The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3)

by Kristen Casey

  “Tate, I don’t know about this,” she said.

  “Well, I’m bringing this with us,” Tate told her, brandishing her yearbook. “Maybe Scarletti can analyze the writing or something.”

  “Feel free,” Lyla shrugged. “But I swear to God—if my freshman year picture makes it into the gossip rags, I’m coming for you, Buster.”

  At last, Tate managed a small smile. “Sounds fair,” he told her, relaxing a bit. “Now let’s go eat whatever that delicious food is I’m smelling.”

  Lyla flopped onto her back. “It’s pork chops. I’d know that smell anywhere. It’s one of the primary reasons I stopped eating meat.”

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Seriously. I still have bad dreams about that smell,” Lyla groaned. “It makes me gag.”

  “I’m sorry I dragged you back here,” Tate commiserated. “Especially after the way things went the last time. Thanks for being a good sport.”

  “I don’t mind, as long as you got what you need.”

  “I think I may have. It feels right. I just need to ask your folks a couple of questions, so try to play along.”

  TATE LIKED HER mother’s pork chops nearly as much as he’d enjoyed the meatloaf. Of course, he did. He was so irritatingly wholesome he probably would’ve raved about tuna casserole, if Peg Lawson had given it to him.

  But, while Tate shoveled her mom’s dinner into his face and complimented the woman on her cooking skills, he was also trying to subtly interrogate her about the Jones family.

  Lyla felt a little embarrassed, listening to him. Try as he might to keep her oblivious mother on topic, Tate just couldn’t. He was far too polite, for one thing, and her mother was way too eager to impress him.

  But it was the way her mom studiously avoided any mention of the neighbors that made Lyla suspect she was still smarting from their last visit. Undoubtedly, her mother blamed herself for the way they’d bickered, and for the way Lyla and Tate had booked it out of there a few days ago. Lyla would have to find a moment to apologize to her before they left tonight.

  Lyla’s dad wasn’t saying much—he merely watched and listened, his face an unreadable mask as he moved his food around his plate.

  Lyla suspected she and her father would be having a heart-to-heart about Tate before long, but she didn’t have the first idea what she could possibly say to him when it happened.

  She had to think that I’m crazy about him, Daddy wouldn’t quite fit the bill. He could already tell there was more to it than that.

  There were bigger things to worry about first, however. Dinner was winding down, and Tate was clearly getting frustrated by his lack of progress.

  Unless Lyla could come up with some pressing excuse to linger longer, she and Tate would be saying their goodbyes without him having learned anything he wanted to know.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE LAWSONS WERE proving to be a tougher nut to crack than Tate had anticipated. The last time he and Lyla had visited here, they’d been downright verbose about the neighbors, so he couldn’t fathom why—now that he actually needed to know more—they were shying away from the subject like cats from water.

  He’d spent the entire meal attempting to steer them in a helpful direction, to no avail. Now, Lyla’s mother was endeavoring to move them from the dining room to the front parlor for after-dinner drinks. Tate could only assume that was a precursor to showing them the door.

  Besides, the parlor was uncomfortable, and he couldn’t drink alcohol, anyway. Fortunately, Lyla seemed to be on the same page as him.

  “Oh, come on, Mom,” she was groaning, “We can sit in the family room. It’s fine.”

  Her father was a step ahead of them, settling into a dingy blue recliner in there, and clicking through the sports channels with a full belly and a contented sigh.

  “Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Lawson argued. “Your friend doesn’t want to get lint on his nice pants. The front room is much nicer for talking.”

  Tate disagreed, but he’d make the concession if it meant that Peg would actually talk about what he wanted. It was time to stop pussy-footing around and get to the point.

  So, once he, Lyla, and her mom were parked on the stiff sofas, Tate took a deep breath and dove in.

  “Mrs. Lawson, Lyla and I were talking about the neighbors earlier and it got me to wondering. What specifically happened to the kid next door, anyway?”

  She glanced nervously at Lyla, but her daughter only sat there studying her fingernails, as if she was bored to death instead of driven to insanity like she’d been the last time.

