Dangerous Lies (21 page)

“Time for a break,” Carmina said in that calm, yet adamant, voice of hers. Her chair scraped across the floor as she rose to her feet. “Detectives, Mr. Menlove, I know you traveled a long way to talk with Stella, but I’m calling it a night. She’s had enough.”

Detective Ramos dragged his hands down his face and Detective Cherry leaned back in her chair with a sigh of defeat.

It was Charles Menlove, the prosecutor, who spoke up. “Just one more question, Stella, and we’ll be on our way. Can you tell me who the man in the library was? The man who was shot.”

“He was my mom’s former dealer, before Danny Balando.”

“His name, by chance?”

“She called him the Pharmacist. She and her friends did. He supplied them with painkillers, I think. Prescriptions.”

Charles Menlove’s eyes were sure and steady, telling me he already knew this. “And what do you surmise he was doing at your house that night?”

“He’d fronted my mom prescriptions, and she owed him a lot of money. He came to the house, demanding payment. He threatened her, roughed her up—we both saw the bruises.”

A complying nod. “And Danny Balando? Where does he fit in?”

Angry now, I gave him my opinion with open defiance. “I think Danny Balando showed up, saw the Pharmacist assaulting his client, and shot him. Then again, I’m not the detective. Far be it for me to make sense of these mystifying—or not—clues.”

Ignoring my jab, Charles Menlove said, “And that’s when Reed came downstairs? Upon hearing gunfire?”

“That’s right. Reed ran downstairs to see what was the matter, and Danny assaulted him, then drove him to the west side, where he dumped his body on the street without any care about what might happen to him.”

“You seem to have your theory all worked out. I admit, it’s well developed. Everything explained, no loose ends. You practically handed it to us on a gold platter.”

“I’ll put the bill in the mail,” I said with withering sarcasm.

*  *  *

That night, I lay in bed listening to the stillness of the house. The air in my room was hot and placid, but I drew the sheet under my chin, shivering. It was after midnight before I got up the nerve to open the window. I leaned my back against the wall and shut my eyes. I rested a hand on the windowsill and let the cool air wash over my clammy skin. I breathed deeply, trying to plant my feet solidly in Thunder Basin.

I hadn’t realized how tense I was until they—Price, Charles Menlove, and the detectives—left. When they showed up tonight, it was as if they’d brought Philly with them.

The secrets I’d been running from had finally caught up with me.

But the detectives were gone now, and the world was beginning to slow. I felt the wide open spaces surrounding the farmhouse envelope me. My problems receded into the shadows and life seemed simple again. I felt cool, sweet relief.

Tonight Thunder Basin didn’t feel like a prison. It felt like a set of open doors at the end of a long, painful road, beckoning me closer.

It felt like my sanctuary.

Estella,

Last day of baseball camp. I’ll finally be free of my roommate and
I get to see you
. Can’t wait. I’m going to take a cab from the airport and stay with a friend in the city until things blow over at home. That’s right. More fighting at the Winslow residence, and I wasn’t even there to start it. I called my mom last night and she’d been arguing with my dad. I could hear it in her voice. My dad wants her to host a party for his army buddies. But her fibromyalgia makes it hard for her to get out of bed. She’s in constant pain. How’s she supposed to play hostess? In the end, I know she’ll do what he wants. It pisses me off that she won’t stand up to him, but I have to let it go. I’ve waited seventeen years for her to stand up to him, and look where it’s gotten me. It’s a weakness to care. When you care, you have something to lose.

xReed

BY THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, I
was feeling much better—physically. I’d been medically cleared to go back to work, and despite Carmina’s insistence that I not rush things, I was ready to see the Sundown again. As in all small towns, talk traveled quickly in Thunder Basin. If there was one piece of news I wanted to reach Trigger’s ears, it was that I was back at work. He’d taken some skin and blood, but that was all he was getting. I wasn’t going to hide in Carmina’s house, living in fear of him.

