Dark Passing (The Ella Reynolds Series) (12 page)

“I thought William forgot to invite you. We aren’t used to having a famous author living so close.”

“Oh, I wasn’t invited,” I managed to say.

She finally released me from her death grip. “A party crasher,” she winked. “I like you even more.”

“She’s with me,” Fagan said brightly, standing beside me.

“Well, aren’t you two just adorable,” Lola exclaimed.

I wanted to grimace, but tried to move away from him instead. The way Lola’s eyebrows shot up and William smiled, I felt like I had to explain, but Lola grabbed my arm and pulled me away before I could. “You won’t mind if I borrow Ella will you, Carter? There are just so many people I’d like for her to meet,” she said sweetly. When we were out of earshot she loosened her grip and smiled. “You looked like you wanted to be saved.”

“You have no idea.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “You’re not having a good time with him? But he’s so easy on the eyes.”

“But hard on my temper.”

She smiled widely. “Why’d you agree to go out with him?”

I shook my head, already tired of saying this wasn’t a date. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, I, for one, am glad you did. Now I can get to know you better. We hardly spoke at Martha’s dinner party. I was worried you were dreadfully boring or shy.” She feinted horror.

Smiling and nodding at people as we breezed by them, Lola swept me through the room, whispering names and little tidbits of information, like “This is Sylvia King, her family is in horses. Her husband dresses in women’s clothes.” All of which I had no response for. Large parties didn’t put me at my A-game. Before long, she gracefully passed me a drink that seemed to materialize out of thin air. I stared at the martini in my hand, no longer hearing anything she was saying. I lifted it a little closer so I could smell the gin.

She tugged on my arm again, apparently having found an acceptable spot for us to sit down. She patted a cushion on a small loveseat tucked back in the corner of the room, and I perched as bidden.

“That’s a gorgeous dress. Wherever did you get it?”

“Martha let me borrow it.”

“Oh, vintage. Very nice.” She gave a bright smile. “So did you talk to my son today?”

The martini inched closer to my lips. “Briefly,” I said. “He didn’t seem interested in talking to me.”

The first hint of a frown marred her red lips. “Alfie is an unusual boy. He always has been.”

“Did he know Mary well?”

“Until William told me you wanted to talk to him about her, I wasn’t aware that he knew her at all.”

“Yet you’re starting a scholarship in her name.”

Lola nodded. “It was William’s idea. He thought the town should do something to remember the poor girl.” Her hands wrung together. “If I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?”

I nodded.

“Do you think Alfie had something to do with her death?”

I struggled to keep my face blank. “I really don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him.” She didn’t look relieved at all. “Do you think he did?”

“That’s the problem, Ella, I don’t know. Shouldn’t I know that about my own child? He’s always been a mystery to me and as he got older, it was one behavior problem after another. William won’t talk about it. He ignores it, says he is just a boy,” she whispered, leaning in toward me.

“I honestly don’t know anything about your son.”

“When are you meeting him?”

“Probably Monday, if he’ll agree to it.”

“Oh, he’ll meet you all right. I’ll have him at the Corner Bakery in Smithton—it’s right near the campus—Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. Does that work for you?”

“Sure—”

“Don’t worry about my interfering. I’ll leave as soon as the two of you are settled, if you promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That if Alfie does have something to do with her death, you give me some warning.”

I looked into her sad, frightened eyes and wondered if I’d ask anything different if it were my child, my loved one. I agreed, and she let out a relieved breath. “Enough of this. Let’s have some fun. You haven’t even touched your drink.”

“I’m trying to cut back.” I sat the glass down. “And it’s best to stay on my toes around Fagan.”

She winked. “It seems the devil has found us.”

I turned to see him headed in our direction. “What do you know about him?” I asked her, low and quickly.

“That’s a discussion for another time.” She turned a charming smile to Fagan. “Carter, have you come to steal Ella away from me? And I’m getting to know her.”

He smiled. “Perhaps I’ll join the two of you.”

The three of us small talked for a while, Lola and Fagan doing most of the heavy lifting while I people-watched. I noticed guests were studying us just as interestedly as I was them, but Lola and Fagan were oblivious. I sank back into the couch, not loving being stared at.

“Well, I should visit my other guests, too,” Lola said. “I hope to talk to you again soon, Ella.”

“I hope so too,” I said, actually meaning it. I liked Lola and honestly hoped her son wasn’t a psychotic killer.

Fagan also stood and held out an arm to me. I looked on with no intention of taking it. “A deal’s a deal, Ms. Reynolds,” he said quietly.

“And here I am.”

“Ah, but you’re not being seen with me. You aren’t talking to anyone.”

I crossed my legs and leaned forward. “You said four public appearances. I’m here, and we’re in public. The terms of our agreement have been met. If you want something different than that, we have to reopen negotiations.”

Fagan sat next to me, too close, with an annoying smile. “Well played.” He placed a hand on my knee. “What do you want, Ella?”

I picked up his hand and threw it back at him. “First off, I want you to stop hitting on me. I’m not interested, and it’s creepy.”

He guffawed and people around us stared even more. He leaned in close. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I’m not interested in you. I’ve only known you a couple days, but it’s enough to show me you’re the last woman I’d want to date.”

Heat climbed up my neck. “Then stop touching me. I don’t like it,” I hissed.

He held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “I enjoy the horrified look that crosses your face whenever I push your very limited boundaries.”

“And I enjoy not talking to strangers.” I made a pointed glance around the room, the flames in my cheeks raging. “Though this shouldn’t have to be a term, I’ll play nice and talk to them if you stop trying to make me mad.”

