by Meghan March
“Come on. Let’s get you in the shower.”
Boone lifts me into his arms and carries me into the bathroom, not setting me on my feet until we’re in the glass enclosure with the water beating down.
My limbs are unsteady but I have Boone to lean on, and I finally let myself do exactly that.
38
Boone
With Ripley in one of my T-shirts and a pair of boxer shorts, we make our way back to the kitchen.
“I’m starving,” she says over the rumble of her stomach.
“Then let’s get you fed.”
I snag the bucket of chicken from where I left it and offer it to her.
“Oh, hell yes.” She tears into a piece and shoves the silver envelope on the counter toward me with her free hand. “I said yes. Well, technically I said I’d say yes after a lawyer gives me the all-clear.”
Only Ripley would be so casual about signing a record deal.
“This calls for champagne, sugar.” I spin around and yank open the fridge to grab my just-in-case bottle of Dom from beside the ketchup. When I pull it out, Ripley laughs.
“It’s such a cliché that you keep bottles of Dom handy in your fridge.”
“You never know when you’re going to need to celebrate. Plus, Ma loves this stuff, and I keep it on hand for her when she comes.”
Ripley shakes her head at me but watches as I produce two glasses, pop the cork, and pour. “It’s like you’ve done this before.”
“A time or two. Life’s too short not to celebrate every chance you get. And today, this is all about you. I’m really fucking proud of you, sugar. I think you’re making the right move. Cheers to you and an amazing future.”
She accepts a glass of champagne and lifts it to clink against mine. “Cheers to us. Because I wouldn’t be in this position if not for you.” She pauses. “But I don’t want you to ever think that me falling in love with you has a damn thing to do with this. Because it doesn’t.”
I freeze with my glass to my lips. “What did you say?”
Her face goes soft, losing that guarded edge she’s always had. “I’m falling in love with you, but it doesn’t have anything to do with—”
I come around the island and lower my glass to the granite.
“Stop right there so we can get a couple things straight. First, you’re not falling in love with me, Ripley. You’re already there. You’ve been there since you charged a bull to get to me. Maybe before, but that’s when I knew it for sure. I will never think this has anything to do with it, because you’ve made it clear in every word and action that you don’t expect a damn thing from me. But you know what? That just makes me want to give you even more. Because you won’t ask for it. You don’t expect it.” I pause and meet those stormy gray eyes. “Ripley, if you’ll let me, I’ll give you everything.”
A small smile turns up the corners of her trembling lips. “How about we start with you giving me my car back?”
39
Ripley
I fell asleep with Boone wrapped around me and woke up the same way. In the early-morning hours, he made love to me in his bed, telling me how beautiful I was and how glad he was to have me in his life.
Before we drifted off again, he whispered, “Never letting you go.”
I feel the exact same way.
When I wake up the second time, it’s to an empty bed. I pop out of it when I hear a door close somewhere else in the house. I toss Boone’s T-shirt on and make a mental note to bring some clothes over later so I’m not constantly stealing his.
I peek my head out of the bedroom, and my jaw drops.
It appears Boone beat me to it. He walks toward me loaded down with two duffel bags that I recognize and a box.
“I went to Hope’s and got your stuff. I was gonna ask if you wanted to officially move in, but I decided to skip that step.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absofuckinglutely. I want to be able to wake up with you every damned day.”
Maybe it was the early-morning orgasm, or maybe the fact that the glow of my declaration of love is still so fresh, but I decide not to argue.
“Okay.”
This time it’s Boone wearing the look of surprise. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good with it. I mean, Esteban is already here . . .”
“I knew keeping the parrot was a smart move.” Boone winks at me and carries my stuff into the bedroom.
* * *
Two hours later, I finally pull on my own clothes, and Boone and I head out to meet with one of his lawyers to go over the contract. Holly already sent it to them via email, and now he wants to go over the details in person.
“Don’t you have something else you should be doing?” I ask Boone as traffic slows near downtown.
“Something more important than making sure you know exactly what you’re signing up for with this? Definitely not.”
“But I thought you were supposed to be writing a new album and—”
“I did.”
My head jerks to the side. “What?”
Boone’s smile could light up the cab of the truck. “Turns out you’re a hell of a muse. I’ve written forty-seven songs since the day we met, and fourteen of them are going on my next album.”
“Are you serious? Holy shit.”
“I know I make it look easy, but I worked my ass off when you weren’t around so I could take every chance I had to spend time with you.”
A warmth spreads through me, and I reach out to squeeze Boone’s hand. He doesn’t let go, but instead keeps our fingers interlocked all the way to the parking garage.
Two hours later, my signature is on the bottom of a contract with Homegrown Records. Boone’s lawyer—actually, now my lawyer—negotiated the points he had issues with over the phone with Homegrown’s counsel, and we made a deal.
