six

HAROLD WAS BEING BLACKMAILED. Or extorted. Or something. As alarming as that was, Vivian couldn’t shake the looming despair over what the video implied. Nor could she stop watching it. She hadn’t called the sheriff, and maybe she should have, but the idea of showing it to someone and having them believe what they were seeing about Harold—she just couldn’t.

It can’t be true. There has to be an explanation.

Vivian pressed back from her desk. She’d adopted Harold’s chair and let the soft leather comfort her. Who would do this to him? And why? Harold was an upstanding citizen. Loved his wife and family. Worked hard on the Gazette. The idea had crossed her mind that maybe Harold had angered someone, wrote a story they felt was unfair, but she easily crossed that off her mental list. Across the world, journalists were often insulted, assaulted, and sometimes killed for pursuing a story. But the Gazette was different. Harold had wanted it that way. He had wanted stories full of hope. Not that he obscured the truth, but rather his focus was on finding the light in the darkness of humanity. He’d told her,“There is always light in the truth.”

Vivian wasn’t exactly sure she agreed. When she found out the truth about her father, it smothered the light right out of her life. She’d been trying to make her way through the darkness ever since. And now this? Could she really have been fooled twice?

Her cell phone rang and Vivian answered it, hoping the caller was about to shine some light on this ugly mess.

“Sorry, Vivian. I’ve never seen an email so well protected in my life.” Smasher exhaled into the phone. “Whoever set this up did not want to be found and took extensive measures to that end.”

Smasher had dated her roommate during her freshman year at VCU. He was a genius at coding and received a coveted internship at a tech software company in San Francisco after he graduated. Though his relationship with her roommate had ended long ago, Vivian and Smasher remained friends and often traded skill sets. Smasher provided her with informal computer help. She offered him advice on women he met on the internet. It probably wasn’t a fair trade, but Smasher didn’t seem to mind and was still seeing the woman Vivian picked out for him five weeks ago.

“You’re telling me not even your nerd squad could trace it?”

“I’m telling you that I’ve got a $4,000 laptop that is close to being fried because some Trojan virus infected it when we tried hacking one of the firewalls. Nerd squad? That’s the best your writerly brain could do? Disappointing.”

Vivian ignored his playful retort. “What about the link to pay?”

“Same thing. It’s a maze of firewalls and dead ends,” Smasher said. “But here’s the curious thing. Something caused the Watcher to retreat from his threat.”

“What do you mean?”

“You received the email a week after it was sent, which means at least the deadline to pay him off had passed and yet there’s no video floating around of your boss with the chick.”

She frowned. “You’re right. What would make him do that?”

“My guess, whoever it is didn’t know their target was dead until after he sent the email. Realized demanding money from a dead man might look suspicious.”

Vivian straightened. “But Harold died because of his peanut allergy, Smasher.”

“You do read what you report, right? Killers are creative.”

Vivian’s eyes went to the empty spot where Harold’s laptop once sat. Had someone used peanuts to kill Harold? And did the theft of his laptop have something to do with it? And what did the video—she shot up. The story. The one Harold was trying to tell her about before he died.

“I gotta go.” Vivian grabbed her keys, ending the call as she raced down the stairs to her car. She’d been avoiding this errand long enough and now she couldn’t wait to get there.

Eyeing the front porch of the craftsman-style bungalow, Vivian wondered if this was a good idea. Maybe there was a way she could do this over the phone and avoid seeing the place—

“Vivian?”

She blinked, not expecting to see Shepherd Kennedy standing in front of her. Vivian climbed the steps. “Oh, hi. I’m looking for Carol—”

“Vivian, is that you?” Carol Kennedy, a beautiful woman with cropped brown hair and just enough age lines to show she smiled more than she worried—or used to—stepped forward. “Oh, honey, it’s so good to see you. Shep, let this sweet girl in.”

Shep moved aside, holding the screen door open for Vivian. Curiosity colored his brown eyes as she passed.

“You’ve met Shep.”

“Yes,” Vivian said, glancing at the man standing protectively next to his aunt. What did he think she was here to do? Tattle on him?

