Tell No Lies (12 page)

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Authors: Tanya Anne Crosby

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense

BOOK: Tell No Lies
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“Honestly, I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation,” she admitted. “Considering the circumstances . . .”
He placed a hand on the neck of his beer, wrapping his long fingers around it. “You either believe I’m innocent, or you don’t, Augusta,” he said in that slow, sexy drawl of his. “If you do believe me—as you say—I need your help.”
Augusta sighed.
Outside the porch, two sparrows chased each other from the rooftop to a perch on the porch screen. Muted late-afternoon sunlight filtered into the patio, turning the room a glowing shade of orange-red. There was nothing nefarious about this moment. Her gut wasn’t screaming, and she didn’t feel as though she was doing anything wrong. Being with Ian—believing in him—
felt
like the right thing to do.
Still, she was the last person on earth who might be able to help him with this particular issue right now. “My sister isn’t exactly speaking to me,” she confessed.
He lifted the bottle. “Because of me?”
Augusta gave him a sober nod. There was no use lying or skirting issues. She slid her hand across the table to play with the saltshaker. “Partly . . . and partly because I was stupid enough not to tell her about you before she heard it somewhere else.”
He eyed her pointedly, lifting a brow. “What about me exactly . . . that you paid my bail . . . or that you happened to be my alibi for the night of Kelly Banks’s murder?” Ian set the bottle down and reached out, closing his fingers over hers. The feel of his warm hand sent Augusta’s pulse skittering. “Or maybe you’re talking about the fact that we’ve done a little more than trade spit . . . you and me?”
“She only knows about the bail part,” Augusta replied, staring at his hand, unable to look him in the eyes. “Why haven’t you told the police about the night we spent together?”
“My attorney knows, but the police haven’t asked,” he said. “The case so far has been focused on the abduction and attempted murder of your sister.”
“Which you didn’t do . . .”
It wasn’t a question, but Augusta peered up to gauge his expression anyway.
He nodded belatedly. “Which I didn’t do. But since I have one alibi already—one they don’t seem to want to believe—for both the nights of Amy Jones’s and Kelly Banks’s deaths, your sister’s case was the strongest and that’s been their focus. Until now there hasn’t been a body for Pamela Baker, and we both know exactly where I was when she took her last breath.”
Sitting in jail.
On the nights of Amy’s and Kelly’s murders, Ian had claimed to be at the Windjammer, watching his friend perform. On at least one of those nights, Augusta knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he was telling the truth.
He was watching her intently.
“Will you tell them I was with you that night?” she asked.
“More to the point . . . will
you
tell them you were with
me
?”
Augusta hesitated, but only an instant, and then nodded with certainty.
It seemed to be what he needed to hear. He rewarded her with a smile. “It probably wasn’t the smartest thing not to tell your sister about the bail,” he allowed. “But I do appreciate your help, Augusta. I realize it couldn’t have been easy for you.”
Augusta swallowed the oversized lump that grew in her throat. She averted her gaze, thinking about how Caroline might perceive even this simple dinner invitation. She wondered if she should tell her, and knew the answer, though their relationship would suffer more because of it.
His hand squeezed hers. “I wasn’t trying to hurt your sister that night, Augusta. You have to believe me.”
It took all of Augusta’s willpower to release the breath she was holding and speak. “I do believe you. I said I did, and I do.”
He released her hand and slid his own back across the table into his lap. “I’m at a loss,” he admitted. “I feel in my gut that Jennifer is part of this whole picture somehow, but I can’t figure out how she fits.” He scratched absently at his jaw, a gesture she was coming to recognize as one of frustration.
As much as she hated to say it, Augusta had to ask. “Ian . . . Jennifer has been missing for months now . . . long before Pamela Baker. Have you considered the fact that maybe she’s . . .”
“Dead?” He gave her a nod and met her gaze. “Of course.”
“I would think finding Cody would be a higher priority.”
“I don’t know Cody,” he countered.
“But I do.”
He gazed at her, unflinching. “That’s a job for the police, Augusta.”