Once my signed copy is emailed to Holly, I get a call. I put it on speaker because it’s only Boone and me in the small conference room now.
“Hell yes, girl! This is going to be freaking phenomenal! Get ready, because we’re prepping the press release, and you’re going to be on everyone’s radar in a few hours.”
Boone wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his lap.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Holly. I’m incredibly excited.”
“You and me both. Gotta go. I’ll be in touch.”
Boone presses a kiss to my forehead. “I think it’s time for another bottle of Dom and a hell of a fancy dinner.”
40
Ripley
It doesn’t take long for the news to spread like wildfire. Boone and I left a restaurant a few hours later, and the cameras were flashing along with the questions being tossed at us. Instead of answering, I waved and climbed into the back of the SUV Anthony drove us in, expecting this kind of reaction.
My phone immediately started going nuts too. It seemed that every single person I’ve ever known has something to say to me now that I’m somebody. After I told Hope the ink was dry on the contract, I didn’t answer any calls. Hope was thrilled for me, but sad that I was leaving the White Horse, although she did extend an invitation for me to come back and perform anytime I want.
Even her making the offer was surreal.
I turn my phone off for the rest of the night, and when I turn it on in the morning, I immediately wish I hadn’t. Seventeen new voice mails.
File those under nope, not happening.
Boone and I are making breakfast in the kitchen after an amazing morning of shutting out the world when Anthony pokes his head inside the house.
“Boss, I got a guy out at the gate who’s looking to talk to Ms. Fischer.”
I close the fridge after retrieving a carton of orange juice. “A reporter?” I ask, which is just another indication of how much my life has changed overnight. Holly was absolutely right about that.
Anthony shakes his head and holds out a card. “Says he’s a private investigator.”
That’s when I remember
Boone grabs the card and brings it over to me.
* * *
Morton Twining
Private Investigator
* * *
I look to Boone. “He has to be the one investigating Mama’s murder.”
“You want to talk to him?”
Both men are watching me as I weigh the question. Finally, I reply.
“I want to put the past behind me so I can move on. Let it go. If he’s figured something out, then I want to know.”
“It’s totally up to you, sugar.”
I give Anthony a nod. “Let him in.”
“Will do, boss lady.”
Anthony shuts the door behind him, and Boone glances down at my bare legs.
“You might want to find some pants first.”
* * *
Morton Twining is quite possibly the most unassuming man I’ve ever met. He can’t be more than an inch taller than me, and although his frame isn’t frail, it’s definitely not bulky. His light brown hair is thin on top, and his khaki-colored jacket conceals a red-and-blue plaid shirt tucked into khaki pants.
He’s very . . . blah.
Once we’re seated in the living room, introductions out of the way, Mr. Twining asks his first question.
“Did you publish any songs under your name about twenty years ago, Ms. Fischer?”
What the hell?
“Excuse me?” Boone stiffens on the couch beside me.
Mr. Twining pulls a folder from his brown leather briefcase and lays it on the coffee table. “Since I took on this case, I’ve been doing a lot of digging in odd places, and one of those places led me to four songs published by Ripley Fischer and Gil Green twenty years ago.”
The name Gil Green stands out like a beacon. “Gil Green was my mother’s . . . They were . . .”
Twining nods. “Yes, I’m aware. Which is why I thought it was odd that your name was attached to them. The royalties have been accruing to a trust in Green’s estate all this time, and no one thought anything of it until his wife passed away about three weeks ago. The lawyers couldn’t figure out who Ripley Fischer was and why she was the beneficiary of this particular trust.”
Boone squeezes my hip. “That’s really friggin’ weird.”
“Indeed, which is why I wanted to confirm with you that these weren’t part of some pet project you and Green might have done when you were a child.”
I shake my head. “No. I only met him in passing a couple times. He gave me a guitar once. We never had any kind of relationship.”
Twining shuts his briefcase and rises from his seat.
“That’s it?”
“I suspect I’ll have more questions for you, and the estate will be in touch. Soon, I’d bet. I’m getting closer, but the trail is taking an unexpected turn.”
“Unexpected how?”
He dodges the question. “I’ll be in touch, Ms. Fischer. You can keep those copies. I thought you might like to see some of what I assume is your mother’s work.”
And with that, Boone leads him out of the living room.
Well, isn’t that just the weirdest freaking thing? I pick up the folder off the table and flip it open to the first page of sheet music. It’s a duet about forbidden love.
Nope. Not reading it. It’s not like I need more proof of my mother’s infidelity.
The name of the second song gives me pause.
“Envy Green on the Vine.”
The lyrics are terrible, but I read them anyway. It’s all about wanting what someone else has, and wondering how far they’ll go to take it from you.
Shivers prickle into chill bumps on my skin.
Who were they writing about? My mom being envious of Gil Green’s wife? Or someone being envious of what my mom had?