“He couldn’t stop telling me how pretty you are—”

“Aunt Carol,” Shep said. “I only agreed with you that Ms. DeMarco was pretty feisty.”

“He’s a sweet boy.” Carol rubbed her nephew’s arm. “Works too hard in my opinion.”

Shep’s face pinched and Vivian passed him an amused expression. She swore that if Carol hadn’t been standing there, he would’ve stuck out his tongue at her like a petulant child.

“But we still love you, don’t we, Shep?”

He pressed a kiss to Carol’s temple. “I’m headed to the airport to pick up Dad. Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“I don’t think so, hon.”

“Ms. DeMarco.” Shep winked—actually winked at her—and then left.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Carol embraced Vivian. “It’s been so busy. And since the funeral I haven’t had an opportunity to call you and tell you how much it meant to know Harold wasn’t alone that night.”

Vivian pressed her lips together in an attempt to stay the emotion welling up inside of her. Her eyes fell to the spot in front of the couch . . . she didn’t want to be there. Should turn around and leave. Find the answers to her questions another way.

Carol released her. “Come into the kitchen. I just made a pitcher of sweet tea.”

If Vivian had learned one thing living in the South, it was that when someone invited you in for tea, you weren’t going anywhere at all. She followed Carol into the kitchen, where several dishes lined the counters and table.

“Wow.”

“I know. Everyone has been so generous, but there’s no way I can eat all this.” Carol pulled a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator. “Would you like something? Cookies, cobbler, pie? I’m afraid sugar and butter is the way of comfort here in the South.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

After she poured the tea, Carol sat and reached for Vivian’s hand. “It really is so nice to see you.”

“Ms. Carol . . . I just want to say how sorry I am. If I had known Harold was in trouble, I would’ve gotten here faster. Given him the injection quicker. Done something else.” The words spilled out in one breath. “I’m so, so sorry. I keep thinking about what else I could’ve done.”

“Oh, my dear child.” Carol scooted her chair closer. She wrapped her arm around Vivian’s shoulder. “I know you did everything you could. Lord knows I miss him, but my Harold is in a better place. Can you imagine the stories my newspaper boy is hearing right now?”

Vivian searched Carol’s face, and though she saw immense sadness in her hazel eyes, there was also peace. And love. Even in Carol’s grief, Vivian recognized the immeasurable love she still had for Harold. Vivian had witnessed in Harold the same kind of love for Carol. There was no way he would have been capable of dishonoring her.

“Now, tell me why you’re here.”

Vivian looked down. Was her face that readable? Her intentions obvious? “I, well, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”

Carol smiled. “I appreciate that dear, but there’s something else.” A knowing expression filled her face. “You have that look. The one Harold”— her voice caught and a sheen of moisture filled her eyes—“used to get when he was working a story.”

Vivian blushed, feeling bad. Was this appropriate? Harold’s funeral was only two weeks ago. “Find the story, my dear.” Harold’s words echoed in her ear. But what if the story led to breaking Carol’s heart? Vivian had already convinced herself she would not tell Carol about the video until she had no other choice. Until she knew the truth—no matter how ugly it might be.

“Does this have something to do with Ryan stopping by?”

“Ry—I mean, Deputy Frost was here? Why?”

“He came by and asked about Harold’s allergy. I told him Harold would’ve never accidentally eaten anything with peanuts. You know how he was.” Vivian nodded. “Anyway, one of his deputies took the Volvo to run some tests on it. Did some here too. On the door.” Carol looked at the kitchen door leading to the detached garage. “Ryan didn’t tell me what they were looking for, but he did ask me if I use peanut oil when I cook.”

Vivian blinked. “Peanut oil?”

Carol shook her head. “Anyone with a peanut allergy knows the oil is just as dangerous.”

Smasher’s words came rushing back to her. “Carol, did you or Harold know anyone named Lauren? Someone maybe Harold was—” Vivian hesitated, not wanting to suggest anything. “Like maybe a past student or employee?”

