“You think this is a hit list.” Spence’s voice was devoid of inflection, but I saw the skepticism in his narrowed midnight gaze.
That wasn’t the term I used. In fact, I’d deliberately avoided calling it that.
“When you put it like that, it sounds crazy.” I popped off one of the living room’s three thick-cushioned copper and dark wood armchairs. “But how else do you explain two people on that list having recently died?”
“A tragic coincidence?” Spence tracked my restless movements from a matching chair that faced me. He sounded distracted as though he was trying to reason through this situation.
His living room communicated excitement and energy. Area rugs in vibrant crimson, gold, sapphire, and emerald splashed across the hardwood flooring. The room’s centerpiece was a futuristic-looking two-tier metal-and-oak coffee table.
I paused in front of the electric fireplace. Its sleek, contemporary features included dark tobacco accents on a fresh white finish. Framed photographs across the metal mantel tracked his progression from his undergraduate years at Stanford, his graduate experiences at New York University, to his career as a journalist in Chicago. He also had pictures from his international travels to Canada, Mexico, the Caribbean, and Europe.
I turned back to Spence. “Neither of us believes in coincidence.”
“But a discarded hit list? That’s a stretch, especially one found after an event that more than seventy people attended.” He continued to study the list. “What assassin writes the names of their targets, then leaves the list behind? Isn’t that information supposed to be secret?”
Good point. I tossed him a disgruntled look. How could I protect him if he wouldn’t even consider something was wrong? I took a calming breath. The room smelled of wood and peppermint. Like Spence. “Do you have another explanation for your name being on the same piece of paper as two people whose deaths are now ‘under investigation’ by the sheriff’s department?” I made air quotes with my fingers for “under investigation.”
Spence shrugged. “You found this note in the activity room after the event, right?”
“Right.” I continued pacing, this time in front of the fake fireplace.
“It could be a list of attendees.”
All right; I’ll play along. “Seventy-six people came to the kickoff. Why were you, Hank, Nelle, and Brittany singled out?”
“It could be a list of high-profile residents.”
“Why isn’t the mayor on the list?”
“Maybe it’s a partial list of library donors.”
“Again, why only the four of you?” I rubbed my eyes. This game of verbal tennis wasn’t helping my anxiety. “Let’s try looking at this another way. What do you have in common with the other people on that list?”
“We all live in Peach Coast.” His words were dry.
I planted my hands on my hips and gritted my teeth. “Could you take this seriously? Please?”
“I am.” Spence spread his arms. “And, honestly, growing up in Peach Coast is all I have in common with Hank, Nelle, and Brittany. We’re friendly, but we’ve never been friends. We were in different graduating classes.”
Nothing he said reassured me. If anything, I was more anxious now than when I’d first arrived. I hesitated before asking him the question we were both dancing around. “Spence, is it possible someone’s trying to kill you?”
“For what?” His eyes were wide and clouded with confusion as though he couldn’t believe we were having this conversation.
Neither could I.
I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to harm Spence in any way. He was thoughtful, kind, humble, and fun. The kind of person other people wanted to spend time with—not bump off. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t, either.”
I wanted answers, but only found more questions. “Have you fired anyone recently?”
Spence chuckled as though I’d told a hilarious joke. “No. I have a high turnover because most of my editors and reporters leave for bigger and better things after a few years.”
Bigger and better things. Did he want those things as well?
I gave him a half smile. “It speaks well of your paper that your staff’s in such high demand. My parents really like the reporting.”
“Thank you.” He dropped his eyes as though the compliment embarrassed him. His modesty was one of his many appealing traits.
“Have you broken up with anyone recently?” I was more interested in his response than I should’ve been.
“No.” His expression was self-deprecating. “I’ve gone out a few times, but I haven’t dated anyone seriously in a while.”
I continued to grasp at straws. “Does anyone owe you money?”
“No.” His response was quick and spare. If he had given someone money, he probably wouldn’t consider it a loan.
Frustrated, I paced away from the fireplace and wandered to his front bay windows. These photos of Spence’s family and friends were all set in Peach Coast. There were several posed and candid pictures of his parents with and without him. His father had been a handsome man. Spence’s resemblance to him was striking. He’d also included photos of Nolan, Jo, and me.