I get to the final verse and read it three times.
* * *
From the stage in that bar,
I play my guitar,
waiting for a knife in my back.
But as we pile on those lies,
I thank God that I
hid the truth behind
old Willie’s eyes.
* * *
It feels like it should mean something, but it makes absolutely no freaking sense.
Who would Mama have been waiting for a knife in the back from? Or was it Gil who feared someone? And what the hell does it mean to hide the truth behind old Willie’s eyes?
Boone comes back into the living room. “You okay?”
I nod and look back at the lyrics again before handing the page to him. “Will you read this? That last verse is totally throwing me off.”
He takes the paper and his eyes move back and forth as he reads the words. “How can you hide the truth behind someone else’s eyes? That part doesn’t make sense to me either.”
“I have no idea. It doesn’t—” I cut myself off. “Wait. Willie. Willie Nelson. There’s a picture of him in the bar. What if . . . what if this really is about my mama, and she hid something behind it?” I know I sound crazy, but my suggestion isn’t that much crazier than these lyrics.
“Behind the picture? Really? You think she would have?”
“I don’t know, but if she were going to hide something, that wouldn’t be a bad place. It’s not like anyone would look. Those things are screwed to the wall. No one ever moves them, and nothing has been added since Mama died. She was the one who put them all in frames and hung them herself.”
Boone sits down on the couch next to me. “You really want to dig into this?”
Part of me wants to say no, because I’ve just accepted an opportunity that’s going to completely change my future. But a bigger part says now is the time to put the past to rest so I can let it go.
“This has been hanging over my head for two-thirds of my life. It’s always been the unanswered question, and I feel like I need closure. Maybe then I could move on and focus on the future.”
Boone nods. “All right. So, what do you want to do?”
“I think I need to go to the Fishbowl.”
41
Boone
Going back to the Fishbowl wasn’t on my list of things to do today, but there’s no way I’m letting Ripley go by herself. Last we heard, Ripley’s dad hasn’t been arrested or charged based on the video evidence that had gotten the charges against me dropped. I suspect it’s because the cops want to put the case behind them rather than getting involved in proceedings that will constantly highlight the fact that they screwed up.
Even so, Brandy knows Ripley turned the tape in, and I’m not taking a chance of Brandy getting a shot at her. On top of that, I don’t care if we’re talking about a twenty-year-old cold case, the murderer is still out there.
“Can you pull up the security feeds on my laptop? See if there’s anyone there?”
Ripley’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a good idea.”
“Have a few of those now and again.”
She rises on her toes to press a kiss to my lips. “How about you have an awesome idea later when we’re naked?”
“Deal.”
She flips open the laptop and pulls up the website. Except instead of seeing the inside of the bar like I did the last time she pulled up this page, it’s just black. Ripley hits a couple of keys and nothing happens.
“Dammit. They must have disabled the cameras after the cops confronted Brandy with the video.”
Shit. “So that means we’re going in blind.”
Ripley nods, but there’s a new apprehension in the set of her shoulders. “If we can get in at all. What if they changed the locks?”
“I guess we’re about to find out.”
We load up in the truck and head downtown.
* * *
The Fishbowl looks completely empty from the outside. No cars out front, and no one parked in the back.
When Ripley reaches for her door handle of the truck, I put a hand on her thigh. “If your cousin is inside, I doubt she’s going to be happy to see us.”
With a grimace, she replies. “True. If she’s inside, then we bail, and I move on and leave this for the PI to handle.”
“You sure?”
She bites her lip. “I really want her not to be there.”
“Then let’s go.” I hold out my hand. “Keys?”
She drops the keys in my palm.
“All right. If we do run into her, you’re telling her you left something behind and had to come back and get it. She doesn’t need to know anything else.”
“I agree. I could be coming back for that ring. The one you left in the bar. That you got for Amber. It’s still here. I hid it so Brandy wouldn’t find it and hock it. I wanted to get it anyway. There’s no point in leaving it here.”
That engagement ring is basically the last thing I ever want back, but if we need an excuse, it’ll work.
“Fine, but we’re unloading it immediately. I don’t want it around.”
“That’s fair. We could sell it and donate the proceeds to charity.”
“Deal. Now, let’s get in there and get out.”
I climb out of the truck, shut the door, and walk around the front. Ripley’s beside me when I shove the key in the lock and turn.
Click. It opens.
“Oh good,” Ripley whispers as she follows me inside the bar. It’s dark and quiet, much like it was the day of the birdnapping. Ripley pulls a penlight from her pocket and flips it on.
“Really?”
She shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea so we don’t have to turn on all the lights.” She heads directly for the center of the wall across from the bar, zeroing in on the photograph of Willie Nelson. “Damn. I didn’t bring a screwdriver. There’s a toolbox in the office.” She steps away from the picture, but I pull out my pocketknife.
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