Frankie looked up at the fear he heard in her voice. She held the phone against her ear in a tight grip as she listened to the caller.
“No, you did the right thing,” Peyton said into the phone, her voice grim. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I won’t tell her you called.”
She tapped to end the call, then turned to Frankie.
“My mother’s not well.”
Shoving the phone back in her pocket, Peyton sighed.
“I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to go check on her,” she murmured. “She didn’t want to bother me, but her neighbor, Mrs. Epstein, says her fever’s back and well…”
“Yeah, of course, you better go check on your mom.” Frankie jumped up from his chair. “We’ll see each other when I get back.”
He tried to mask the disappointment that flooded through him. He knew the main reason Peyton had moved back to Willow Bay in the first place was to take care of her mother.
She didn’t come back here just to date my sorry ass, that’s for sure.
Forcing his feet to move, Frankie followed her to the door. When she stopped and turned back to him, he managed a weak smile.
“What did I do to deserve a boyfriend like you?” she whispered, lifting her face to his, and depositing a soft kiss on his lips. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Her words replayed in his head as she stepped through the door, but they didn’t have the effect he’d expected. He knew he should be ecstatic. The woman he loved had just called him her boyfriend. She’d pretty much said she couldn’t live without him.
But as he watched Peyton walk down the street and disappear around the corner, Frankie couldn’t shake a terrible feeling that he would never see her again.
✽ ✽ ✽
The light was on in the living room when Frankie walked up the narrow path and felt around in his pocket for his keys. Raised voices could be heard inside, even though he knew his mother was alone.
Overdressed housewives in some town or another were at it again, and his mother would be settled into her usual spot on the couch, transfixed by the drama.
Sometimes Frankie thought his mother was as addicted to her television as he was to his bottle.
She uses the noise to drown out the memories, and I use the booze.
Instead of turning to each other after Franny had died, they’d turned away, preferring the numbness and forgetfulness to the guilt and blame. And now, so many years later, that numbness had become an addiction. It felt so much better not to feel anything at all.
Pulling out his keyring, Frankie looked down at his hand, but he couldn’t make himself stick the key in the lock. His nerves were on edge and he wasn’t in the mood to pack and go to sleep.
Although his flight would be leaving just after dawn, there was no way he’d be able to sleep while he was still worrying about Peyton.
She’d come running when her mother had needed her just as she should have. After all Peyton had left a good job in Memphis to come home and take care of her.
A sliver of envy pierced Frankie as he imagined Peyton sitting quietly by her mother’s bedside, her conscience clear as she did what any good daughter would do.
So, what is a good son supposed to do? Let his sister die on the floor? Become a drunk and hide so he doesn’t have to face the truth?
He’d been hiding from it for so long, Frankie wasn’t sure what the truth was anymore. Too many years, too much booze, too many what ifs and regrets. Was he to blame for Franny’s death, or was it his mother’s fault? Did they blame each other or themselves?
Maybe it didn’t even matter who had caused the hurt and the pain. It was too late anyway. Scar tissue had hardened between them, and they could never fully heal. Never return to the way they’d once been.
Knowing he should go in and get some sleep, he shoved the keys back in his pocket and retraced his steps down the front path. Heading toward the corner, he pulled out his phone. Tapping on a number in his contact list, he held the phone to his ear and pushed back the craving for a drink.
Just one damn sip is all I need. Just a little taste.
He heard a click, then a grumpy voice sounded in his ear.
“What do you want, Frankie?”
“Hey, Little Ray, what’s up, man?”
✽ ✽ ✽
Approaching the corner of Citrus Drive and Huntington Street on foot, Frankie saw the sign for Fox Hollow Apartments just ahead. He’d tried to talk Little Ray into picking him up and driving him over, but the big man had flatly refused.
“I’ll give you Amber’s address,” Ray had finally conceded, “but I’m not going anywhere near her. I hear she’s in trouble with the feds, and I don’t need any new trouble.”
The parking lot was dark and quiet as Frankie searched for Unit 124. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. All he knew was he didn’t trust Amber, and he wanted to make sure she wasn’t a threat to Peyton before he left town.
As long as she doesn’t find out I’m messing with her case, it’s all good.
Of course, Amber was a suspect in the case he and Barker were working on for Willow Bay General as well, and confronting Amber would likely compromise his undercover work for the hospital.
Already regretting his rash actions, Frankie knocked on the door. He heard a scuffling sound inside, then the deadbolt clicked.
“Yeah?” Amber’s narrowed eyes and frizzy bangs appeared from behind a thick chain. “What do you want?”
Leaning forward to peer inside, Frankie tried to remember which kind of pills had gone missing from the hospital dispensary.
“Percs or benzos. Whatever you got.”
She studied him through the crack, then shut the door. He heard the chain rattle, then the door swung open.
“I know you. You’re Frankie, Little Ray’s friend.”
She produced a knowing smirk.
“An ex-con, right?”
“I did some time, but my conviction was overturned,” Frankie said, not sure why he was explaining himself. “You got something for me, or not?”
Moving back, Amber gestured for him to follow her inside, keeping her eyes on him as he stepped into the dim apartment.