  Mrs. Lawson confirmed, “You mean to Brett?”

  Tate nodded.

  Lyla’s mother explained sadly, “Midge told me once that it was schizophrenia. Came on out of nowhere when Brett was only twenty.” She looked pointedly at Lyla, and added, “But even though his circumstances changed, he still stayed loyal to his old friends. He didn’t abandon them, like Lyla and the other kids in the neighborhood did to him. I’ve always thought it was very mean of them to ignore Brett, just because he’s got some issues now.”

  “So, Brett considers himself one of Lyla’s friends?” Tate inquired carefully.

  Lyla snorted loudly next to him, rousing herself to gripe, “Mom, that’s complete BS, you know. The Joneses always, always exaggerated our relationship. Brett was a jerk from day one. We aren’t friends—we’ve never been friends.”

  Tate put a hand on Lyla’s leg and squeezed, hoping to forestall any more outbursts. If Mrs. Lawson saw anything out of the ordinary in the gesture, she didn’t comment on it, though.

  Peg told him, “Brett is a big fan of Lyla’s. He reads her books over and over.”

  “Is that so.” Tate ran his hand over his jaw. Something was rotten here. Big time.

  Her mom continued, “Bill and Midge told us he watches the cop shows on TV, so he’ll understand what Lyla is writing about in her stories. He always asks what she’s up to, they say.”

  Lyla muttered something under her breath but fortunately managed to restrain herself this time.

  Tate had to be careful, here. This was going somewhere—somewhere important—but his hosts were not going to like where that was one bit.

  “Midge said that Brett even keeps a scrapbook of all Lyla’s articles and interviews and whatnot. Isn’t that nice?”

  Lyla sat bolt upright beside Tate. “Mom. You never told me that.”

  “Well, you said you didn’t want to hear about them. You specifically instructed us to stop talking about them with you. Don’t you remember?”

  Tate couldn’t let this devolve into another bout of bickering. He’d never get what he needed if it did. So, he interjected with the most interested voice he could muster and pressed his fingers into Lyla’s leg as firmly as he dared.

  “Do you talk ever about Lyla’s upcoming events with the neighbors? Like what book signing she’s doing next, that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, sure. But Brett usually already knows. You should see him—he hangs on every word when she comes up in conversation. He doesn’t have much else to occupy him, you know. He can’t work or anything, and Midge gets tired of the TV being on too much. So, he keeps up with the other neighborhood kids on the computer, I guess. That’s what they tell me, anyway.”

  Perched beside him on the fancy couch, Lyla swallowed loudly. “Mom—”

  “Delilah, maybe you could try to keep up with Brett more,” her mom suggested. “He’s got to be lonely with only his parents to see all day. Midge said they tried to buy him one of those silly prepaid phones, so he could feel like all the other people your age, but he got bored with it.”

  So, the dude had a computer and a burner phone, Tate thought. The hits just kept coming.

  He wrestled the floor back from the combatants once again. “Ma’am, has Brett Jones ever been to any of Lyla’s events? Maybe to a signing or a reading or something?”

  Tate’s mind was already racing toward the end zone. Even if Jone
s wasn’t allowed to drive, he could be taking cabs or buses or fucking Ubers to get to Lyla. And if he was, there would probably be records somewhere that they could subpoena.

  Of course, it was also possible that the asshole was just stealing his parents’ car to get where he needed to go. If that was the case, Jones could be crossing toll booths and bridges and tunnels with that car, and Red’s investigator could almost certainly find that trail, too.

  They could catch the fucker. They were going to.

  Across from Tate, Mrs. Lawson had switched gears easily. “Of course he has. Brett wouldn’t miss Lyla’s appearances for the world. In fact, I believe he makes Bill take him to every last one. They drive all over together.”

  “Mom, that can’t be right,” Lyla protested. Her voice shook only the tiniest amount, but it still made Tate want to wrap his arms around her and shield her from this mess. “I’ve never once seen any of the Joneses anywhere.”