“I could say the same to you about Jennifer.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Look, the police are doing their best, but they never found Amanda Hutto—or Jennifer either—or my brother for that matter. Do you know how long ago that was? Essentially, my brother is
still
missing.” She eyed the purse where the photograph was stashed. “We put
all
our trust in the authorities all those years ago and guess what? To this day, we have absolutely no idea what happened to my baby brother. Do you know how debilitating that is? I
know
how that feels.”
“Thousands of people are reported missing every day, Augusta—adults and kids both. Only a fraction of them are actually abductions or kidnappings. Most are just unlucky.”
“Like Jennifer?” she pressed.
He narrowed his eyes, but Augusta couldn’t quite read his expression. “You think you can do a better job than the police?”
Augusta shrugged. “Maybe—maybe not, but how can we not try, Ian? If they send out an Amber Alert, aren’t we supposed to take off our blinders and start looking at the faces we pass on the street?”
She could see that his jaw was working. “Yeah, but noticing a face in passing on the sidewalk is
not
the same thing as going after a killer.”
“Really, do you think I don’t know that? Jesus, look at what nearly happened to my sister! For all we know my brother drowned—and maybe so did Amanda Hutto. But Cody Simmons is a different story altogether. He disappeared from a known crime scene. I
know
you know something more than you’re letting on.”
“I know basically what you know,” he lied. Augusta could tell by the set of his jaw.
“Whatever. At this point, Cody has a better chance than Jennifer. If you know something, he’s the one you should be searching for.”
“Stay out of it,” he said quietly and they locked gazes, neither of them willing to give an inch.
After what seemed like an eternity, the waiter returned to take their order, but Augusta hadn’t bothered to look at the menu. Ian picked up the plastic trifold and handed it to her, then changing the subject, said, “Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
“Do you know what you want?”
Augusta shook her head.
“I can come back,” the waiter offered, his eyes fixed upon Augusta. Clearly, he wasn’t comfortable acknowledging Ian, or lingering by their table.
“Why don’t you bring us a bucket of oysters and let us think about the rest,” Ian suggested. “And bring the lady a beer,” he demanded. His lips curved into a tight smile and he said, looking straight at Augusta, “With a lime.”
Augusta licked her lips, remembering the way his mouth had tasted that night. He was staring intently at her lips right now. So intently that she couldn’t think straight—and that was probably his intention.
“Cody’s just a kid,” she persisted when the waiter left again. “Maybe we won’t find him, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t at least try. I think you know something,” she tried again. “In fact, I know you do. It’s part of the reason I paid your bail.”
“I see,” he said, his voice changing slightly. “Not because you believe in my innocence, after all . . . or maybe even because of something else?”
“What else?”
His lips thinned.
“I do believe in you,” she protested. They were skirting a dangerous subject here. She knew he was aware of what she felt for him. The question was . . . did he feel it, too?
Right now, Cody was far more important, she reminded herself.
What if he had been her child? She couldn’t simply walk away, knowing he was out there somewhere, alone. She wouldn’t want anyone setting him aside—as they seemed to have already done with Amanda Hutto. Poor Amanda had disappeared from her own front yard. No one saw anything and not even the reward that had been offered had netted any leads. Six years old and the child had simply vanished into thin air. The same way Sammy had vanished. If the community had banded together, instead of going on with their lives as though nothing had ever happened, maybe Sammy would have had the chance to grow up to be a man.
Or maybe at least they would have had a body to bury.
So many things might have been different.
Their mother might have been different.
Augusta might have been different.
But she was beginning to realize that her strength was truly a weakness. He was still staring at her, and seemed to be studying her, but his eyes were so full of secrets.
Did he know hers, too?
“Tell you what,” he suggested, relenting. “We can help each other . . . if you promise you’ll go nowhere and do nothing without me, Augusta.”
The waiter dropped off her beer, and she seized it, avoiding Ian’s gaze. She took the lime, squeezed it and shoved it down into the neck of the bottle, trying not to think about the way his fingers had pushed their way inside her body that night. She shivered at the memory.
