heavy and jaw slack as though he was caught in a dream. There were all these holes in my memory, these black spaces where the nights should’ve been... Until one night it came back, all of it came rushing back and at the worst possible moment. With my girlfriend. Pumping into her. In darkness under the bleachers at school, some terrible dance unfolding on the basketball court. I thought I’d kill her, the sheer realism of what was coming back to me... I almost strangled her, I was so confused. But I didn’t. I ran home, forgetting my car in the high school parking lot, I ran home... He had smiled, a shred of humor easing him towards the worst of it. Then his smile had slipped off his face. I killed them instead, both of them, my parents.
Holly had stiffened in the bed, every muscle in her body tensing in response. But Lucas had seemed lost, drifting into sleep, and the strange justice of his story compelled her to kiss him.
People don’t know, he had mumbled. They can’t see it. They can look a kid in the eye and still be blind to what’s really going on even though it’s written all over my face—the kid’s face. He had corrected himself. You go on suffering and the world goes on smiling, oblivious, all around you. I finished the Academy last week. I’m going to be a cop. I’m going to find my people, the ones who are just like me. The killers. They don’t have to be alone in it, suffering with their scars. I’m going to help them. His eyes had slowly opened and when he had looked at her, Holly felt truly seen. You’re scarred too, aren’t you? She hadn’t responded, only stared at him, nerves ratcheting up her spine. I wish there was a way to save these kids... There has to be a way.
The doorbell rattled faintly, snapping Holly out of her time warp. Someone had entered the store. She touched her cheeks, which were dry so she got to her feet.
After a quick glance in the mirror where she wiped mascara smears from under her eyes, she padded through her studio, the scent of pickles in the air, and rounded into the jewelry store where Sarah Wythe was frowning with disdain at a necklace resting on one of the pedestals.
When her cool eyes settled on Holly—dark and wide-set, crows-feet spanning her temples, her jaw taut from the latest surgery—she seemed cognizant, alive, and not at all like her usual, medicated self.
Sarah made a performance of stripping her leather gloves off and tucking them into the pocket of her sable coat.
“I’m horrified,” she declared, her aging tone deep and biting. “You hadn’t the decency to call. I had to find out from that detective.” She’d spit out the consonants as though disgusted.
Holly felt raw and vulnerable. What could she say to a woman who already hated her, had despised her sister for years, had begged Benjamin not to marry a Danes—Those girls are trash Sarah had argued even though the twins had been within earshot, standing in the next room.
When she finally managed, “I’m sorry,” her voice was a thread.
“You’re sorry.” Sarah was looking down her nose, her brows arching and her eyes glazing over. “Is that what you call it? Being sorry?”
“I’ve been a wreck over this-”
“You have no right to custody,” she snapped. “Tucker never should’ve been with you. Warren and I were listed as his guardians should anything happen. I don’t know how the hell you got that Will changed.” She was seething. “Do you have any idea the shock we suffered hearing about that damned Will, and on top of learning our precious son had been killed no less? And now he’s gone?” Staring her down, her bottom lip betrayed her resolve, quivering until she pressed her lips together. “I doubt the kidnapper will contact you, but if he does, if this is about money and he hasn’t the good sense to call Warren, you send him our way. I don’t care what price he asks for, I am getting my grandson back.”
Holly prayed it would be so simple and she agreed, swallowing hard and nodding, as her gaze fell to the floor. When she was sure she could get the words out clearly, she asked, “Who would do this?”
Sarah seemed taken aback and a strange smile came over her. “I’m not going to commiserate with you or indulge in your game of playing detective.”
As she ranted on, building momentum and listing the many ways in which the Danes twins were horrible, Holly startled at the sound of the bell chiming over the entrance door.
She recognized the girl who was entering in an instant.
Mary’s friend. A woman followed in after, her mother perhaps though they looked nothing alike—both bundled in winter garb.
The girl touched eyes with Holly as she swayed towards one of the velvet pedestals, her mother trailing behind her, keenly aware of the tension between Holly and the older woman.
“This is upsetting for all of us,” Sarah went on, assertive though her tone had softened given present company. Nearing Holly so as not to be overheard, she kept pressing her vicious point. “We are going to sit down with the attorney and we are going to rectify the Joint Will. I will never give up on my grandson. He will be found and when he is, he will live in a safe environment.”
Holly stole a quick glance at her customers—the girl was examining a pendant, its silver chain dangling down, which her mother collected in her palm so it wouldn’t accidentally fall to the floor—then locked eyes with Sarah. “I’m not sure a Will can be altered after a death.�
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“You knew Warren and I would challenge you,” she combatted as though she had caught Holly red handed. “You did this, didn’t you?”
Outraged, she had to fight herself not to yell and the result sounded guttural. “You think I kidnapped my own nephew? Why would I do that? I have custody.”
The older woman seemed unmoved.
“With all due respect, Sarah, I have to ask you. Have you gone off your medication?”
She gaped, her mouth hanging open and soon a stuttering laugh jackhammered out.
The girl and her mother were migrating over to the glass counter and Holly sensed they would need assistance, but here she was, caught in a stormy confrontation with a woman whose mental health ebbed and flowed as roughly as an ocean.
Sarah angled in on her and though she spoke quietly, her tone didn’t soften. “At least my medication is legal. Oh, you think I didn’t know about Rose’s little habit?” Her eyes shifted, as she studied Holly’s face, her gaze darting from one telltale sign of addiction to the next—the dry eyes, her pale skin, nostrils chapped pink. “You think I can’t tell that you’re just like her in that regard? Mark my words, you will not get Tucker once he’s found.”
She felt eyes on her and glimpsed the girl staring. It didn’t seem like she was frustrated, however. She didn’t have the classic look of a customer disgruntled at being ignored. The girl seemed curious, maybe even intrigued.
“Are you listening to me?” demanded Sarah, stealing Holly’s attention.
But before she could answer, Warren Wythe barreled into the store and quickly collected his wife, taking Sarah by the upper arm and shooting Holly an apologetic smile.
“I have every right to speak with her,” she protested, but he was talking over her.
“We have reservations. Come now, let’s not be late.”
“Late for what?” she snapped. “Lunch is not more important than finding our grandson.”
Warren grumbled, widening his eyes at Holly as though they were in this together. Then, much to her surprise, he told her, “You don’t have to be a stranger,” which Sarah immediately objected to—Don’t you dare invite her into our home! But he already was. “You’re welcome at the resort any time. We consider you a part of this family.”