“You said he traveled a lot, without you.”
“More and more, especially after we settled in Atlanta. I just wanted to nest a bit, find a routine. It got so he didn’t ask, just told me he had a business trip. Sometimes he didn’t bother to tell me. I don’t know for sure where he went. He may have told me the truth, he may not. But I know where I went with him, so that’s a start.”
“You could dump all this on the cops.”
“I suppose I will, but I want to work my way through it first, try to understand it.”
“Good. So do I.”
“Why?”
“You,” he said immediately. “Callie. If you don’t get that, I haven’t been doing a good job.”
“You like fixing things.”
“I do. People ought to like doing what they’re good at. And I like your face. I like your hair.”
He reached out for it, really wanted to take it out of the band she’d pulled it into.
“I like your meat loaf,” he added, polishing off the last of it on his plate. “I like taking Little Red on pizza dates. And I’m sunk when she gives me that flirty smile. So it’s more than fixing things, Shelby. You’re more than something to fix.”
Saying nothing, she rose to clear the plates.
“I’ve got those. You cooked. You cooked great.”
While he cleared, she opened her laptop, did a search for a photo. “Tell me what you think.”
She turned the computer around.
With a considering frown, Griff crossed back, leaned over and studied the photo of her.
Taken at one of the last functions she’d attended in Atlanta, it showed her and Richard in formal dress.
“You look gorgeous, and sad—I thought that the first time I saw you. You’re smiling, but there’s no light in it. And what happened to your hair? You look gorgeous, like I said, but not so much like Shelby. Where are the curls? Did you sell them?”
She gave him a long look, then tipped her head to his shoulder. “You know what I want to do?”
“What?”
“I want to take a walk around your backyard, watch the sun set, give you all sorts of unasked-for advice about where you should plant things, and put that arbor. Then I want you to take my new dress off me. That’ll be easy as I’m not wearing a thing under it.”
“Can we do that first?”
She laughed, shook her head. “Let me drive you a little crazy first.”
“Already there,” he told her as she took his hand to lead him out.
• • •
HE FOLLOWED HER HOME AGAIN, used the drive back for thinking time. Added to thinking time by taking Snickers on a long patrol, then putting a good hour into framing out a closet in one of the other demo’d bedrooms.
One step at a time, he told himself as he put his tools away, cleaned up.
He took the next step by sitting down at his computer and doing his own search for unsolved burglaries and fraud cases in Atlanta during the years Shelby had lived there.
A puzzle to solve, he thought. Never did anything without a reason, Griff reminded himself. So why had the fucker pulled up stakes in Atlanta, and so abruptly?
It might be interesting to find out.
• • •
WHILE GRIFF RAN HIS SEARCHES, Jimmy Harlow worked on a laptop he’d lifted from a trade show in Tampa. The busy hotel and half-drunk conventioneers in the hotel bars had been prime picking.
He’d walked out with the laptop—fully loaded and in a nicely padded travel bag—just over two thousand in cash, two iPhones and the keys to a Chevy Suburban he drove directly to a chop shop.
He bought a new ID—it paid to have contacts—and stole a piece-of-shit Ford he drove over the Georgia border to an acquaintance who bought it for five hundred flat.
He lay low for a while, growing a beard, growing out his hair, dying both, building up his cash the old-fashioned way. He picked pockets, pulled some minor burglaries, moved on.
He made his way to Atlanta, taking a winding route, staying in fleabag motels, stealing the occasional car—a skill learned and honed in his youth. In a side trip to New Orleans, he mugged and beat the crap out of a drug dealer who procured for a high school in the Ninth Ward.
He strongly disapproved of selling drugs to minors.
He also picked up a solid Toyota 4Runner outside a bar in Baton Rouge, which he drove to yet another chop shop.
He paid to have it reVINed, repainted, and with the help of another contact, forged the paperwork to match his new ID.
He watched the news obsessively, used the laptop to scan for the manhunt.
He trimmed his beard, bought easy, casual clothes—and broke them in so none of them looked new. He used self-tanner religiously to rid himself of prison pallor.
He bought maps, even sprang for a decent Canon digital camera, and slapped a few stickers on the truck from state parks, as any tourist might do.
He ate what he wanted, when he wanted. Slept when he was tired, got up and going when he wasn’t.
Every day of the years he’d spent in prison he’d dreamed of just that. Freedom. But he’d dreamed of what he’d do with that freedom.
He had no illusion of honor among thieves—he’d been one too long. But betrayals required payback. And payback drove him.
It drove him to Atlanta, where inquiries in the right ears, grease in the right palms, gave him information.
He stole the .25 from a split-level in Marietta, where some idiot had it unsecured in the nightstand, and took the 9mm from a desk drawer in the home office.
Kids in the house, too, he’d thought at the time as he’d done a sweep of a boy’s room, a girl’s room. Hell, he was saving lives here.
He’d left the kids the Xbox, but had taken the iPads, another laptop, the cash in the freezer, a diamond tennis bracelet, diamond studs, the cash rolled up in the jewelry box and, because they fit, a pair of sturdy hiking boots.
By the time he arrived in Villanova, the woman who’d hooked up with Jake was gone.