He reached out and seized her bottle, wrapping his hand around hers, and tugged firmly to get her attention. “Do you hear me, Augusta?”
Augusta met his gaze, and nearly gave him a typical Augusta response—one without commitment and with plenty of sarcasm, but he threaded his fingers between hers until they were both holding the cold bottle, their fingers entwined—and dear God, her body convulsed in secret places. They stared at each other, long and hard.
“Okay,” she relented, frustrated. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do—but you have to tell me everything you know!”
She tried to extricate her hand, but he held the bottle firmly and his smile turned suddenly wicked. “What about the things I
want
you to do? Do you want me to tell you about those, too?”
Augusta tried for one of her most unaffected looks, though she was certain she failed entirely. “That depends . . .”
“On what?”
She smiled back at him. “On whether I want it, too . . .”
Chapter 9
Lulled by the last minutes of sunshine, a swallowtail butterfly landed on the windshield, diverting his attention. Its yellow and black wings fluttered elegantly, slowing as it settled. Behind it, the air bent as the heat from the black hood cooled and dissipated into the dusk. A female. At least in this species, males were far drabber. And she was young, he could tell by the pristine wings and the long projections beneath the wings. She had likely been drawn to the butterfly bushes that were planted along the sidewalk. This one had particularly brilliant blue and orange markings with black tiger striping that bled into a stark blue tail. It went perfectly still, enjoying a moment of serenity. He watched for a long moment, mesmerized by the insect’s grace . . . and then casually reached out and flipped on his wipers, flicking the butterfly off onto the hood of his black car, onto its back, where its wings began to fry in the heat, leaving a dusting of yellow powder where it struggled to right itself. He watched for an instant as it floundered, and then bored with the display of weakness, returned his gaze to the couple seated on the porch of the Crab Shack.
What were they talking about?
Was she trying to figure out how to get his cock between her legs?
Or was she talking about the kid now?
It wasn’t difficult to figure out what made Augusta Aldridge tick... especially after she had placed that reward in her sister’s paper for information leading to the return of Amanda Hutto. She wasn’t a nosy reporter type like her sister, just a do-gooder, who thought she could change the world.
All these years he’d struggled in vain to find peace.
He’d gotten his first true thrill when the breath left the youngest Aldridge’s lungs . . . maybe he would get his last with the demise of his slutty sister? Maybe then he would find peace from the voices in his head?
Somewhere in the part of him that wasn’t dead, he knew he should stop. But like a smoker craved nicotine . . . or an alcoholic needed liquor, he was powerless to resist the siren song. Only difference was that his habit needed proper planning . . . and willpower.
He had to be smarter than your average junkie.
He had to get small fixes where he could.
His gaze returned to the butterfly as he recalled that first day out on the beach . . .
He’d been watching them. Their mother drunk on sun and margaritas, leaving the girls to look after their little brother . . . but no one was actually watching the boy. The same way no one ever noticed him.
Unless he made them notice.
He’d recognized that look in the child’s eyes as he’d called out to his sisters, waving his little flag on a stick.
“Yo ho, yo ho—look at me, Cici! I’m a pirate—just like Blackbeard!”
No one paid attention to his shouts for attention, and he soon became sullen and silent as he resigned himself to a solitary voyage. And then he drifted . . . far enough away that he was no longer in his family’s sight.
Still no one noticed.
That day . . . he really hadn’t intended for anything to happen.
The kid was sitting there in his little canoe. Alone. Angry at his sisters, and probably his mother, too, and he took the little flag he was holding and started to pound it into his plastic canoe, his little face twisting with frustration. Farther and farther he floated . . . until he was well beyond the shallows and drifting into deeper water.
The canoe popped with a
whoosh
of air, penetrated by the end of his wooden flagstick, and the look on his face was one of surprise . . . still he didn’t realize the danger he was in, too young to understand that his boat would soon be gone from beneath him.
Compelled, he’d waded out toward the kid while the raft slowly deflated. But the boy hadn’t been afraid even then. He had seemed more concerned with the fact that his feet were tangled in the plastic and the water was beginning to leak in.