“I thought Little Ray had gone clean.”
“He did, that’s why I’m coming to you,” Frankie muttered.
Amber laughed, as if he were joking, and stared at him.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta be careful who I do business with, you know.”
She stepped close enough to put a hand on his chest. Frankie tried not to recoil as she grinned up at him, her breath stale with cigarette smoke, her eyes slightly bloodshot.
“I’m having a little trouble with my supply chain, so I don’t have any benzos right now,” she said, leaning closer. “But if you’re looking for some fun, I may have just what you need.”
Lifting her hand off his chest, Frankie inched backward.
“I’m all good in that area, thanks anyway.”
Amber’s grin faded, and she shrugged.
“Suit yourself,” she said, suddenly bored. "Give me your number and I’ll give you a call once I can get more benzos.”
“Get ‘em from where?”
A suspicious frown settled over her face.
“Why the fuck do you care?”
“No reason,” Frankie said, holding up his hands. “Just making conversation.”
The frowned deepened.
“You working for the cops? Or the feds? Did Detective Bell send you here to try to trap me into fucking up my immunity deal?”
“Immunity? For what?”
The surprised look on Frankie’s face seemed to convince Amber that he had no idea what she was talking about.
“It doesn’t matter. Forget it,” Amber muttered, her anger disappearing as swiftly as it had come. “Some bitch of a detective is trying to railroad me. She thinks she’s smart, but she doesn’t know who she’s messing with.”
Resisting the urge to defend his girlfrien
d’s honor, Frankie decided it was best not to give Amber any reason to suspect he even knew Peyton.
“I wouldn’t mess with the WBPD if I were you,” he said, trying to sound casual. “They threw my ass in the state pen for no reason, so you never know what they might do if you piss them off.”
“Not me. I’m no pushover like you.”
Amber didn’t bother hiding her disdain.
“I haven’t gone to jail yet, and I don’t plan to start now.”
He nodded as if impressed, then cocked his head.
“You actually got them to offer you immunity?”
“Yep, all I gotta do is give them some info about a supplier I know, and they’ll let me off with a slap on the hand.”
Frankie widened his eyes.
“You aren’t scared to snitch out your supplier?”
“I don’t call it snitching,” she said in a smug voice. “I’m just selling information, and the payment is my freedom. Besides Mack is just a nobody. A middleman. There’s nothing he can do.”
Amber seemed pleased with herself, and Frankie decided he was pleased as well. From what he could tell, Amber posed no immediate threat to Peyton, and she was under an immunity agreement which would limit her ability to do more harm in the community.
Although Amber hadn’t admitted she was getting her pills from someone at the hospital, Frankie was beginning to feel that it had been a productive visit.
As he closed Amber’s door behind him, and headed back toward Citrus Drive, he decided the only thing that could go wrong would be Peyton finding out he’d butted into her case.
Unless Amber mentions to Peyton that I came by looking for drugs.
The thought killed his good mood. Now he had another secret to keep from Peyton. Unless he admitted to what he’d done.
But he’d jeopardized her case, maybe even her job. If he told her, would she ever trust him again? No, better to keep it a secret.
After all, it’s just a secret, and secrets aren’t technically lies, are they?
Chapter Eighteen
Amber slid the chain back into place and turned the deadbolt. She leaned against the door and stared into the quiet room, suddenly wishing she had talked Frankie into staying. He seemed like an okay guy, and she could have used a little company. The place had begun to feel very empty without the steady stream of buyers and sellers that usually filled her apartment.
Crossing the room, she stared down at her open laptop, wondering if Mack had responded to her message. She’d have to deliver on her promise soon, or the snobby state prosecutor may decide to tear up her immunity agreement.
A sharp knock stopped her before she could sit down. Wondering if Frankie might have come back to take her up on her offer, she hurried to the door, pulled back the chain, and turned the deadbolt.
The man outside wasn’t Frankie. He pushed past Amber and scanned the room with hard, wary eyes.
“What was Frankie Dawson doing in here?’
“None of your business,” she snapped, flustered by his sudden appearance. “Now, what do you want?”
The man grabbed her arm, his fingers digging in hard.
“Don’t get smart with me,” he said, his voice cold. “You think your deal with the feds protects you from the Syndicate?”
Wrenching her arm away, Amber stepped back.
“What do you care about Frankie, anyway?” she muttered. “He’s just some ex-con who wanted to get high.”
The man shook his head.
“No, he’s a private investigator who thinks he’s some kind of glorified detective,” the man sneered. “And he has a habit of sticking his nose in other people’s business.”
Amber frowned, replaying her conversation with Frankie. She hadn’t said anything incriminating, had she?
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “He’s not a problem.”
“No, but his new girlfriend might be.”
Rubbing at her bruised arm, she met the man’s cold stare.
“Yeah? Who’s his girlfriend?”
“Detective Peyton Bell.”
A flush of humiliation flooded through Amber at his words. She cringed at the thought of how easily she’d fallen for Frankie’s little routine.
The rotten creep played me, and I fell for it like an idiot.