He picked the lockbox, took himself on a tour. Jake had done real well for himself, and that burned bitter in his throat.
He contacted the realtor using his drop phone, discovered it was a short sale. So maybe not so well after all.
He spent a few days in the area to get a better sense of things, then worked his way down to Tennessee.
He’d rented a cabin a good ten miles from Rendezvous Ridge—a three-month, under-the-table cash deal with the owner. He was Milo Kestlering here, out of Tallahassee, where he’d been middle management for a wholesale food company. Divorced, no kids.
He had plenty of filler to his new background if he needed it, but the landlord had been happy to take his money.
He had no contacts here, and had to be careful. More careful with cops sniffing around since Melinda’s murder.
Stupidity had killed her, in Harlow’s opinion. Maybe prison had dulled her edge, but either way, she wasn’t a factor anymore.
The redhead now, that was another matter. But he had what he wanted, for now. Enough to keep him busy, for now.
Cut it close at the boyfriend’s place, he thought. Pushed it, he admitted. Always better to go in an empty house—but the door was unlocked, and the laptop right there.
Still, he’d gotten the data.
He’d taken a risk walking right up to the redhead on the street, but he’d gotten what he wanted there, too. More, he’d seen no recognition in her eyes when she looked at him.
He wouldn’t have figured her for Jake’s type, but maybe that had been the point.
Plenty to think about there, but for tonight, he had the numbers right in front of him. He had pictures, he had e-mails. He had lives spread out on the screen.
He’d figure out what to do with them.
He’d figure o
ut what to do about them.
24
The wild rhododendrons burst into bloom along the banks of streams, flashed and flamed their way up the slopes. In the high country the starry yellow blossoms of bluebeard lily peeked out from fanning ferns going thick and green.
She took Callie on hikes and hunts to find them when she could, or just to sit and listen to the music of bluebirds and juncos. Once, from a safe distance, she let her girl share the wonder of watching a bear fish in a tumbling stream before he lumbered off into the green.
Callie celebrated her fourth birthday in the backyard of the house where her mother had grown up, with friends her own age, with family, with people who cared about her.
For Shelby it was the shiniest gift in the pile.
There was a chocolate cake shaped like a castle with all the characters from Shrek scattered around it, and games, and gifts, balloons and streamers.
“It’s the happiest birthday she’s ever had.”
Viola sat, her great-grandson in her arms, and watched the kids play on one of Callie’s treasured gifts. A Slip ’n Slide.
“She’s getting old enough to know what’s what about a birthday now.”
“It’s more than that, Granny.”
Viola nodded. “It’s more than that. Does she ever ask about her father?”
“She doesn’t. She hasn’t said a word about him since we came home. It’s like she’s forgotten him, and I don’t know if that’s right or wrong.”
“She’s happy. She’ll have questions one day, and you’ll have to answer them, but she’s happy. She sure has a love affair going on with Griff.”
Shelby smiled over to where a soaking wet Callie clung to Griff’s legs. “She does.”
“How about you?”
“I can’t deny we’ve got something going, and since where we are makes me happy, I’m not thinking too much where we’re going to end up.”
“You’ve lost most of the sad, worried look behind your eyes. You’ve got my eyes—through me, to Ada Mae, to you, and on to Callie,” Viola pointed out. “Don’t think I can’t read them.”
“I’d say the sad’s gone, and the worry’s lessened. Are you going to give up that baby and give somebody else a chance?”
Viola laid a kiss on Beau’s forehead. “Here you go. Sleeping like an angel right through all this noise. Go ahead and take him out in the sun for a few minutes. Not too long now, but I expect some vitamin D’s good for him.”
It felt wonderful to have a baby in her arms again, to feel the weight and the warmth, to smell the down of his hair. She looked over at her daughter. Such a big girl now, sprouting like a weed. And the yearning pulled and tugged inside her as Beau waved a hand in the air in his sleep.
When Clay, nearly as wet as the kids, walked over, she shook her head. “Don’t you even think about stealing this baby from me. You’re too wet to take him. Besides, I’ve barely had my turn.”
“I figured I wouldn’t get much chance to hold him today.”
“He favors you, Clay.”
“That’s what Mama says.”
“She’s right.”
“I’m after a beer—Gilly’s driving. You want one?”
“I’m sticking with lemonade until this is over.”
Still he put an arm around her shoulders, turned her so they walked to the big tub holding the beer. “Forrest filled me in on what’s going on with you.”
“I don’t want you to worry about any of that. You have a new baby to think about, not to mention Gilly and Jackson.”
He kept his arm around her. He had a way of hugging you in, and always had, Shelby thought, that made her feel cherished. “I’ve got plenty of room for my sister in my thinking-about book. Nobody who looks like this Harlow character’s come by work. I haven’t seen anybody like that around the neighborhood. I know the police are still looking—that’s what they have to do. But he’s most likely gone. Even so.”
He pulled out a beer, popped off the cap. “You be careful, Shelby. I feel better knowing Griff’s looking out for you.”
Instantly the shoulders he’d soothed tightened. “I’ve done a pretty good job looking out for myself.”
