Wicked Lies (55 page)

The officer in charge of the crime scene, a twentysomething with short red hair and a hard expression far older than his years, shook his head. “I’ve been told no one goes in, and unless the sheriff himself says this guy can come inside, then he stays out.”

“I’ll get Detective Stone to okay it.”

The officer, whose name tag read
CRAMPTON
, was unmoved. “I said, ‘The sheriff.’” His eyes narrowed on Harrison. “I know you,” he said. “You’re that reporter. The guy who blew up the story on the murders around that club in Portland. Boozedog.”

“Boozehound,” Harrison automatically corrected him.

“Yeah, well, you just stay where you are.”

“How are your sisters?” Harrison asked.

“They’ll be okay. I’ll be out in a sec,” Laura said, obviously deciding that arguing was pointless.

He had no choice but to wait outside. The rain had slowed to a steady, skin-soaking drizzle, and there was talk of a storm rolling in that night, but for now, the wind had slowed, and the old lodge, visible through the stand of mossy old growth, looked dark and formidable. He called the offices of the
Breeze,
checked his e-mail, and left a message for his editor that he was working on the Zellman murder story as well as an assault that happened at Siren Song.

Connolly called him back about half an hour into his wait to basically tell him to “keep on it,” then went on to gleefully say that since the Seven Deadly Sinners story had broken, the paper had had a 30 percent increase in new subscription requests from the same time period the year before. The change might be coincidence, but Vic Connolly wasn’t betting on it. He was happy with Harrison. Happy, happy. None of it made the waiting easier.

It was another half hour before Laura returned, this time, it seemed, ready to leave. In the meantime Harrison had watched an ambulance and EMTs arrive, and again his thoughts had turned to Adderley’s accusation that she was pregnant.

He simply couldn’t get it out of his head.

“Let’s get out of here,” Laura said as she walked past the guards at the gate and looked into his eyes. He reached for her, but she caught his arm and said in a low tone, “Why don’t we meet somewhere?” Her gaze, with her beautiful, intelligent eyes, held his for a second. “How about the Sands?”

“Okay.”

Then she let go of his arm and Harrison saw that the red-haired cop was watching them, as were two of Laura’s sisters, one of whom was in a wheelchair. They were both outside, under the overhang of the porch, their eyes trained on Laura and Harrison.

He knew she’d suggested the Sands of Thyme Bakery, but anyone could interpret it as the bar in a hotel in Seaside named the Sands or a small lunch counter in Cannon Beach.

He drove the few miles and kept her taillights in his line of vision. Though it was only early afternoon, the day was gray and the clouds, instead of breaking up, appeared to be darkening. The Outback’s taillights were small red beacons through the drizzling rain.

He followed her into the main road cutting through Deception Bay. At the west end of the street, past the storefronts and shops, was the ocean. Dark and shifting, whitecaps visible, the waves tumbled and rolled. Laura turned into the tiny parking lot for the bakery. Harrison slid his Impala into a parking lot across the street. He locked the car, then jaywalked, his collar turned up against the rain, the crash of waves louder than usual. He caught up with Laura just as she reached the front door.

The bell over the door tinkled as they walked inside to the warmth and smells of baked bread and old coffee.

“Hey! We’re about to close,” Kirsten called from the back of the shop before she stepped to the counter and spied her brother. “Make that we
are
closed.” She offered them a smile.

“You’re telling me that you don’t have one lousy bear claw left?”

“Nada, brother.”

“You alone?”

“My afternoon to close. The barista just left ten minutes ago.”

“What about something from the lunch menu?” Harrison suggested, studying the chalkboard mounted over the deli case. “You said you were expanding it.”

She came around the counter. “Oh, well . . . I guess I can make an exception
this
time and stay open a few more minutes.”

After locking the door behind him and Laura, she flipped the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
in the window, then, wiping her hands on her apron, said, “So what can I get you? I’ve got a great roast beef/tomato/mozzarella sandwich, and if you ask nicely, I’ll add bacon and broil the whole damned thing.”

“You’re on,” Harrison said. “And a beer.”