I studied the photograph of the two of us taken after last month’s Peach Coast Cobbler Crawl. We were covered in sweat. Shockingly, we’d taken first place. I hadn’t been confident I’d be able to finish the event. We each had one hand around each other’s waist. Our other hands held our medals aloft.
Through the window, I could admire his neighborhood. It was clean and quiet, and lush with trees, flowers and expansive yards. The scenery whispered wealth and elegance.
Planting my hands on my hips again, I spoke over my shoulder. “We need to take this list to the deputies.”
“We could do that.” Spence’s voice sounded closer. “But they’ll be more skeptical than I am.”
That was an understatement. Factor in that I’d strained Jed’s goodwill by investigating Fiona Lyle-Hayes’s murder to prove Jo’s innocence, and he’d probably be biased against anything I said or did. Ever.
I turned to find Spence an arm’s length from me. “They still need to be aware of this list. It could be relevant to their investigations into Hank’s and Nelle’s deaths.”
Spence rubbed the back of his neck. I sensed his frustration like a presence beside him. “We don’t have any information beyond this list. Whatley won’t take it seriously.”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t bring it to their attention.”
He dropped his arm. “Why don’t we take today to think it over? If you feel the same way in the morning, I’ll speak to them with you.”
I started to disagree. It was barely nine o’clock and he expected me to wait another twenty-four hours? This was another example of my New York background conflicting with Southern culture. They had a very different concept of “urgency.”
Then I realized whether I go alone today or with Spence tomorrow, the deputies will most likely dismiss my concerns. However, my primary goal was to keep Spence safe. I’d shown him the list and shared my fears. That would have to be enough. For now.
“Promise me you’ll be careful.”
He squeezed my shoulder and held my eyes. “I promise.”
A good book cures all ills. At the very least, it provides a comforting distraction. After returning from Spence’s home, I changed back into my oversized teal T-shirt and faded black denim shorts. Both had seen better days. Phoenix and I curled up on my fluffy sky-blue sofa and fell into a newly released young adult fantasy. I loved young adult fantasy. Jo had read an advance review copy of the novel and recommended it to me. We planned to discuss the story once I’d finished it.
My cellphone rang, pulling me out of the paranormal universe and back into my living room. The sudden noise startled Phoenix. He launched himself from my lap and sent me a look of reproach.
“I didn’t make my phone ring.”
He waved his tail dismissively as he strode away.
The caller ID displayed my mother’s number. “Hi! How are you?”
“We’re fine. How’re you?” My parents spoke in unison like low-tech stereo surround sound.
“I’m excited about your visit next month.” Only six weeks and five days to go. Yay! I closed my book. “I’m already planning our activities.”
Everything about New York moved quickly—except public transportation. During their visit, I wanted my parents to slow down and enjoy the moments as I was learning to do. Although, it wasn’t in my nature to slow down too much.
We’d start the mornings with a run on the dirt trail near my home. Would they enjoy the idyllic surroundings, or would the trail’s near-isolation cause them to be concerned for my safety? And how would they feel about On A Roll, To Be Read, the library, and my house? I really wanted them to like my adopted home. The trip was supposed to reassure them I was happy and safe. I didn’t want them worrying about me for any reason, whether it was where I lived or what I was doing.
Urgh! I was making myself crazy, but I had to present the town in the best possible light. I didn’t want my parents to be disappointed in my judgement.
At twenty-eight years old and living on my own, I didn’t need Mom and Dad to approve of my decision to move to Peach Coast to advance my career, but I wanted it. They said they understood and supported my choice, but sometimes in their voices, I heard whispers of uncertainty.
The first couple of months had been hard. I’d missed my family so much, it had been like an ache. Sometimes it still was. Phoenix and I’d had a bumpy adjustment. My parents had known all about it, not just from our near-daily phone calls but also from their online subscription to the Crier. Yes, they’d subscribed to—and read—the town’s paper to keep tabs on me. I know. That was next level.
