by Liz Schulte
“And Bryan, if I can swing it. But I have an appearance at the local bookstore, so who knows?”
I ended the call when Fagan came back to the car. He got in and melted into his seat without starting the engine. The stress of two murders was cracking his vote-for-me shell. The polished sheriff with a smile for everyone and permanently tanned skin and sun-kissed hair looked disheartened. “Do you want to get a drink?”
I nodded. I didn’t need the drink, but Fagan definitely looked like he did. He started the car and promptly drove past all the taverns in Jackson and started out of town. “Where are you taking me?” My heartbeat increased as I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.
His too-white teeth glowed in the dark car. “Nervous?”
“Fagan—”
“Call me Carter.”
“Where are you taking me?”
He stared straight ahead. “Smithton. I told you I have an image to maintain in Jackson.”
The drive was quiet and uneventful. He took me to a large, somewhat posh establishment. I looked around at the gold swirled sign that read “Horton’s” with an established date below. The inside had low lighting and deep, rich wood. The booth backs were high, and as I slid in, the leather was soft beneath my hands. Very nice. Either Fagan thought I would be impressed—though I couldn’t imagine why; I’d already taken him to my favorite dive—or he had expensive tastes. The latter was curious, though; I had trouble believing his occupation could support too expensive of tastes. A young waitress in all black and ultra straight hair came to our table.
“Well, I haven’t seen you in for a while.” She smiled at him. “How’ve you been?”
He returned the smile with a slight glint in his eyes. “Great. Can I get a Patron?”
“Sure thing.” She looked at me expectantly.
“She’ll have a vodka tonic,” he answered before I could order water.
I kicked him under the table. “I can order for myself.”
“Were you going to get water?”
“Maybe.”
“Then you couldn’t order for yourself. I see it written all over your face. You know what you want. Why are you not taking it?”
So many reasons. If I had one drink, would I fall back into my old patterns? I already saw ghosts without drinking. How much worse could it get? Would imbibing dull my senses for this investigation? Would I let my guard down around Fagan? “You don’t know as much about me as you’d like to think.”
The waitress set our glasses down and hurried away. Fagan nudged my drink to me. “So you’re saying you don’t want this?”
“Not if you want me to have it,” I grumbled.
He laughed, finally breaking the icy barrier that had surrounded him since he picked me up that morning. “Don’t make me drink alone, Ella. Not tonight.”
Had he looked anything but pathetic, I wouldn’t have even considered it. But he looked like he could use a friend—and I was the only one there. “So why are you with me and not a real friend?”
“Because you don’t like me, therefore there’s no pressure to behave any certain way. It’s nice not to have to be who they think you are for a while.”
I didn’t really understand. People didn’t like me all the time, but I never felt any sort of relief from it. I didn’t really care one way or another. I was always me. I felt most comfortable with Gabriel, and he saw me the most clearly of anyone. “You like hanging out with people who don’t like you?”
“Apparently.”
I shook my head. “Hmmm, maybe if you were just yourself and not what other people want you to be, you’d enjoy being with people who actually like you.” I thought about it a moment longer. “Or maybe you just don’t like yourself very much right now.”
Fagan threw back his drink. “Very insightful.”
I bit my lip to keep from picking him apart further. It was hard to stop once I started, but I certainly wasn’t going to get him to talk to me by telling him what was wrong with him. “You want me to like you? Tell me about yourself.”
“Oh, so the time for a heart-to-heart and to braid each other’s hair has arrived at last?”
I bit the inside of my cheek as I looked at him. “I guess.”
“Then have a drink.”
I bit my lip, but wrapped my fingers around the cold glass. As the perfect blend of lime, tonic water, and vodka touched my lips, I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy the sensation as it slid down my throat and warmed me in a way that was far too right. Fagan smiled at his small victory. “So.” I prompted.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why are you a cop? Where are you from? Are you married, divorced, gay?”
“I’m a police officer because I always wanted to be one. I’m from Jackson. I’m not married, divorced, or gay.”
Hmmm. Only answering my exact questions. Very tricky. I’d have to try harder. I was mulling over my next question when he asked his own.
“How serious are you with Detective Troy? Who else have you interviewed? Why are you so determined to be involved in this case?”
I rapped my knuckles on the table a couple times, weighing my options. I had questions I wanted answered and already knew he was a lightweight when it came to drinking. It was only a matter of time before he was drunk enough to share his secrets, so long as I played nice. “Alfie Laurie, Caleb Monroe, and Bryan Jenkins. I wasn’t determined to be involved. Jennifer talked me into coming here, but now the more I look at the case, the more it sinks its claws into me. I have to know the ending. I have to know what was worth killing these people over.”
“What if the killer’s gone?”
“He’s not.”
He shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like “rookie.” “What about Detective Troy?”
“Gabriel is…” None of your business. “…the best thing to come into my life in a very long time.”
“So you’re pretty committed, huh?”
“What does it matter, Fagan? You aren’t interested in me.”
He finished his drink. “You’re growing on me.”
“I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
“See, direct. I like that.”
