Page 136 of Gilt

I pause and wait, and ever so gradually, peace settles over me. “Yeah, I do.”

We sit there for what could be minutes, or what could be hours. It doesn’t really matter. When the spell is broken, he speaks. “You aren’t coming home, are you?”

It’s hard to get words past the lump in my throat. “No, I’m not, but I’m staying at Josie’s.”

“You’re 18 now. It doesn’t matter.” Sadness softens the edges of his words. “Jameson seems like a good kid. He was right to get you out of there that night. He isn’t his father. I know that.”

I can only nod. If only it were that simple.

“Can I drive you to Josie’s? Maybe take you to dinner?”

“That would be ...” I search for my answer, and I’m surprised when I find it. “Nice. That would be nice, Dad.”

The night is starless when he drops me off at Josie’s house a few hours later. The summer is already growing shorter. Autumn will be here in the blink of an eye, along with my senior year, but while everyone else is thinking about prom and college applications, I’m going to spend time worrying over paternity tests and murder investigations.

The house is quiet. I wasn’t the only one to opt out of my self-imposed isolation. I find my cell phone on the kitchen island with a note. “You left this. It’s been blowing up all day. Turn it on and call Mackey back.”

I know what she’s after. I ignored the subpoena delivered last week to Jameson’s door. The one requesting a sample of my DNA. I can’t keep hiding from the firing squad, and whatever magic Jameson’s lawyers have worked to keep the court order from taking effect won’t last forever. With or without her answers, she’s not going to give up.

I turn on my phone and check my text messages. There’s a couple from Josie, ending with a, “Oh, shit. Your phone is here. No wonder you aren’t answering me,” and an offer for a free sandwich, but that’s all.

Still no response from The Dealer, who, judging from his Instagram feed, is taking a texting and posting holiday. Maybe I had played my card too early, or maybe I had started seeing things I wanted to see. Mackey’s dogged pursuit of me might just be proof that sometimes we’re so desperate for clues, we fabricate them for ourselves. I send one more text—to my suspect, anyway. If Mackey can badger me into a response, then it’s worth employing a similar tactic.

The next call I make is purely practical.

Dominic Chambers answers on the first ring.

“Southerly,” he says gruffly. He isn’t expecting my call. No doubt he put more work into trying to find out about my sister, but not enough to justify the stamp on another bill. He’s moved on from my tragic backstory and on to someone else’s current drama.

“I don’t need you to keep looking into who my sister’s father is,” I inform him.

“Oh.” I can tell from the way he responds that he’d already stopped. “I guess I can put a bill ...”

“No. I have something else for you to do. You can bill as much as you want,” I say, thinking of my unwanted trust fund. If I was going to be paid off, at least I could donate the money to a good cause.

I lay out what I want him to do, and he gives a low whistle. “That’s not going to be easy.”

“I know,” I say, simply.

“Or cheap,” he adds.

“I know.”

This time I speak more forcefully. “I recently came into some money,” I explain to him. “Price isn’t an object.”

“That’s a real claim to make in a town like this, little lady.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

Judging from Dominic Chambers’ velour jogging suits and penchant for accepting bogus baseball cards, he’s the kind of guy who thinks in the hundreds instead of the millions. He’ll be surprised when I suggest we meet in the thousands. “Mr. Chambers, you just won the lottery.”

When I hang up with him, I make the last call. Mackey doesn’t bother to answer her cell phone. No doubt it’s some type of psychological maneuver on her end to make me question myself. Still, there’s no turning back now. I’ll know the truth even if I have to swallow it whole. When her voicemail beeps, I leave a one-line message.

“Where do I go to get my blood drawn?”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Nothing has changed inside Pawnography since I stopped coming to work. It’s still a haven of other people’s crap: old autographs, unwanted instruments, antique pistols. Jerry blinks as if he’s seen a ghost.