Recognition lit Carol’s eyes. “Oh, you know, there was a Lauren”—she tapped her finger to her lip—“Lauren . . . Holt. Yes, Lauren Holt. She was a teacher at Anderson, if I remember correctly. Invited Harold to speak to her class every semester.”

“Does she still teach at Anderson?”

“I’m not sure, dear.”

The doorbell rang.

Carol rose. “Will you excuse me?”

This was as good a time as any for Vivian to make her exit. “I should probably go.” Vivian stood. “Thank you for the tea. And if you need anything, please let me know.”

“Just promise me you’ll stop by for sweet tea every once in a while. Talk newspaper with me.”

Vivian started to leave and then paused. In a move that didn’t feel entirely of her own doing, she took a step toward Carol and wrapped her in a hug. The woman stiffened—probably from shock—but a second later she leaned into Vivian’s arms and whispered in her ear.

“Harold said you were the best part about his job these last six months.” She pulled back. “Your presence brought back a joy I hadn’t seen in him for a long time. I’m forever grateful for that.”

The ugly ball of emotion Vivian was struggling to keep at bay returned, leaving her only able to nod. She walked with Carol to the front door and slipped by the neighbor bringing in another casserole dish. Outside of the house, she hurried to her car, allowing herself only one thought: find Lauren Holt.

Friday afternoon at the Way Station Café was just as Ryan had expected it to be. Packed. He maneuvered around the busy tables toward the counter and the employee with the bright purple streak running through her strawberry-blonde hair. Now, when did you do that?

It would’ve been his first question for Frankie—or Francis or Frannie or whatever she wanted to be called—if his attention hadn’t tripped on the woman she was talking to. Vivian. When had he learned to recognize her from behind?

Ryan stepped to the side and saw that Frankie and her friend Bethany were leaning in, silly smiles plastered over their faces.

“But are there cute guys in journalism?” Bethany rubbed her fingers together. “My teacher made us watch Dead Poet’s Society. The guys in that movie were pretty cute.”

“Ew.” Frankie wrinkled her nose. “You realize those guys are as old as our dads.”

Ryan took another step closer, not liking the theme of this conversation.

“I like guys with sexy abs—”

“Frankie.” Three heads turned in his direction. Frankie rolled her eyes.

“There’s a line.” Frankie pointed to the one man standing at the counter staring up at the menu. “Your badge does not give you special privileges.”

The amount of sarcasm dripping from his sister’s lips could drown a person. Vivian looked between them like she was trying to figure out the connection.

“I’ll help you, your majesty.” Bethany gave him a curtsy, batting her eyes.

Vivian hitched an eyebrow in confusion before realization rounded her eyes so much that Ryan could see they were a little bluer today. “Frannie’s your sister?” She pivoted back to Frankie. “Wait, this is your brother, the one you said”—she made air quotes—“is a super genius computer hacker?”

Ryan frowned at his sister. How many times had he told her to stop saying that about him? Frankie lifted her shoulders in mock apology. Every time she brought a friend home, it was the first thing they would want to talk to him about. They would ask questions, like how did he hack into the DEFCON in Las Vegas, and could he teach them how to do it?

“We talked about that.” Ryan lowered his voice.

“So it’s true?” Vivian’s voice wavered between disbelief and awe.

“Yes, it’s true.” Frankie answered before Ryan could be offended by Vivian’s shock. “And if my brother would stop being Deputy Do-Good, he could totally cash in on his skills and make bank.”

Heat flamed Ryan’s cheeks, but he wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or embarrassment.

“Deputy Do-Good, huh?” Vivian smirked, eyeing him. “Sounds about right.”

“No way.” Bethany shook her head. “It’s Prince Harry.”

Ryan closed his eyes, wishing he had packed his lunch.

“That’s it!”

His eyes popped open and he found Vivian closer than she was before. Close enough that he picked up on the delicate fragrance of her perfume as she . . . was she checking him out?

“I knew you reminded me of someone.”

He didn’t know if it was the way she was looking at him or what, but his nerves were sending signals to his heart that had him shifting beneath her gaze. “Uh, I’m just here to talk to Frankie.”