Wading in chest high, he’d stopped there to watch, curious as to what the child might do next. His little brows had furrowed as he peered up, spying him for the first time. For the longest moment they’d simply stared at one another, until the canoe deflated beneath the boy and his little body slid into the water, dumping him with a gasp. It was only then he decided to cry—when the water could enter his mouth as he sank beneath the surface.
He didn’t know how to swim.
His little hands flailed desperately. His mouth opened to cry out, gulping in a lungful of water. The water churned at his feet, but he didn’t kick fast enough or hard enough to stay afloat.
No one had taught him how to swim.
What kind of mother put a child in a rubber raft and let him float away without teaching him how to swim? The selfish kind. The kind who didn’t give a damn about anyone but herself. The kind who put the needs of others ahead of her kids.
The boy was better off dead.
Still, he didn’t move, undecided . . . simply watching.
Finally compelled by something deeper, he moved forward, a feeling of excitement building inside him. He snatched the boy into his arms. For merely a second. No longer. No time for the boy to scream, or even catch his breath. And then he shoved him beneath the surface and held him there, knowing he could save him if he chose to. If he chose to. Knowing all he had to do was raise the kid’s head above water. Instead he stood there, holding him beneath the surface, and he felt in that moment in control for the first time in his life—a heady sense of control that burgeoned in his breast.
The boy was sad, he reassured himself. Killing him was a mercy. Killing him was a kindness. Letting him live, on the other hand . . . would simply create another monster . . . like him. Because that’s how he was born . . . out of the fires of anger and resentment . . . and in that instant, as he watched the boy suck the last of the cold water into his lungs and his eyes bulge, his blood vessels pop . . . in that incredible instant, he was transformed.
Augusta Aldridge had that same sad look about her.
She fought it with every crusade she waged against the world. She would be much happier if she could join her brother, he thought idly. He watched her with the ex-priest a few minutes longer . . . then started his car.
It wasn’t the right time.
Not yet.
But soon . . .
Because he already knew Cody wasn’t the one to quiet the voices in his head.
His gaze returned to the hood of his car.
Cody was like the butterfly.
A fix to tide him over.
 
Ian was lying to himself, he realized. Of course, he needed Augusta’s help, but he wanted to see her, plain and simple.
They picked their way through a mountain of boiled shrimp and oysters, and drank half a dozen beers between them. Augusta inspected the clusters of shells, searching for one that wasn’t already pillaged while he watched, contented for the first time in years.
For the moment, faced with her easy smile and assured manner, he could almost forget that their presence here had drawn the curious, disapproving eyes of almost every patron. Thanks to her sister and the rest of the media, the only people in Charleston who didn’t recognize him were those who lived under rocks. Luckily, no one made a stink, but Ian half-expected the management to throw him out for disturbing the clientele.
Augusta was easily the most stubborn woman he had ever met. She was also the loveliest, although her beauty wasn’t simply skin-deep. If he wanted to keep her safe, he knew now that he had to keep her close. But he wasn’t sure how much to tell her. She was equally as smart as she was stubborn.
His eye was drawn to the silver cross that hung on a worn leather band around her neck. He had the distinct impression it wasn’t a religious statement. The cross was intricately carved, with depictions of the four elements at each arm and tiny roses threaded through the circle. He wanted to ask her about it, but wasn’t sure he was ready to open up that can of worms. Thankfully, aside from that first night, she hadn’t even acknowledged his ex-affiliation with the Church. In fact, she seemed to prefer ignoring it.
So did he, frankly.
When it came right down to it, he had always been more drawn to the works of the Church than he had been to the idea of God. His decision to serve the Church was no more mysterious than a plumber’s son following his father into business. Still, he had been fully prepared to do whatever he had to do to make a difference, and celibacy had never been much of an issue. Relationships were too complicated to justify the exchange of body fluids . . .
Until Augusta.
Even now, when he
knew
he should go, he couldn’t seem to muster the will to actually do it. Somewhere in the back of his head he realized that nothing good could come of this, but he sat there anyway, enjoying her company . . . loving the way her blouse clung jealously to those lovely breasts . . .
