Daisy
I’m at Dr. Hoover’s door. Tom wanted to come earlier, but I insisted on waiting for a reasonable hour. The clinic opens at ten today, so nine is reasonable, especially if I arrive bearing Glory’s cinnamon buns. Tom himself isn’t with me. He wants to get a read on where the police are with regards to the investigation, and he thinks he knows someone he can trust to give him that information.
He dropped me off and insisted I take his cell phone. We’re supposed to meet at the abandoned house where we salvaged the window. From there, we’ll compile what we know and plan our next move. Or that’s his version. I already know my next move. No matter what happens with Dr. Hoover, I am going to turn myself in as the real Celeste. Either I will bring enough for the police to arrest the imposter for my grandmother’s murder, or I won’t. I will not keep digging, further endangering Tom as an accomplice.
It takes a few minutes for Dr. Hoover to answer. He’s got to be past retirement age by now, but he doesn’t look much older than when I knew him, still bright eyed, his curly hair shorn almost to his scalp.
“Well, I know that’s Tom’s truck,” he says with a smile. “But you do not look like Tom.”
The smile falters as his dark eyes fix on me. Then they widen, and he pulls on a pair of glasses worn around his neck.
“Hey, Doc,” I say. “Been a while.”
“It has, hasn’t it?” His words come slow and careful, eyes fixed on me, uncertain and assessing. “Remind me the last time I saw you.”
“When I was ten. I sprained my ankle jumping out of a tree.”
His eyes sharpen. He’s not asking because he’s trying to place me. He’s testing me.
“And who brought you in?” he asks.
I smile at the memory. “Tom Lowe. He doubled me on his bike, racing to your office, screaming ‘emergency!’ like some kind of siren. He came into the parking lot so fast he wiped out on the gravel, and when you came out, we were arguing—he was trying to carry me, and I was telling him to stop fussing.”
Dr. Hoover leans against the doorframe and gives a long exhale. “CeCe.” He backs up. “Come in, child. Come in.”
I follow him into the trim little house, which also looks exactly as I remember.
“Tom blamed himself when you didn’t come back to Fort Exile after that,” he says as he leads me into the living room. “He was sure your parents were keeping you away because he let you get hurt.”
I wince. “Oh.”
He waves me to a seat. “Maeve set him straight soon enough, told him to stop being silly.” He sighs. “CeCe Turner. So who the hell is the woman living in your house?”
“Good question. Tom and I are sorting it out.”
“She didn’t remember that ankle sprain. I asked her about it, just breaking the ice, and I could tell it caught her off guard. I didn’t think much of that. It wasn’t exactly a traumatic injury, and while you’d always been a quiet child, you’d apparently grown up to be cold and distant, too. It happens. I let it go. I shouldn’t have.”
“She fooled a lot of people.”
“Not Tom, I bet. There was no way she pulled the wool over his eyes. I don’t know how she thought she would.”
“As far as she was concerned, Tom was just a guy Celeste Turner hung out with now and then when she visited her grandmother.”
“I guess so.” A deep sigh. “What a mess.” His brow furrows. “Wait. Are you the young woman who’s been living with her? Doing repairs?”
“Yep.”
The furrow deepens. “Didn’t I hear that lawyer was found dead in the swamp?”
“Yep. All I can say for sure is that neither Tom nor I had anything to do with that. I’m here to ask about Maeve. About her death. I have questions.”
“I’m sure you do, and as her next of kin, you are entitled to answers. Ask away.”
Celeste
I turn into my drive to see it blocked by a familiar pickup, one that would have made my heart skip a few days ago.
It’s Tom.
He’s brought Daisy back to collect her things. Last night, I checked her room and was disappointed to find that she’d only taken half her things, which meant she wasn’t running. Now she’s back, with Tom in tow, to collect the rest.
Daisy.
Daisy who is not Daisy at all. Daisy who is the real Celeste Turner.