He nodded. “I can accept that term.” He held out a hand to shake.

“I’m not finished. I don’t drive and getting around to meet witnesses isn’t as easy as I’d like, plus one of my witnesses was killed.” I paused thinking about how to phrase this next part.

“Yeah?” His eyes narrowed and the foolish smile melted from his face.

“I’d like a police escort when I go to meet people.”

His mouth fell open. He sighed loudly. “You do realize we have actual work to do and driving you around isn’t in the job description?“

“Don’t talk to me about your work, Sheriff Fagan, when I’m doing it for you.”

He clenched his jaw. “How many ‘witnesses’ are we talking about?”

“I have three or four on my list.”

“We’ll see. I won’t make any promises, but I’ll try to accommodate this request.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

Just saying he’d “try” wasn’t all that encouraging, but I had three more events to leverage over him, so I agreed with a single nod. “And finally—”

“There’s more?”

“And finally, I would like to see Lakota’s house.”

“No.”

“She was my witness, and she was killed. I got close to something with her, something the killer doesn’t want me to know. I want to see if I can figure out what it was.”

“The killer’s gone. A ghost, like I said before. Lakota’s death has nothing to do with the victim. She was methed out and probably never even spoke to the victim. More than likely, she was going to rob you.”

“The victim has a name—”

“Don’t lecture me about the victim’s name.” His eyes flared and their cool blue burned in my direction.

I glared back. “Just because Lakota came to me and not you doesn’t mean she didn’t know something. You’re a fool to ignore what’s right in front of you. A plain old meth addict doesn’t get killed like that. Do you even know what did that to her, or are you too busy campaigning? Do you not want her killer found?”

If it was possible to make someone’s head explode with anger, my comment might’ve done the trick. Fagan flushed and his hands shook with rage. He dragged me to my feet and propelled me through the crowd of elegantly dressed guests, passing smiling faces and cordial hellos without so much as a pause. When we were outside, I dug my heels into the frozen ground refusing to be treated like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

“Enough.” I tried to lurch my arm from him, but his bruising grip held firm.

“You want to see Lakota’s house? Fine, let’s go.” He jerked me forward again and opened his car door. “Get in.”

“No.” The air bit at my exposed skin, and I wanted to get in the car, but not with this maniac.

“Get in the car, Ms. Reynolds.” His voice was threatening and low.

“Not a chance.”

“Get in the car,” he bellowed.

“You’re hurting me.” His hand loosened immediately. I stomped on his foot with the heel of my shoe.

“Damn!” He lifted his foot in the air and hopped around. “I think you broke my toe.”

“Good.”

“Get in the car,” he said more calmly this time.

“No.”

“It’s freezing out here.” His eyes lingered on the red fingerprints he’d left on my arm. “I promise I won’t touch you again.”

“You’re insane.”

He closed his eyes. “Please. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

I weighed my options. I could stand here and freeze to death, go back in and make an even bigger scene, or I could trust this lunatic who seriously needed to work on anger management. “Did you kill those girls?”

His mouth fell open and he looked affronted. “What?
No
.”

“If you did, would you say yes?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again and scowled. “No.”

We stared at each other, and I wondered how long it took to get frostbite—I couldn’t feel my toes. “Damn it—if you kill me, I’m going to haunt your ass.” I got into the vehicle, my body aching from the cold. I should’ve had the damn martini.

Fagan drove in silence while I stared out the window. He stopped by the police station, and I waited in the car as he ran in. I could’ve escaped, but I wanted to know exactly where he was taking me. I soon found out: a decrepit apartment building, spooky and dim—the pale lights humming from its windows all but failing to penetrate the veil of darkness surrounding it.

Oh shit, he
is
going to kill me. This is a place you bring a person to murder.

“You know at least 100 people saw you leave that party with me.”

“This is Lakota’s building. Do you want to see the apartment or not?”

I did want to see it. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

He sighed. “Despite what you believe, I do want the vic—Mary’s killer found.” He put his hand on the door handle. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

“Yeah, two words for you: anger management.” I rubbed my still-throbbing arm.

“Are we going in or not?”

I looked at the scary structure, swallowed back my fear, and opened my door.

Fagan followed me into the building, then stepped in front of me, leading the way upstairs to a door blocked by yellow police tape. He unlocked the door, cut the seal on it with his key, and motioned me inside. I ducked under the tape and went into the barren apartment. A bare bulb flickered from the water-stained ceiling. There was a couch, but it was torn and stained. A broken lawn chair sat to the side of it and trash and boxes littered the floor. The sink in the small kitchen was full of dishes, and a frail-looking door stood to the left of the living room. I looked back at Fagan.

He was looking at me and not the room. “Home sweet home. As much as your well-meaning, privileged self wants to help everyone, some people are beyond it, Ms. Reynolds. Lakota was one of those people. There are no clues here.”

“She died because of me.” My voice was thin and wispy and his doubt bled over to me. I avoided taking a deep breath because of stale, rotten, somewhat sweaty smelling air and began to look through the apartment. Nothing in the living room. No shelves or books or anything. There was a stack of mail on the floor near the door that I’d check out later. I wandered toward the bedroom. It held a mattress on the floor, with clothes strewn about. That’s it. I struggled the mattress up enough to look under it. Nothing, except a couple roaches scurrying under the nearest pile of clothes. How could she have
nothing
? Why did Lakota come to me? How did she factor in? “Did she have a cell phone?”

“You think a person who lives in a place like this can afford a cell phone?”

He had a point. I opened the small closet, but it only had empty hangers, like the mess of clothes had once been hung. “Do you think someone did this? Like…”—I struggled for the right word—“tossed the place?”