“Ha-ha. You can pick anything you want from the cooler. Unless you want coffee, then grab it from the pot. It’s still hot.” Turning, Kirsten lifted her eyebrows at Laura. “What about for you? The same? Or I’ve got a killer Caesar salad topped with prawns.”

“That would be perfect.” Laura was nodding as she took a seat at one of the scattered tables.

Harrison poured them each coffee and brought over the creamer and a tiny basket of various sugar packets. “Pick your poison,” he said, trying for a little levity, though he had dozens of questions for her.

She told him of waking up to find him gone, then getting the panicked call from Catherine and the subsequent hours at Siren Song.

Kirsten brought their meals, the sandwich and a cup of coleslaw for Harrison, the salad and a small loaf of sourdough bread for Laura. She refilled their cups, then told them she was officially “off duty.” When they were finished, Harrison was to bring the dirty dishes to the back, where she was cleaning up. They could hear her rattling around—water running, pots clanging, a radio playing pop rock from the eighties.

Laura pulled off a piece of bread, buttered it, and sank her teeth into it. “God, this is heaven,” she said, closing her eyes as if she’d truly entered the pearly gates. “I missed breakfast this morning.”

“And lunch.” He took a bite of his sandwich. True to her word, Kirsten had come up with a “killer.”

“Your turn to tell me,” Laura said, her eyes serious. “I heard from Detective Stone that Mrs. Zellman was killed and that their son is in the hospital. You got another call?”

“Yeah. From Turnbull.” Between bites of his sandwich, he told her about deciding to let her sleep and to leave her somewhere safe while he drove like a maniac to the Zellman house. “The doctor was at work. Early. Despite the fact that he still can’t talk very well.”

“So Justice told you they were all dead. But Zellman wasn’t there?” She jabbed her fork into one of the prawns atop her salad.

“Yeah.” Harrison was nodding. That had bothered him, too. Then again, so many things did.

They finished their meal. “He’s escalating,” Laura finally said. “Getting bolder. Taking chances. Making bad choices.”

“And killing people.”

“Isadora said she wounded him,” Laura said, picking up her cup with two hands. Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Cracked him up the side of the head, but who knows if that did anything other than save Ravinia’s life.”

“Too bad it didn’t kill him.”

“I’ve never been one to wish anyone dead, but Justice . . .” She sighed and pushed her half-eaten salad aside. “He’s a special case.”

“Amen.”

“I wonder how badly he’s wounded. Where would he go?” She sipped from her cup. “Somewhere he’d feel safe.”

“Wherever he’s holed up,” Harrison thought aloud, “the police will find him. He has no money or credit cards, no job or car. He’s not got friends or family other than Siren Song, and his face has been plastered all over the newspapers. It’s only a matter of time.”

“The sooner the better,” she said, then looked at him over the rim of her cup. “And the next time you get a call, would you mind waking me up? Is that too much to ask?”

He remembered how peaceful she’d looked lying on the big four-poster, how his heart ached at the sight of her. Had she been lying to him? “There’s something I need to ask you,” he said, carefully picking his words. “A couple of times during this investigation, there’s been mention of pregnancy.” His gaze was locked with hers, and he noticed her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. “Zellman, when he was explaining about the relationship between Justice Turnbull and the women of Siren Song, his victims. Turnbull bragged to Zellman that he could find them more easily when they were pregnant.”

She looked away, twisted her coffee cup on the table.

“And then, when you were talking to your ex . . . in the parking lot. He—”

“He accused me of being pregnant,” Laura said, cutting in, turning her gaze a dark, angry blue. “So you’re asking me if I am. I told him that I wasn’t and it’s not a lie. I’m not, Harrison.” He felt a second’s relief, until he saw a bit of guilt in her gaze. She took in a long breath and sighed. “But in the interest of honesty, yes, I was. Recently.” She bit her lip. “I was pregnant when I met you, had just found out, and yes, that’s how Justice found me so easily, but that’s over now.” Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “I just suffered a miscarriage. In the last few days.”

He felt his entire world begin to rip apart.