  “Well, they did say they try to keep out of sight. Brett gets embarrassed for people to see him like he is now.” Mrs. Lawson folded her hands in her lap primly, and then—lest there be any doubt of what she was implying—she added, “He’s afraid you’ll act snooty.”

  Tate was absolutely certain that Lyla had swallowed her own tongue. It was the only explanation for the odd choking noise that was coming from her throat, and for the fact that no new invective was spewing from her mouth. He patted her knee in sympathy.

  She whacked him on the arm. At least tongue-swallowing didn’t appear to be fatal.

  Her father strolled in and leaned against the doorjamb, picking up the thread of conversation amiably. “Bill spends a fortune on gas. He’s been joking that he ought to start charging you mileage, Lyla—especially with that new gig of yours.”

  That posed a few new questions, as far as Tate was concerned. Could the father be in on it? Was Bill Jones her stalker, instead of his son Brett? Or, God help them, were both of the Jones men working together?

  “I think we have a real lead for once,” he murmured to Lyla. “Don’t you?”

  Lyla’s eyes were huge and worried. She whispered, “Brett’s really weird and a total jerk. But this is a whole other thing, Tate. My parents are going to freak out.”

  “I know. We have to be positive before we start accusing people.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  Her mother piped up, “What are you two talking about?”

  At that moment, Tate was acutely aware of two things: Lyla’s parents had no idea that their neighbors and friends might be harboring a very dark secret, and the Lawsons definitely did not know that their own daughter was being threatened by a stalker.

  They had no clue that the secret and the stalker could be one and the same.

  Tate didn’t know what to say to these people, and he had to talk to Lyla alone, right now.

  He defaulted to that old standby, “Nothing much,” then immediately regretted it when Peg’s voice got sharp.

  “Is this about Brett? Did I say something wrong?”

  Lyla had recovered herself enough to jump back in, thank fuck. “No, Mom, of course not. We just realized how late it’s getting, that’s all.”

  Tate was more than happy to board that train. “Do you mind if we have a couple of minutes? We need to work out some scheduling details before we take off.”

  Lyla’s father frowned in the doorway. “You’re not hitting the road yet, are you? Mom got apple pie today. You remember, Lyla? From the orchard out by Aunt Helen’s?”

  Lyla looked pained. “Mm-hm,” she whimpered.

  “You don’t want to miss this,” he confided to Tate. “Come into the den where it’s comfortable. We can watch the Yankees beat up on Tampa Bay while the girls dish out dessert.”

  Mrs. Lawson pushed up from her seat with a shake of her head. “Sometimes, it’s like the Fifties never ended,” she muttered, then bustled toward the kitchen.

  Lyla’s dad stood there expectantly, and Tate was engulfed by a wave of homesickness and longing for the sheer normalcy of it all.

  Well, except for the “girl” bristling angrily beside him, and the little neighbor/stalker problem they might be having.

  “We’ll join you in a second,” he said. “We just have to discuss a couple of things.”

  The man gave them a knowing smirk. “All right, well, don’t take too long. Don’t want that hot pie to melt all your ice cream.”

  Tate turned to stare at Lyla, wondering if she thought that sounded as hilariously dirty as he did—but she just sat there with a stiff, plastic smile aimed resolutely at her father. When he finally turned and ambled out, she leaned in close.

  “So, what do you think?” Tate asked. “Doesn’t it sound like we might have our guy?”

  “Not here,” she hissed back. “Let’s go out front where they can’t hear us.”

  “But your mom has pie,” he teased.

  “Are you freaking kidding me right now?” Lyla glared daggers at him.

  “Yes, I’m kidding,” Tate relented. “Come on.”

  They slipped out the front door and huddled together in a dark corner of the porch, shielded from the street and the neighbors’ yard by a stand of tall holly bushes. Tate tried really hard not to let the arousing combination of furtiveness and hot, melting things take over his higher reasoning.

  This was clearly not the time for his over-sexed, long-deprived libido to befriend the general populace. And by general, he meant Lyla.

