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“What?”
I look up at Nath, and he moves back in his chair, obviously not liking the expression on my face. “They said Mom missed the routine service on her vehicle. She didn’t. I called her about an appointment we had the next day for my dress fitting. She sounded out of breath because she was walking to collect her car from the dealership.”
“She said that?”
“Yes.” It was a fleeting part of the conversation, forgettable, as proven, just a little joke made on the side of the subject at hand. My wedding. She said she needed to up her cardio game, but I remember it now like we had the conversation five minutes ago. “It was a couple of weeks before she died,” I whisper, my head about to explode. Nath is silent, pensive, looking at me like he’s unsure if I’m insane or a genius. They say there’s a fine line between the two. “It must be on the records.” I reach forward and seize Nath’s hand. “Her car was fine.”
“Beau, you must have your dates wrong.”
“I don’t.” I shake my head, adamant. “Nath, please. Just check the records. Maybe then I can convince them to reopen the case.” I can see he’s torn, and I hate putting him in the middle, but he’s my only hope. “Please.”
“Jesus,” he mumbles, closing his eyes briefly. “Okay. I’ll check.”
He thinks I’m mistaken. I’m not.
Mom’s car was fine. Which means I’m not going insane at all.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or afraid.
28
JAMES
Watching Beau go into the diner threw me. And those brochures she was looking at? I’m not so sure I like where that’s going. Neither did I like that she met Agent Nathan Butler. After learning of the news that they’re not entertaining Beau’s appeal, that could mean only one thing. Beau Hayley is about to dig.
Fuck, I wish she’d stop.
This is getting a bit too close for comfort. I laugh, mentally awarding myself with a medal for supreme idiocy. This got too close for comfort the moment I invited Beau Hayley into my world. Because the truth needs to remain buried if Beau is going to live and I’m going to remain hidden.
I sit idle by the curb and watch her leave the diner with Nathan Butler. They get in her old, battered Mustang. I shake my head to myself. She lives a simple life. Appears to have no desire for material things. She has the money—I know she has the money, not to mention a father who’s famously loaded. So why the fuck does she drive that old banger and risk her life?
The answer isn’t one I’m comfortable with.
I pull out and follow her at a distance, to a dealership a mile or so away. Nathan Butler gets out and smacks the roof of the car, and she drives away, the car chugging and spitting all over the place. I answer my mobile when Otto calls, keeping three cars back. “All okay for tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“Surveillance.”
“You mean following the girl.”
“She’s business.”
“And you’re a tool.”
“She’s digging, Otto.”
“And there’s nothing that can be found. We’ve been over it a hundred times.”
“Someone knows something, and Beau’s suspicious. If she gets too close—”
“She’s already too close.”
She’d die.
I see the signal light of Beau’s car start blinking, and a quick scan of the area tells me she’s pulling into a Walmart. It’s early afternoon. The store will be packed. What the fuck is she thinking? “I’ve got to go.” I hang up and follow her into the car park, parking on the other side, out of sight. But I see her. She sits in the driver’s seat for an age, looking at the store. Then she makes a call. To whom?
I rest back, watching her closely, hoping she’ll change her mind and drive away. This is too much in one day. The diner, the store, the opera tonight.
But she gets out, pulls her bag onto her shoulder, and walks with purpose toward the entrance. I don’t know if my increasing heartbeat is because she’s exposed, or because I am.
What the fucking hell is she doing?
29
BEAU
After I drop Nath off at the dealership, I head for Walmart, trying desperately not to pin all my hopes on my newfound recollection. Nath has a point. I could have my dates wrong. I could be clutching at straws, making small things into big things, or even nothings into somethings. I’m driving myself wild going over the conversation that happened over two years ago, reciting it word for word, trying to iron out the sketchy parts. I keep coming back to the same thing. Mom’s breathlessness.
The parking lot is packed when I pull into it, the afternoon shoppers out in force. This has got to be on par with an opera house, hasn’t it? Or maybe worse. People at opera houses are considerate and dignified. There is nothing dignified about fighting your way around Walmart on a Saturday afternoon. It’s each person for themselves. Survival of the fittest.