“I didn’t plan it. . . . Byron and I got together just to try and give our relationship another try. Obviously, it didn’t work, but I found out I was pregnant just a little over a week ago and I . . . I didn’t tell anyone. The only person who knew was Justice.”

Harrison couldn’t think of one thing to say. He hadn’t really expected to be right, so he just sat in shocked silence.

“I was still sorting everything out. I’d wanted a baby for years, and now . . . now I was bringing her into this world of madness.”

“Her?”

“I assume. There are very few men in my lineage, and . . . one of my sisters at Siren Song could tell.”

“So she knew, too.”

Laura looked at him. “Well . . . yeah.”

“I don’t understand any of this!” He suddenly exploded. He was mad as hell that she hadn’t told him, hadn’t confided in him. Mad at himself. He’d found himself fantasizing about her, about sharing a life with her . . . and this basic lie had been there all along!

She read the fury burning deep in his soul, the pain. “I was trying to do what I thought was best to protect my child. And I wasn’t sure what that was. Run away? Hide as far away as possible from Justice? Look over my shoulder, her shoulder, for the rest of our lives? Or face him and try to destroy him? And then you were there . . . the truth seeker, I thought . . . and I believed I might be falling in love with you.” She blinked and scraped her chair back. “Obviously that was a mistake.”

“Yeah,” he said coldly.

His anger crushed her. “Should I have bared my soul to you?”

“Yes!”

“Well, I didn’t know how.” She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, strode to the front door, unlocked it, and stepped outside.

He jumped up and caught the door before it slammed shut and took off after her, striding through the puddles and across the tiny lot, where she had already hit the remote lock for her car and was yanking open the door.

“You should have trusted me!” he called as he reached her, then forced the door shut with his body.

“You ask too much!” Lips trembling with anger, she tugged hard on the door’s handle again. “Get out of my way.” When he didn’t budge, she looked up at him and said, “What the hell is it you want from me?” Rain drizzled down her face and under the collar of her jacket.

I want you. All of you. Heart and soul.
But the words wouldn’t come. When he didn’t immediately respond, she tossed him a hard, knowing look and ordered again, “Get out of my way.”

“Laura—”

“You don’t listen! Get the hell out of my way!”

All he wanted to do was kiss her. To drag her into his arms and gather her close, press his mouth onto her wet lips, and try to roll back the hours and days, to start over. But she’d lied to him. And it was a big one.

She pulled on the door handle, and he stepped to the side, watched as she slipped behind the wheel. “Tell Kirsten thanks,” she said, twisting on the ignition and backing up before jamming her Outback into drive and nosing out into the street.

And then she was gone.

CHAPTER 43

S
he wouldn’t cry.

Laura drove away from the restaurant and bit her lip, but she wouldn’t cry.

She’d made a mistake with Harrison Frost, thought he was somehow different from the other men she’d muddled her life with, but, of course, she’d been wrong. She saw the repressed fury in the set of his jaw, the accusations in his eyes as he’d asked her about the pregnancy.

You should have told him.

“How?” she asked herself, her gaze flicking to her rearview mirror. “When?” It all would have ended up the same, though it might have ended faster.

What kind of a fool was she to fall so hard and so fast? “Idiot,” she accused and caught a glimpse of her reflection, shimmery blue eyes from her struggle against tears, brown hair growing out with her lighter blond roots.

She needed a change. To get away from here. From all the memories of her weird childhood, her disaster of a marriage, the loss of her unborn child, and finally, to get away from Harrison. She thought of their last few nights together, camped out at Kirsten’s or the bed-and-breakfast. . . . It seemed as if they’d shared a lifetime in little over a week.

Boy, oh boy, was
that
stupid.

She flicked on the radio, heard a newscast about the attack at Siren Song, then found a station that played a blend of pop and rock. Not that she really noticed. She was concentrating on her next move. As long as Justice was on the loose, no one was safe. Not her, not her sisters, not anyone close to her. Nor innocent victims that got in his path. Currently, no one could find him.

She alone could communicate with him.

She alone would have to find the son of a bitch. She didn’t have to worry about her baby’s life anymore, nor did she really have concern that he would zero in on Harrison now that they had split. Justice would probably know that about her, like he knew everything else.