But since the Sundown was closed Sundays, I had one more day of waiting before I donned my support hose, faux-leather skirt, and camo top again. I woke first thing, beating Carmina out of bed, and put a pot of coffee on. Then I showered for church. That’s right. Church.

I hadn’t seen or talked to Chet since our disastrous kiss over a week ago, and despite the proverbial expression, time was not mending my heart—with each passing day, I felt worse. I needed to know things were okay between us. I needed his friendship.

I could pretend I liked him only because there was no one else around, but there was something about him. Something hard to resist. He was overpoweringly masculine yet incredibly sensitive. It was a dangerous combination. A dangerous, alluring, tempting combination. I staunchly refused to compare Chet to Reed—there was no point; I was happy with Reed—but an unwanted voice at the back of my mind whispered it was because I knew who’d win, and it wasn’t who I wanted.

Or was it?

Despite my best-laid plans, I hadn’t bumped into Chet in town, which I’d hoped would give me the perfect opportunity to gauge his feelings. Nor had I worked up the nerve to call him. I figured if I was aiming to cross paths with him, my best shot was at church. If I sat close enough to him to unavoidably run into him after the service, I’d get my excuse to talk to him. I had no doubt it would be awkward. I’d rejected him and had probably wounded his pride. He had every right to feel hurt. I just hoped . . .

I hoped for the impossible. That things would go back to the way they’d been before. But I’d settle for saying sorry. Which was another reason I was hell-bent on going to church this morning. If you couldn’t make amends at church, where could you?

Carmina and I rode together. Climbing out of her truck, I straightened my skirt and squared my shoulders.
Here goes nothing
.

As we walked to the doors, we passed the marquee sign on the lawn.
FORBIDDEN FRUITS CREATE MANY JAMS
.

Talk about a guilt trip. No one knew I’d kissed Chet, certainly not Reed, certainly not any of the congregation, but just the same. I couldn’t help but glance around nervously, half expecting to see huddled groups whispering and pointing at me like I was some kind of twenty-first-century Hester Prynne. Not that it was any of their business.

Carmina seemed to see the marquee sign at the same moment, and grunted her disapproval. “The flashy things pastors do these days to draw in larger crowds. That sign is just plain vulgar.”

“We should rearrange the letters. Create an anagram. Create a
dirty
anagram. Let’s see. . . .” I tapped my lip thoughtfully. “If an erect bride surfs on a fried car—”

“Oh, hush.” Carmina eyed me reproachfully, but a hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth.

“The expression on Pastor Lykins’s face would be priceless,” I said temptingly.

She rolled her eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh, as if to lament having to put up with me.

We reached the top of the steps, and Pastor Lykins greeted us by shaking our hands enthusiastically. He leaned in, his hushed voice turning grave. “Stella, I was grieved to hear about what happened last week. I sincerely hope you’re feeling better. Did you receive my flowers?”

“Yes, thank you.” In fact, he’d stopped by Carmina’s house twice to check on me, but luck had been on my side both days and I’d been gone. A crying shame, as Carmina would say.

“I’m so relieved and delighted to see you at church this morning,” he went on. “I hope you enjoy the sermon. Carmina, looking lovely as ever.”

With a brusque nod that acknowledged his compliment, Carmina led me inside.

I waited until we were out of the pastor’s range of hearing before I echoed, “ ‘Lovely as ever?’ Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Don’t be nonsensical.”

“He was hitting on you!”

Carmina paused in walking to give me a stern, reproachful eye. “Of all the harebrained things to suggest.”

“Now I know what you do at Bible study,” I said slyly.

“Lord help us,” Carmina muttered, sliding into an empty pew.

I had just taken my seat beside her when Trigger and his parents strolled up the aisle. Trigger wore a navy-checked shirt and Dockers, and while he looked squeaky clean, I knew the dirty truth about him. He had a crutch tucked under one armpit, and hobbled into a pew two in front of ours. Before easing gingerly into his seat, he looked back and caught my eye. To anyone else, his expression would have seemed perfectly impassive. But I saw the taunting gleam in his rage-filled eyes as he leered at me. In that moment, he reminded me of Danny Balando. They shared the same untouchable arrogance and unstable temper—I could see it as plainly in Trigger’s fixated stare as I had in Danny’s crazed eyes all those weeks ago.

