Page 49 of Done Dirty

“I’m not crying,” I said. “It’s the pregnancy hormones.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Neither of us said anything as we drove toward Newcastle.

The residential streets going in were quiet but dressed up—flags on every porch, red-and-white bunting along the railings, a few houses with those big inflatable Uncle Sams that always look vaguely threatening. People had their garage doors up and lawn chairs out like they were getting an early start on the weekend.

Jack turned toward downtown and had to reroute when he hit the barricades. The cobblestone streets were blocked off from traffic—a crew was setting up vendor tents along both sides, the kind of organized operation that told you the town had been planning this for months. Someone was testing a PA system and the sound carried through the car window. The storefronts in the renovated block had window paintings and handmade signs, and a banner stretched across the street announced the country’s 250th in bold red letters. It smelled like kettle corn and coffee from the café that had its doors propped open.

He swung around and parked in The Windsor lot. We were going to need to talk to the front desk concierge anyway—Zoe said the envelope instructions had her leaving cash at the front desk of The Windsor. It was easy enough to check, especially if Wade had made a habit of cash drop-offs at the front desk.

“Fourth of July is my favorite holiday,” I said.

Jack glanced over at me. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” I said.

“More than Christmas?”

“Christmas is great if you had the right childhood for it,” I said. “I did not always have the right childhood for it. Christmas in the Graves house was…unpredictable. Thanksgiving had the same problem. You never knew which version of my parents you were going to get.”

“And the Fourth?”

“The Fourth is different. Nobody’s sitting around a table waiting for someone to say the wrong thing. You’re outside. There’s fried chicken and potato salad and someone’s always got Ray Charles going. And the fireworks.” I watched a woman hang a flag banner above her shop door. “There’s something about the Fourth that belongs to everybody equally. You don’t have to have a good family to stand in a field and watch fireworks. You just have to show up.”

Jack was quiet for a moment. “I never thought about it that way.”

“You had the right childhood for all of it,” I said. “Thanksgiving and Christmas and the Fourth. It all meant the same thing to you.”

“It did,” he said. “I’m sorry yours didn’t.”

“Don’t be sorry. It made me appreciate it more.” I looked out the window. “Besides. The Fourth is for the underdog. It always has been. A ragtag bunch of people who decided they’d had enough and bet everything on themselves against the most powerful people in the world. I can relate to that.”

Jack pulled into a spot and cut the engine. He looked at me for a moment.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just like you.”

I grinned. “I like you too.”

I got out of the car. The downtown street was blocked off and a crew was unloading folding tables onto the cobblestones, so we went on foot past the barricades. The festival setup was loud and bright and smelled like sawdust and coffee, and then we pushed through Vitalia’s door and it was none of those things.

Inside it was cool and hushed, the lighting warm and low, white orchids in a tall vase on the reception desk. It smelled like bergamot and eucalyptus.

The receptionist looked up from her computer and smiled. “Welcome to Vitalia. Do you have an appointment today?”

Jack showed her his badge. “Sheriff Lawson. We need to speak to Paige Marsh.”

The smile held but something shifted behind it. “She’s finished up with a client. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She excused herself and disappeared to the back. It was only a couple of minutes before she reappeared. “She’ll be right out. Can I offer you any refreshments?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” I said.

We waited in a sitting area with low cream-colored chairs and a table with a single architectural magazine on it and a small zen sand garden.

Paige came through the door in scrubs with her hair up. There were dark circles under her eyes that even makeup hadn’t been able to erase.