He’d meant simply to ask for her help—in person—since he also owed her an apology and a thanks for paying his bail, but now that he was with her, he felt a sense of peace that not even the Church had ever been able to instill in him.
But it was an illusion, he realized, because there would be no peace for him until he found Jennifer Williams . . . until the man responsible for all these deaths was finally behind bars.... until the man who had hurt Jennifer was held accountable for his actions.
Despite what the papers claimed, he hadn’t been excommunicated from the Church. He’d left of his own volition. But admitting that now would expose the lie that everyone—including Jennifer’s mother—was still trying to hide. A lie that had led Jennifer to whatever end she had found. Finding her wasn’t simply about putting his guilt to rest. Jennifer was the only one who could set things straight.
“I think you got them all,” Ian told her, referring to the oysters she was so diligently inspecting.
“I made sure to leave you enough.”
“Enough for what?”
She was flirting with him, clearly. He recognized that look in her eyes, but taking her to bed wasn’t the smartest move for either of them—and his reluctance had nothing to do with the vows he had already forsaken.
“Just enough,” she said, grinning.
He leaned forward onto his elbows. The lights had dimmed about an hour ago, and he wanted to see her more clearly. “Actually, that’s a myth, I think.”
She shook her head, her eyes gleaming slightly. “Nope. They’re loaded with zinc, which actually raises the libido,” she informed him with a wink. “In case you didn’t know.”
Ian grinned at her. There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with his libido—not around her. If she only knew the dance his little monster was enjoying beneath the table, she might actually be frightened by it. He certainly was. He forced himself to withdraw, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah? Well, I guess I always thought it was because of their shape. I figured some dirty old man came up with the idea.”
She laughed. “Could be, but it also just so happens that a lack of zinc can make a man impotent, while an abundance . . .” She winked again, an exaggerated version of her last wink. “Well, we both know what effect that can have.”
He loved that she spoke her mind. And yet, she never crossed the line. She took him to the edge, teasing him . . . but never crossed it.
“Want to put it to the test?” he asked. The words came out of his mouth of their own accord, defying his will. Or maybe it was just the beer?
Their gazes locked, neither speaking, uncertain where to go from here.
Her cell phone rang, breaking the spell for the moment.
She shook her head, looking flustered, and tossed down the cluster of oysters she held in her hand. She’d found one after all, but even the steam hadn’t coaxed its muscles to part. There were no cracks in its armor, no way in. Somehow, despite all their flirtations, he sensed they were both like that. Words were one thing, but Augusta Aldridge’s emotions were locked up tightly on the inside. Only patience and persistence would get her to open up, and neither of them had time for that. As far as Ian was concerned, sex alone wasn’t enough. She fished her cell phone out of her purse and glanced at the number. “My sister,” she said.
“Which one?”
“Savannah. You’d like her. She’s nothing like Caroline. Nothing like me either, really.” She laughed at that.
“Let’s take a walk on the beach,” he suggested. “I have something I want to show you . . .”
 
It felt like there was sand in Cody’s eyes.
They were gritty and dry and he could barely keep them open. The air felt like it was burning the inside of his nose. His stomach hurt almost as bad as his head and his wrists and ankles were on fire where the skin was chafed and swollen around the cuffs. His heartbeat wouldn’t slow down even though he couldn’t stay awake, and he was afraid to cry anymore, because snot was caking on the inside of his nose and if it closed up, he wouldn’t be able to breathe.
The inside of the building was steamy . . . or maybe everything was getting blurry. All he really knew was that he was thirsty and scared. Mosquitoes were biting him all over. Desperately, he pushed his tongue up against the rag in his mouth and then coughed a little and puked in the back of his throat . . .
With some effort, he worked the pukey rag away from the back of his throat and he thought maybe he looked like a boa with a half-eaten rat down his neck. Except that instead of shimmying the cloth deeper into his mouth, he was slowly working it out by widening his jaw and wiggling his tongue.

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