“Hmph.” I reached for my glass, but it was empty. I hardly remembered drinking it. Fagan motioned to the waitress to bring two more. “Why no girlfriend? Had you ever worked a murder before Mary? And why are you so intent on making me drink?”
“I had a girlfriend, but we… broke up. I’ve worked murders before Mary Nelson. And it seems like alcohol might get the stick out of your ass.”
The waitress dropped off the next round, and I took a drink from my fresh glass. “You’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
“I’m starting to grow on you, aren’t I? Did you really see ghosts? Where does your family live?”
“You have your moments. I did see ghosts. My family’s dead.”
And so it went, for at least two hours. Drinking and firing random questions at each other. It was a game and hard to tell who was winning. We both answered as vaguely as possible, not wanting to give anything away. By the time we paid the check, my face was partially numb and my vision blurry—I didn’t have the tolerance I used to. Fagan flung his arm around my shoulders as we walked, or somewhat stumbled, outside.
“See I told you. Alcohol. The number one stick-from-ass remover.”
I snorted. “But now we’re stuck. We can’t get home.” Then I had a sobering thought. “I’ll have to call Gabriel, and he will not be pleased.”
Fagan waved my worries away and charged down the sidewalk, still limping slightly, and dragging me with him. We walked past his car and turned down a quiet, old residential street. After a couple blocks, he headed up the driveway of an old brick two-story home.
“Do you know these people?” I asked, half concerned and half finding the entire situation hilarious.
“It’s my house.” He pulled out a key and pushed me through the door in front of him. He flipped
on the lights, and I looked around.
It was a cute house, but what was the Sheriff of Jackson doing living in Smithton? “You live here?”
“No. I inherited it. I only use it when I need to blow off steam. I haven’t been up here for months.”
I went to the bay window and looked out over the dimly lit street. It was still dark enough I could see stars in the sky, but not so dark that I couldn’t see the neighbors’ yards.
“Why am I one of your suspects?” His breath tickled my ear. I froze. He was too close.
“You’re not—how did you know?”
He didn’t move away. His hot breath gushed against the collar of my shirt. “Do you think I’m stupid, Ms. Reynolds?”
I turned around ever so slowly, backing away slightly. “You’ve gone out of your way to keep me from investigating this.”
He advanced, backing me against the wall. The still functional part of my brain told me I was the stupid one. What was I doing in his house in Smithton after a night of drinking without even telling Gabriel? “Are you scared, Ms. Reynolds?”
My breath was shallow. “No.”
“Liar,” he whispered, pressing his hands against the wall on either side of me and leaning in.
My mind may have been sluggish, but my instincts were fine. I stomped on the same foot I got after the Laurie’s party.
“Son of bitch!” He lifted the foot on instinct, hopped a couple times, then stopped his advance and limped away. “Will you stop doing that? I’ll never walk the same again.”
My pounding heart reminded me I was a liar. I was scared out of my mind. I stayed pressed against the wall, not quite ready to let go yet.
“I’m not going to hurt you, or anyone, Ella. I’m not your suspect.”
“But you are hiding something about the case. There’s a reason you don’t want me investigating.”
He sat on the couch and rested his elbows against his knees. “If I tell you, will you swear it doesn’t leave this room or make it into your book?”
I nodded once.
Fagan stood up, then sat back down, crossed and uncrossed his legs. His nervousness filled the room and he shifted again. Finally he seemed to come to some sort of decision, and he started talking in a slow measured tone. “I knew this would come back to haunt me; I just didn’t think it would be quite so soon.” His smile was wry. “You see this investigation was a bad time in my life. I just lost my girlfriend. I was angry, hurt, and…” He trailed off and his hands rose in a helpless gesture. “There was no evidence.”
“But maybe I can find something you missed.”
“That’s what I’m scared of. Not solving the case rocked the town’s faith in me. If you, a writer no less, come in and solve a case I couldn’t, how will they ever trust me again?”
“Isn’t it better to know who the killer is than to worry about something that may or may not happen?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know anymore. I’ve made my decisions and must live with them. But I’m not hiding any grand piece of evidence from you. What you have is all there is.” He rubbed his face hard. “I’m beat. I’ll show you to a room.”
He walked me upstairs and directed me to a room to the right of the staircase. I locked the door behind me and lay on the bed. Dust billowed up around me, making me sneeze. Fantastic. After several minutes, or maybe an hour, of not falling asleep, I got up. I crept back downstairs to get a drink. I filled a glass in the kitchen sink, then padded around the living room. I looked at his shelves. There were old family pictures, some DVDs, various electronic devices, and a few books. I plucked a particularly worn spine from the shelf and examined it. A mystery, should have known. I returned the book, but it wouldn’t slide in all the way. I reached to the back of the shelf and felt around in the darkness. A slender book had turned sideways in the back, blocking my way. I pulled it out and slid the mystery back in. The red leather-covered book in my hand looked new. I flipped through the pages and saw handwriting. Girlish handwriting.