At least she hadn’t told Frankie anything Peyton hadn’t already known. There was nothing he could do with the information.
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter,” Amber insisted. “I didn’t tell him shit, so don’t worry.”
“I am worried, as are my friends in the Syndicate,” he said, moving closer. “They asked me to remind you to keep your mouth shut. They think you might say too much.”
Amber lifted her chin and tensed her body, preparing to put up a hell of a fight. She didn’t care how many connections he had at the WBPD or how high up he was in the Syndicate. He wasn’t going to lay a finger on her.
“I know what to do,” Amber muttered between clenched teeth. “And you can tell your buddies to back the fuck off.”
Studying Amber’s flushed face, the man seemed to be contemplating his next words carefully.
“You know a girl named Misty Bradshaw?”
The question took her by surprise, and she hesitated, then nodded. Misty had run out on her after only a few months. The girl still owed her a considerable amount of money.
“She’s the one who ratted you out” he stated bluntly. “Filed an official statement and everything. I thought you should know.”
The man moved toward the door, as Amber struggled to hide the rage building inside her at the revelation of Misty’s betrayal.
With one hand on the door, the man looked back.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any new girls in the pipeline, would you?” he asked. “Anyone who might be available soon?”
“I thought you were too high and mighty to go with my girls,” she replied stiffly. “Ready to go slumming after all?”
“It’s not for me,” he snapped in disgust. “I’ve got a buyer on the hook, so let me know. I could use the money.”
Amber watched the door slam shut behind him, then hurried to her laptop. She felt a grim surge of satisfaction at the sight of Mack’s reply on the darknet message board, suddenly glad she had waited to schedule the pickup.
She had a job for him to do first. Once Mack had taken care of her latest problem, she could decide if she would turn him into the cops, or if she’d just keep jerking them along.
Perhaps the warning from the Syndicate should scare her into keeping her mouth shut, but she doubted they’d be too concern about a low-level middleman like Mack.
In the animal kingdom he’d be a worker bee, or an ant. Just a body used to move things from one place to another. The Syndicate might not even notice he’d gotten snagged. Or if they did, they wouldn’t know she’d been the one who’d set him up.
Of course, they’d found out about Misty going to the cops, so maybe they would know if she worked with the feds.
Maybe next time they pay me a visit, I’ll be the one who goes missing.
Typing out a message on the darknet board, Amber decided she’d have to worry about that later. Right now, she needed Mack to help her out, and she couldn’t afford to wait.
This isn’t the time to start losing my nerve.
The man with the Kentucky accent didn’t seem any more dangerous than the other men she’d had to deal with in her life. All she had to do was offer him enough money, and he’d been on his way.
She clicked Submit on the message and closed out the browser. Refusing to think of Mack, or Frankie, or Detective Bell, Amber shuffled toward the bedroom.
It was time to get some sleep. She would find out in the morning if Mack had accepted her offer, and if so, she would need all her wits about her. Tomorrow might be a very busy day.
Chapter Nineteen
The sunlight filtered into the crowded meeting room, drawing Misty Bradshaw’s eyes to the gorgeous spring day ou
tside. The Narcotics Anonymous meeting was scheduled to last another twenty minutes, but Misty had already told Dr. Horn that she had a job interview and would need to leave early.
Slipping past the rows of metal folding chairs, Misty tiptoed to the back of the room and pushed through the door, trying not to make a sound. The Hope House lobby was empty as she crossed to the big glass doors and stepped out into the sunshine.
If she hurried, she would have just enough time to stop by the room she was renting and change clothes. She was planning to wear the navy-blue skirt suit she’d found at the tiny thrift store behind the Willow Bay Methodist Church. It made her feel like a grown up for the first time in her life.
She walked toward the street, too nervous and excited about the interview ahead to notice the dirty white Camry parked by the curb.
“Misty!”
Pausing at the sound of her name, she looked over to see a thin woman in skinny jeans and a baggy black sweatshirt leaning against the Camry. Thick bangs cast a shadow over the woman’s sharp features, but Misty recognized Amber Sloan right away.
“Hey, Misty, can I talk to you?”
Bile rose in Misty’s throat as she quickened her step, keeping her eyes fixed to the pavement ahead of her.
“Come on, Misty, I just want to say I’m sorry.”
Footsteps sounded behind her on the pavement, and a soft hand fell on her shoulder. Misty spun around, her eyes wide with fear and anger as she faced the woman who still haunted her dreams.
“Go away, Amber.”
Misty’s voice shook with emotion as she looked around, hoping to see someone who might help her, but the sidewalk was empty.
“I don’t want to…to see you, or to talk to you,” she stammered. “I’m sober now. I’m finally thinking straight, and I know what you did to me, and to the other girls, is wrong.”
“That’s why I want to apologize,” Amber said, her voice softer than Misty remembered, her eyes not as hard. “I’ve gotten sober, too. Or at least I’m trying.”
Frowning in confusion, Misty shook her head.
“You told me you never used your own supply.”
“I lied,” Amber admitted. “How else could I have done all those terrible things? That wasn’t me, not the real me.”
Her Silent Spring Page 12