  She snapped his errant thoughts back into place fast, though. “Tate, this is really bad,” she whimpered in his ear. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “So, you agree? You think it could be him?”

  “You heard her,” she fired back. “Brett’s condition is a lot more serious than I knew. And all that scrapbook stuff is kind of scary.”

  “You’re worried about the scrapbook?” Tate marveled. “Because I’m a hundred-percent focused on that fucker coming to all your gigs, Slick.”

  She moaned. “Ugggghhh. It’s so creepy. What are his folks thinking?”

  “They think you two are buddies, obviously.”

  “Tate, what are we going to do?”

  The curtain in the front room shifted, so he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. Let her parents think what they would—at this point, Tate didn’t care about who he was or wasn’t supposed to be.

  “Listen, I’m not going to lie,” he murmured into her ear. “Brett sounds sketchy as all get out. But the fact that his father is bringing him to all your events makes me wonder about him, too.”

  “No,” she gasped.

  “Never say never. Parents will do all kinds of crazy stuff for their kids. We have to consider every angle, okay?”

  “But how do we figure it out?”

  Tate had been considering that. “Here’s what I think. You know that investigator that Red has?”

  “Um, no.”

  He took a deep breath and started over. “Red knows a private investigator. He’s used him for a couple of things over the years. Why don’t we call him when we get back to the city and see if he can look for some evidence for us? Maybe he can find proof that Jones was in the area whenever the stalker left you stuff. Or maybe he can tail him and see if he does anything hinky.”

  Lyla pressed her fingers against her mouth, then wrenched them away again. “Oh my God. My parents are going to flip out. His parents are going to flip out.”

  “We don’t have to tell them yet,” Tate assured her. “Let’s wait and see if the PI comes up with anything first.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, can I have pie? I promise I’ll eat fast.”

  “Are you nuts? How can you even eat right now?”

  “I’m a growing boy,” Tate shrugged. He’d been woefully far away from kinky-sounding pie a la mode for a very long time, and he refused to apologize for it.

  “Tate! Wait,” Lyla insisted, when he reached for the doorknob. She stood there wringing her hands.
<
br />   “What?”

  “Brett’s scrapbook. Do you think Red’s guy could…” She trailed off uncomfortably. The poor thing looked so freaked out, Tate wanted to kiss her just to take her mind off this whole mess.

  “Oh, believe me. I’m going to get eyes on that scrapbook if I have to go over there and get it myself.”

  And that’s when he heard it—a tortured, stifled little moan just on the other side of the hollies.

  “Shh. Did you hear that?” he asked.

  Lyla nodded, looking scared in the dim porch light. In the yard next to them, a screen door banged and Mrs. Jones called out, “Brett? Honey, are you out here?”

  Tate spun and peered into the darkness, scanning the space between the two properties as best as he could through the landscaping. A flurry sprung up suddenly near the bottom corner of the Lawsons’ porch, and a big dark shape darted across the lawn.

  The door banged again, and then the yard fell silent.

  “What was…was that…?” Lyla stammered.

  “You’re right,” Tate said, crowding her toward the front door. “Fuck the pie. We gotta get moving.”

  THIRTY

  HER PARENTS WERE looking at them like she and Tate had gone insane. Lyla wasn’t so sure they were wrong.

  “Mom,” she said, as calmly as she could, “If I told you where I was during my book tour…that was supposed to be kept between us.”

  “But it was! The Joneses don’t count. They’re like family to your father and me.”

  Lyla thought her head might explode. “I have to get out of here.”

  “Lyla, what about the pie? Why are you two leaving? What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on, Mother, is that you completely neglected to tell me that a deranged man has been tailing me all this time. That’s what’s going on,” Lyla blurted out, fumbling to get her purse strap up over her shoulder.

  “I simply didn’t think it was pertinent, honey. Not in light of how mad you get.”

  “You didn’t think it was pertinent? Those people over there have been following me around for how long now, and you simply never thought to mention it?” she cried.