My breath caught. I tucked the journal into the back of my pants, picked up my water, and went quietly to the stairs. Halfway up, Fagan appeared at the top. The shadows made him seem huge and ominous. “Did you need something?” His voice was quiet, but did I hear a threat in his tone?
“Water.” I held up my glass in thankfully steady hands.
He nodded. “Goodnight, Ella.”
“Goodnight.” I squeezed past him and back into the room, once again locking the door behind me. I lay in the bed with the cover pulled up to my chin and the diary pressing into my back until I was sure he must be asleep. I silently pulled the thin notebook out and opened it to the first page.
“Property of Mary Nelson” was written in her distinct script. I placed the book in my purse, making sure to bury it under my wallet and a random collection of scrap pieces of paper and envelopes with notes to myself scrawled all over them. I took out my phone and texted Gabriel. “Fagan has the diary. Do not call. Will explain everything tomorrow.”
He responded within minutes. “Where are you?”
“At Fagan’s house in Smithton.”
This response took longer. “There better be a damn good story to go with this.”
“Tomorrow. Promise.”
I lay in bed until the sun lifted in the horizon and turned the sky pink. Then I went to the restroom and splashed water on my face, hoping I didn’t look as tired or scared as I felt. Fagan lied right to my face. He had the diary this whole time. What was in it that he felt he had to hide? Was he the older boyfriend? I could think of nothing but reading it. However, I refrained, not wanting to risk getting caught in such close quarters. I opened the door and there stood Fagan.
I jumped, hand flying to my chest.
He raised an eyebrow. “Sleep well?”
I nodded and squeezed past him. “Busy day today. I thought we should get back early.” My voice had adopted a false chipper quality that I couldn’t seem to stop.
“Okay,” he said and retreated back to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
I rushed to my bedroom and shoved my hand into my purse. Relief filled me when my fingers closed around the journal. I slung my purse over my shoulder, made sure I had my phone, and went downstairs. I sat in the living room, nervously tapping my foot. Fagan’s footsteps made heavy thumps as he came down.
“Breakfast?”
I looked up, forced a smile. “Sure.”
“I don’t keep food here, but there’s a café near where I parked the car.”
“Are we near campus?”
He gave me an odd look, but nodded. We put on our coats and headed into the frigid morning air. By the time we reached the café, my sinuses were icicles. The restaurant was almost full, but we were squeezed into a small table near the kitchen. I looked over the menu, but couldn’t concentrate on anything other than what was in my purse, not three feet away from him. When the waiter came over, I still had no idea what to order and said the first thing that caught my eye on the menu. “Eggs Benedict.”
“With hash browns or home fries?”
“Ummm, home fries.”
“White or whole wheat toast.”
“Wheat?”
“What would you like to drink?”
“Uh, coffee.” I felt like he was picking on me. Asking too many questions. Making it obvious I didn’t do a good job reading my choices.
“Cream or sugar?”
I resisted the urge to groan. “Black.” I hoped he wouldn’t come up with another question to ask. Luckily he didn’t and moved on to Fagan, who ordered the farmer’s special, which seemed like an enormous amount of food. I’d be stuck there for ages.
“You’re quiet this morning.”
“Surprise, I’m not a morning person,” I said flatly, figuring if I was too nice, he’d be really suspicious.
He chuckled. “I should’ve known.” The waiter poured us coffee. “Do you have plans for the day, other than the signing at the bookstore?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Do we ever really know anyone?”
“Much too deep for breakfast.” I took a sip of the scalding coffee, forgetting to blow on it.
“May I join you?” Gabriel’s voice made me instantly choke on what little coffee I did manage to drink.
Fagan gave him a cool smile. Tears ran down my cheeks as I struggled to breathe. “What a coincidence meeting you here.” His voice was dry, verging on annoyed. “You always seem to be in the right place, detective.”
Gabriel sat down, patting me on the back. “I’d say I was in the neighborhood, but I wasn’t.” He rested his hand on my chair when he was reasonably certain I wasn’t going to die. “I decided it wasn’t fair for Ella to keep imposing on you. I took some vacation time to help her out, since the situation’s escalated.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant the situation with the case or the situation of Fagan spending too much time alone with me. Either way, my hackles rose. I didn’t need him to charge in and save me. I had everything under control. I asked him for help and he ignored me. Now all of a sudden, after one night alone with Fagan, he was a knight in shining armor.
“We’re a little out of your jurisdiction.” Fagan didn’t even attempt his winning smile. “But I assure you, the situation is under control. I was going to assign a deputy to shadow her and the other witnesses she spoke with.”
“Well, now you don’t need to.”
Fagan’s phone buzzed and he excused himself from the table, stepping out of the restaurant.
“What are you doing here?” I knocked his hand off of my chair. “How did you even find me?”
“I traced your cell phone.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that’s illegal.”
“Well, you ran off to a town where I can’t protect you. Then you texted me in the middle of the night to say you’re in a house alone with a man who”—he glanced to make sure Fagan was still outside—“you suspect is a murderer and who happens to have the dead girl’s diary in his house. What the hell was I supposed to do?” he hissed. “For all I knew, you’d be dead this morning.”