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He’d been a decent man, she thought. A good father. He’d loved his daughter Maribeth. Maribeth had been a funny kid. Sassy and snarky and sweet. Haldyn had babysat for her several times, and had enjoyed it. She’d liked that little girl—it had hurt when Maribeth had overdosed. “I really don’t understand what’s going on here.”
“No. I don’t suppose you do. Just…I’m not going to hurt you. But I’m not going to let that bastard Wilson hurt little Hope again. Or Madison. Those are good girls. Both of them. You, too. I’ve always thought that. I saw your sister Blake there at the Barratts. She’s a tall one now, ain’t she?”
It took her a moment. “That wasn’t Blake. That’s Grace. One of the girls Eastman hurt that day. She resembles my sister a great deal. She’s…hurting. She doesn’t speak now. Since…the trauma.”
“I see. I just thought…hell, I don’t know what I thought. Just saw her, and thought it was nice you had a sister with you there. And that boyfriend of yours. Saw you and him kissing there around the corner, when I was giving Rodriguez and little Hope that escort when she hurt herself. Foster waiting for you tonight?”
“Yes. He’s waiting.” More than anything in the world, she wanted to see him again. To have that conversation. To tell him…she was ready to jump off the ledge. To stop being so afraid to try. To live.
Literally locking herself away in Melody’s castle had showed her how she had figuratively been locking herself away from life for years. She couldn’t do that any longer. She just couldn’t.
With Jarrod, she wanted to try.
“He’s waiting, and I want to be with him tonight. Please, what are we doing?”
“Wilson’s one of them, Hallie girl. One of the guys who was with me when we took you that day. One of the ones who orchestrated what happened in that concert hall that day.”
“Steve Wilson is one of the choir hall shooters?”
“No. But he knows who set it up. I just…I just drove the van. They were supposed to go inside, scare those girls, and get out. So those girls could deliver a message to Fields. But they shot up the place instead. Went…rogue, I think. Pissed off the ones in charge—I do know that much. But some of them were well-connected. I didn’t know they were going to do that, or take MacNamara’s wife. I didn’t.”
He was telling her this—because he intended to kill her. Haldyn wasn’t stupid. He couldn’t let her go now. He just couldn’t. “You called Jarrod. About mile marker forty-four.” He’d said ain’t no fucking sense in that on that anonymous call. Just like in the van. And just like tonight. “Why did you do that? Was it an ambush for Major Crimes?”
“No. Hell, no. I didn’t want to bring more of that shit into our county. I brought it here. And Maribeth got ahold of it. It killed her. She OD’d while I was busy running drugs around. How is that for karma? I can’t stand the thought of someone else’s baby girl doing that. And that Wilson, he’s the one who brings it in now. One of the captains, and everything. They think it’s like the damned mob or something. Think they are special.”
“Where is Steve Wilson tonight?” Heather’s ex. It didn’t surprise her at all. “He was in the van, wasn’t he?”
“Wilson was the one in charge that day we took you.”
That’s where she had heard his voice then. She had been an idiot. She should have put it together before. “I see.”
“He’s out here. Somewhere. And we’re going to find him. I’m done, Hallie girl. I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Why? Maribeth?”
“Maribeth, yes. Do you remember what she looked like? Here.” He handed her something out of his pocket. “Been carrying these with me.”
He turned the interior light on. Haldyn looked down. At the battered photo. She recognized Maribeth Kimball. And… “This…but this is Hope Coleson.”
A much younger Hope, with Maribeth next to her, Hope holding a skateboard and grinning. There was a banner behind the girls—with HHC is bright green letters screened on it. That distinctive logo Hope had told her one of her nieces had designed for her years ago. It was on the hats Hope always wore. And on her skateboard she’d had the day Miguel had arrested her. On her helmet, too.
There was no denying that was Hazel Hope Coleson right there. With Sol Kimball’s daughter.
“Yeah. My Maribeth hero-worshipped that girl for years. That skateboarding thing. I took her to meet little Hope once about five years ago at a competition in Oklahoma. Hope was so kind to my baby that day. Talked to her, encouraged her, that kind of thing. So…genuine. I never forgot that. Didn’t realize who she was until after the barbecue. Have a poster of her in my girl’s old bedroom. See…Hope gets that poster, okay? Needs to go to her, really. Hope, or Heather.”
“What is going on with Hope tonight, Sol? Tell me. Please?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not letting Wilson put his fucking paws on my little Hope again. No matter what I have to do next. No matter what. No matter what the cost.”
74
Sol knew he had gone off the edge. Off the rails, for sure.
He’d killed a man tonight. Too fucking late for him to care now.
He hadn’t truly cared about anything since the day he’d put his baby girl in a grave. Those damned Wichita Falls bastards hadn’t even sent a fucking card when he’d buried his baby because of them. Nothing. But little Hallie had come to the funeral. Her and little Madison. He’d never forgotten that.
He hadn’t cared about anything since that day—except little Hope. And Heather. That woman—he would go to his grave thinking about that woman. Maybe even go there tonight.