I’m tempted to reverse and roar out of here. Hell, I was tempted to not come back to Fort Exile at all. But she’s known all along that I’m an imposter, and she hasn’t called me on it. I sure as hell don’t want to tumble into a trap, but nor do I want to scamper off like a scared rabbit, leaving all my belongings behind. She doesn’t know anything has changed. I just need to play along for a little bit more and then collect my things and hit the road. Leave Daisy with her house and her inheritance.
And a murder charge?
Guilt stabs through me. This isn’t what I intended, damn it. I’ve done enough to her already, and I am keenly aware of that.
Now what?
This should make me even more determined not to frame her, but while I have an alternate plan, I no longer dare stick around long enough to act on it. I can only get the hell out of Dodge before Daisy summons me to a showdown at noon.
Leave . . . and let her face a murder charge.
I’m sorry, CeCe. This isn’t what I intended, and I hope to God you can get out of it okay. I’ll help if I can, from a distance. I won’t do anything more to hurt you, but I can’t undo what I’ve done, either, on any count.
I want you to be okay, and my flight will help. Let them come after me instead. I won’t set them on my own trail—I’m not that selfless—but you can do that. Tell them I stole your identity and let them decide I may also have killed my partner in crime. Then tell Tom who you really are. Fall into each other’s arms and live happily ever after.
That’s what I want for you. Good things. Only good things.
You deserve it, just like Jasmine did.
I head inside.
“Hello?” I call, a note of concern in my voice, like someone who has returned to find uninvited guests in her home.
No one answers. As I listen, I catch the sound of the shower running.
She’s taking a shower? Really?
Yes, because it’s her shower. Her house. And as long as she’s busy, I have time to gather my things and get out.
I’m in the upstairs hall when the shower stops. Two more steps, and the bathroom door opens.
“Hey,” a voice says. “I thought I heard someone here.”
That is not Daisy’s voice. I turn to see Tom. Dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“I hoped to be done before you were back. Whoops.” He shoots me a bashful smile, but it’s a total put-on, as his eyes dance with undisguised amusement.
I stand there, arms crossed. “What are you doing in my shower?”
“Mine’s busted,” he says. “Daisy asked me to collect her things, so I figured I’d sneak a shower.”
“She’s not coming to get her own stuff?”
“I get the feeling you spooked her. You are a very scary lady when you want to be.”
“Not scary enough to keep you out of my shower.”
“Do you want me out of your shower?” He leans one hip against the counter. “Or are you just disappointed that I wasn’t still in there?”
“Someone’s feeling flirty today. I’m guessing Daisy slept on the sofa.”
“Never. That would be inhospitable. Daisy got the full measure of my hospitality.”
“The full measure?”
“Nothing less.”
“Must have been disappointing if you’re inviting me into showers already.”
“Did I invite you?” He backs against the vanity counter, resting on it, the towel parting to show one thigh and the enticing shadow of more. “Mmm, no, I think I just asked if you were disappointed that I was finished. Now, if you’re inviting me back into the shower . . .”
I step toward him. “Let’s say I was. What would your answer be, Mr. Lowe?”
“My answer would be that, sadly, I’ve already washed up. I could use a coffee, though. Otherwise, I might just collapse on your sofa, and I have the feeling that would be unwise.” His lips purse, as if in thought. “Still tempting, though.”
His glittering eyes meet mine. “What do you say, Ms. Turner? Should I insist on a coffee or risk falling asleep in this towel?”
I flick a finger against his chest. “Tom Lowe, you are an unrepentant flirt. Poor Daisy never stood a chance, did she? Dare I ask where she is? Recovering from the exertions of the night?”
“Alas, no, as much as my ego would love that. She had errands to run. We have about an hour before she shows up.”
“An hour for coffee?” My eyes widen in mock innocence. “You must drink very slowly, Mr. Lowe.”