The woman seated in front of me leaned forward to speak with Trigger. “What happened, Trigger? Hurt yourself at baseball practice?”

He smiled, slow and easy. “Yes, ma’am. Took a stray ball to the ankle. Doc said I got a distal fibula fracture. Fancy talk for one broken bone, so I can still walk on it, I just gotta be careful. And I gotta wear this walking cast four more weeks.”

“A shame. Were any scouts planning on watching you play this week?”

“Sure. They always are. But don’t you fret, Mrs. Lamb. You throw an over-the-top sinker like I do, and nobody’s going anywhere. Just giving them a chance to sit back and wipe the drool off their chins, that’s all.” He laughed and Mrs. Lamb joined in.

I glanced sideways at Carmina, and while her gaze was fixed forward, I knew she wasn’t serenely listening to the organ prelude, as she appeared. At last I drew her eyes to mine. We shared a meaningful look. She patted me on the knee. I wasn’t exactly sure what the gesture was supposed to mean, but I felt a measure of solidarity. She was on my side.

*  *  *

Chet wasn’t in church, and I tried not to feel deflated as Carmina and I filed out of the chapel after the sermon. I wouldn’t judge him if he’d gone out of his way to avoid me, but it didn’t seem like his style. Chet was as likely to hide from me as I was to hide from Trigger. So where was he?

Risking arousing Carmina’s suspicion, I said, “I didn’t see Chet today. Does he usually miss church?”

“Why? Something happen between the two of you?”

I should have known there was no such thing as slipping one past Carmina.

I scoffed. “Of course not.” Then, “What makes you think something happened?”

“You sound guilty.”

Making a noise as though I were offended, I said, “Oh? And what do I sound guilty of?”

“Keep talking and I’ll figure it out. Didn’t spend thirty years honing my interrogation skills for naught.”

A notable pause followed. At last I said, “
If
something did happen, do you think I should go over and try to set things right?”

She seemed to weigh my question. “I don’t.”

“But you don’t like Chet,” I protested. “Of course that’s what you’d tell me. You’d like it if I never saw him again. Personal biases aside, what’s the right thing to do?”

“I don’t
dislike
Chet. That was you putting words in my mouth. I think you’re looking at Thunder Basin as a pit stop on your way to something better. And I think Chet is looking for permanence. Feels wrong to encourage a relationship with no hope of catching wind in its sails.”

“You’re probably right,” I said quietly. She had an uncanny way of seeing past the BS to the truth.

“What about the other boy?” Her eyes were set straight ahead, but there was something perceptive and shrewd in her voice. “I read your file. I know there was a young man in Philadelphia.”

“Reed,” I murmured, unsure how to deal with Carmina’s directness. Were we allowed to talk about this? I’d been ordered to stick to the cover story at all times, even with Carmina. Why was she breaking the rules?

“Perhaps you’re hoping Chet will help you get over him?” she suggested quietly.

“No,” I said automatically. Did Carmina think that little of me? I wouldn’t use Chet that way . . . would I? Would I admit it if I were? Why did everything have to be so confusing?

“Chet has some flaws, but he’s a good, hardworking, decent boy.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you believe me when I say I don’t dislike him.”

I felt a hot wave of guilt. “You think I’ll hurt him.”

“Chet’s had a rough year since his parents’ deaths. Getting involved with him is only going to end in heartache—for him, yes, but for you, too. You’re gone in August, and you’ll have to say good-bye all over again. Was it easy the first time? I doubt it was. Chet will be stuck here for another two years, raising that brother of his. I don’t see a happy ending, Stella, and that’s the truth. I think you’ll hurt each other.”