Anyway, Phoenix and I were happier now. We’d fallen in love with the town and the characters who lived in it. I wanted my parents to see that.
“We’re excited too.” Mom didn’t sound excited. Had something come up? Closing my eyes, I braced for disappointment. She continued. “Your father and I were thinking of coming early.”
My eyes popped open. What? Why—
Oh. An image of the banner headline for this morning’s Crier uploaded to my mind: Malcovich Savings and Loan CFO Found Dead.
“Mom, Dad, it’s not necessary to move up your trip. I’m fine. Really. And as you read in the article, the deputies have everything under control.”
Besides, if a serial killer was roaming Peach Coast, would I want my parents coming for a visit? No! The conflicting messages would be tricky, though: Don’t worry about my safety, Mom and Dad, but please stay home because I’m worried about yours.
Dad snorted. “Are we supposed to be reassured with these deputies assigned to the case? Aren’t they the ones who needed your help to solve the last murder?”
I flinched. Deputy Cole—and especially Deputy Whatley—wouldn’t appreciate being described that way. Note to self: When showing my parents around, skip the sheriff’s department.
“Your father’s right, Marvey. You can’t be dismissive of this danger. In less than a month, two people have died from unknown, possibly suspicious, circumstances. You have to take these events seriously.” Mom sounded like me, talking with Spence this morning. He hadn’t seemed to appreciate the danger of the situation, either. Maybe I should ask her to speak with him.
“I am taking them seriously, Mom. I promise. I knew the bank CFO. Nelle was warm and friendly.” My eyes stung. I didn’t want to think of her being gone. Beneath her professional demeanor, she had a playful sense of humor. I was going to miss her laughter. And she’d been a comic book fan. I loved comic books.
“I’m sorry, Marvey.” Dad’s low tone was gentle sympathy.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Mom’s compassion was genuine, but short-lived. She quickly resumed her Mama Bear role. “That’s even more reason for concern. If she was murdered, the killer attacked someone in your circle of acquaintances.”
“I’m being careful. And remember, I have security systems on my house and my car.” I’d gotten the home installation to appease my parents. It had come in handy last month during my amateur efforts to clear Jo’s name. Apparently concerned by my inquiries, the killer had tried to break into my home in the middle of the night.
“The two suspicious deaths have already occurred in just the last two weeks.” My father’s apprehension carried across the nine-hundred-and-eight-point-four miles that separated us. “And it was a little more than a month ago that the author was killed at the bookstore. That’s three murders in less than two months. We didn’t know you were moving to such a dangerous town. You might as well have stayed in Brooklyn.”
My lips curved into a reluctant smile. On which community’s behalf was I more insulted, Brooklyn or Peach Coast? It was a toss-up. “That’s an unfair comparison, Dad.”
To be precise, it was actually three murders in five weeks, but I decided against correcting him. Besides, my name wasn’t on the hit list. My eyes strayed toward the stairs leading to my bedroom where I’d stored the list inside my purse, ready to take to the sheriff’s department Monday—with or without Spence.
“Perhaps your father and I will feel just as confident of your safety once we see the town for ourselves.” My mother had gone from insistence to persuasion.
I threw my head back and stared at the off-white ceiling. Of course I wanted my parents to visit as soon as possible, but we’d already made arrangements, and “as soon as possible” was next month. “I can’t take time off from work now. You know we’ve just kicked off our summer fundraiser. And Corrinne approved my vacation request for July.”
I sensed my parents’ nonverbal fretting. Their minds were hard at work on a more convincing argument. But we couldn’t dispute the facts, and the facts were this wasn’t the best time for a visit.
“All right.” Dad sounded resigned. “We’ll wait until July, but you’re friends with the newspaper’s publisher, Spence Holt. Promise you’ll keep us informed of whatever you learn about the investigation, whether it’s in the paper or not.”
I looked toward the staircase again. Should I tell them about the list? I rubbed away the wrinkle between my eyebrows. Now probably wasn’t the right time. “I promise.”
“Good.” Mom seemed satisfied, at least for now. “And be careful.”
“I will...” ...do my best.