After a gulp of beer, Clay tapped a finger to her nose—another life-long habit. “Don’t get your nose out of joint. I like knowing you can take care of yourself. I like it better Griff’s looking out for you, too, so there’s no point getting pissy about it.”
“I’m not getting—” The baby stirred, let out a plaintive cry.
Clay glanced at his watch. “Like clockwork. Feeding time.”
“I’ll take him to Gilly.”
She wasn’t pissy, Shelby thought. A little annoyed, yes, and entitled to be. She’d gotten herself into a mess, no question about it, but she’d also put considerable time, effort and creativity into pulling herself and her child out of that mess.
She didn’t want to be “looked after.” It slid too close to what she’d let happen before. Hadn’t she allowed Richard to “look after” her? To make all the decisions, run the show, lead her where he wanted her to go?
It wouldn’t happen again. And she was going to make damn sure she showed her now four-year-old daughter what a woman could do if she worked hard enough, stood straight enough.
If she looked after herself.
• • •
LATER, SHE DEALT with party debris, carting in leftovers, bagging up trash. In the kitchen her mother and grandmother put the kitchen to rights.
“I’m making up a big batch of frozen margaritas,” Ada Mae announced. “Mama and I have a yen for some.”
“I could have a yen for a frozen margarita.”
“Forrest and your daddy will probably stick with beer.” While she worked, Ada Mae peered out the window, nodded. “Looks like they’ve about got the extra chairs and picnic tables put away. I don’t know what Matt and Griff have a yen for, but expect Emma Kate might join our margarita party. You ought to ask what they’d like to have.”
“I will.”
“Or maybe the four of you want to go on out for a while. Oh, look how sweet Griff is with Callie.” Ada Mae stopped to beam out the window now. “He’s tying balloons on her wrists.”
“She thinks if there’s enough of them on her, she’ll lift right off the ground.”
“And see there? He’s lifting her up, letting her pretend she’s flying. That man’s born to be a daddy. Some are,” she said as she got out her big blender. “Your brother Clay, for one. He’s so good with his babies. I wish they could’ve stayed awhile longer, but little Beau needed to go home, and Jackson was ready to fall asleep standing up. Callie, now, she’s still got energy enough.”
“Chocolate cake, and the excitement. She’ll be spinning until bedtime.”
“She sure does dote on Griff, and he right back on her. You can tell a man’s character by the way he treats children and animals, I say. You’ve got a winner there, Shelby. One who’s going to look after you right.”
“Ada Mae,” Viola said under her breath, casting her eyes heavenward even as Shelby spoke up.
“I’m looking after me.”
“Of course you are, honey! Just look what a bright, sweet child you’ve raised, and on your own, too. It sure eases my worries seeing you with such a good man—fine-looking, too. We met some of his people when they came down to visit and help him with the old Tripplehorn place. Fine, good people. You should go on out and ask him to Sunday dinner.”
Shelby’s heart began to throb. She knew what it meant when a southern woman talked about lineage and Sunday dinners.
“Mama, I’ve only been seeing Griff for a couple months.”
“He puts a light in you.” Cheerful, oblivious, Ada Mae dumped generous scoops of ice in the blender with the tequila and margarita mix. “Puts one in your baby girl, too. And Lord knows he looks at you
like you’re the double chocolate cream in the candy box. He’s got an easy way with friends and family, and has his own business. You don’t want to let a man like that slip away.”
“Let me help you with that, Ada Mae,” Viola said, and hit the switch on the blender to drown out any more words.
Shelby didn’t ask him to Sunday dinner, or suggest they go out with Matt and Emma Kate. She told herself she wasn’t avoiding him over the next several days—just that she had a lot to see to. Just that she had a point to make that she could see to her own.
She did just that with Callie off on a playdate with a new friend, and the afternoon free.
She took time to work on her next playlist—circling back to the second round of the fifties. And with the raise she’d gotten the week before at both jobs, she opted to funnel that extra into a single credit card payment.
If she kept being careful—didn’t buy any more new dresses no matter what her mama said—she should have another paid off by her own birthday in November.
That would be the best gift she could ask for.
At the knock on the front door, she closed the laptop, went down to answer.
Griff stood on the porch, smiled at her. “Hey.”
“Hey back.” She tried to fight off the flutter in her belly, and politely stepped back to let him in—stepped back just enough to avoid a hello kiss.
“Your mother wants shelves in the laundry room.”
“She has shelves in the laundry room.”
“She wants more.”
“That sounds like Mama. I’ll show you.”
“How’s it going?”
“Good. Busy, like I said before. I was just working on the next playlist, and dealing with paperwork. I never seem to dig out from under paperwork. Here you go. See? Shelves.”
“Uh-huh.” He stepped into the room off the kitchen, scanned the setup. “Decent size. Not much natural light. Plenty of shelves, but— She’d do better with cabinets over the washer and dryer. It’s half a mudroom, isn’t it?”
Drawn in, despite herself, on the idea of redesign, she frowned at the space. “I guess you could say it is. She and Daddy keep their gardening shoes and such in here, and winter boots, that kind of thing.”
The Liar Page 38