He chuckles. “Normally, no. But in this case, that coffee may take a while. I have a proposal for you. One that I think you’ll like.”
“Somehow, despite your flirting, I have the feeling this proposal doesn’t involve showers or couches.”
“Not yet.”
I flick his chest again, hard enough to make him yelp. “Un-re-pent-ant tease. Fine. I’ll bite.” I turn toward the door. “You might want to get used to that.”
His laughter follows me as I head downstairs to make coffee.
I sit at the table while Tom brews a pot for me. He’s pulled on his jeans and nothing else, so he’s bare-chested, barefoot and damp haired. A charming picture indeed. The bare chest may be a bit much with the air conditioning, but I get the message. It’s like a pretty girl undoing a button or two on her blouse. He’s putting on a display, one intended to distract me while reminding me of what I might win if I play my cards right.
As the coffee brews, Tom pokes around the kitchen until—with an ah-ha of victory—he finds the cookies. He sets four on a plate and microwaves them, saying, “Daisy’s cookies are so good this is possibly gilding the lily, but warm is always better with chocolate chip.”
There’s no hint of guilt or derision in his voice. He’s flirting with me using cookies made by the woman he slept with last night, and he’s blithely complimenting her baking.
Yep, CeCe, you deserve so much better. We both do.
It seems our Mr. Lowe is a bit of a player. For me, he is sexy and flirty and bold. For Daisy, he’s sweet as sugar, considerate and kind.
Which is the real you, Tom Lowe?
Tom brings over two mugs, mine fixed exactly as I like it. He grins, as if expecting a head pat for it. I take it with a regal nod. Accepting my due.
He nibbles a cookie and closes his eyes, mmm-mmming his appreciation. “My mom always said no one baked cookies like Maeve Turner. She guarded her recipe like a dragon hoarding its treasure. One year, at the state fair, someone said it was just the regular Toll House recipe. And she admitted it. Do you believe that?”
“Maeve was unpredictable.”
“Nah, she was totally predictable. She admitted it because she was saying that everyone else was welcome to use ‘her’ recipe and it wouldn’t make any difference. It was the baker that counted, not a list of instructions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She only ever taught one person how to make those cookies.” He takes another bite. “Her granddaughter.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “Do you remember making these for me?”
He waves off my answer. “That’s right. You barely remember me. That’s okay. I didn’t remember you, either. I thought I did, but then we met, and it was like looking at a stranger. People change, you know?”
The back of my neck prickles.
He continues, “It’s disappointing when that happens. You’re so sure that you’d remember a friend, even if they were a kid when you last saw them. You think your eyes will meet in a crowd and your brain will scream, That’s her.”
He might be sitting there, munching on a cookie, sipping his coffee, but in my mind, he’s on his feet, backing me into a corner. His eyes glitter with predatory delight, and in that moment, he looks so much like Liam that, if I had my gun, I might put a bullet through one of those brown eyes, and it wouldn’t be an accident.
Two choices. Retreat or stand firm.
I am done retreating.
My voice low, I say, “How long have you known?”
“How long have I known you aren’t CeCe Turner?” He reaches for another cookie. “Since the moment I saw you.”
“Yet you did nothing.”
A one-shouldered shrug. “I didn’t owe Maeve anything. The old bat was a bitch to me. Ran me off when she started looking for CeCe. Didn’t think I was good enough for her grandbaby.”
“You proved her wrong, didn’t you?”
He pauses, cookie to his lips. Ah, he doesn’t know who Daisy is? I have the advantage, sir.
And the moment I think that, his lips quirk in a grin. “So you figured it out, too. Innocent little Daisy isn’t so innocent after all.”
“She told you who she really is.”
“Told me?” His brows shoot up. “You really do think I’m that oblivious. I saw through both of your charades.”
“She doesn’t know that you know?”
That languid shrug again. “It didn’t seem useful.”
I meet his gaze. “So what does seem useful to you?”
He smiles. “Framing her for murder.”