Frankie pushed back from the counter. “And that’s my cue to get back to work.”

“Is that what you were doing a second ago?” Ryan teased.

“It’s called customer service. I was helping a customer”—she lifted a hand to Vivian—“and she was helping me.”

That grabbed his attention. Ryan looked from Vivian to Frankie. “Help with what?”

“She said Georgia State has a good journalism program. They also have internships at the Tribune—which did you know Mr. Kennedy’s brother owns?—and Vivian is going to be moving there at the end of the summer. Maybe she can help me get a job.”

“I told her that I’d help her create her portfolio when she interviewed.”

Vivian was moving to Atlanta? Definitely a good reason to ignore his overreacting nerves and focus on Frankie’s desire to leave Walton. “I thought you were looking into accounting? Here at Anderson?”

Frankie rolled her eyes, pulling out her phone. “Oh, look at that, my break is over.” She stuck her phone back in her pocket. “Thanks for the help, Vivian. I’ll talk to my adviser tomorrow.”

“We still need to talk, Frankie.”

Frankie groaned. “I already know what you want to talk about, and honestly, Ryan, the person you need to talk to is Mom.”

With that, his sister spun on her heel, grabbed a rag, and moved around the counter to start clearing tables.

“She’d probably make a great journalist, ya know.” Vivian sipped on her drink. “She’s very curious. And likes to talk.”

He watched Frankie clear plates away while joking with some customers at another table. She was nothing like him. Outgoing, friendly. Unafraid to try anything, even if she knew the odds of succeeding were beyond her reach. His sister had this ability to imagine anything was possible and to chase after it without any fear of what could happen.

Unlike him.

Ryan analyzed the risks, then made a plan for how to proceed. He’d seen firsthand what chasing after the wind could do to a family. Those failures fell on his shoulders and he wasn’t about to let Frankie set out on a path that would leave her disappointed, or worse.

“There’s a bit more stability in accounting.”

“What’s wrong with journalism?”

“There’s journalism at Anderson.”

“But Georgia State’s program is better.”

Man, she is incorrigible. “Harold taught at Anderson.”

Vivian pressed her lips closed, emotion dimming the soft blue in her eyes. Ryan felt bad. Clearly, there had been a connection between her and Harold. “Late lunch?”

“Working lunch/dinner.”

“What are you working on?”

Vivian’s nose wrinkled. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Ryan leaned against the counter. “Actually, I would.”

“You first.” Vivian’s eyes narrowed in a challenge. “Carol told me you’re testing Harold’s car for something. Took his phone too. What are you looking for?”

He studied her for a second. Vivian was definitely not to be underestimated. “I thought you weren’t digging for a story.”

Vivian’s lips twisted playfully. “Frannie says you’re a computer hacker. Explain, Deputy Do-Good.”

“Not a hacker,” Ryan said, aware of her tactic to shift the conversation. He pulled out a stool and gestured for Vivian to sit. She did and he sat on the one next to her. “One time.” He held up his index finger. “One time I did this thing where I hacked into a gaming convention and won.”

“That doesn’t sound genius to me.”

Was she challenging him? Ryan pulled out his cell phone and began typing a text. After a minute, he held his phone out to Vivian. “Yes.”

Vivian scrunched her forehead. “What?”

“Your text to me.”

She took the phone from him and looked down at the screen. He watched her expression transform from confusion to shock.

“How?” She stared up at him. “I didn’t send this to you!”

Ryan pushed his elbows over the counter. “I don’t know, Ms. DeMarco. Looks like you sent me a text asking me out.”

“I did not.” She looked at the text again. “How did you do that?”

“I’m a genius.” She narrowed her eyes at him and he shrugged, liking the way she was trying to read into him. “It’s simple. All I did was send myself a text message and then go in and switch my contact info with your name.”

Vivian looked impressed and confused. “I’m going to pretend like I understood what you just said. So what did you win?”

Ryan frowned. “Win?”

“You said you won.”

“Ha. I won the attention of every federal agency in the nation and a meeting with the FBI. And let’s just say they weren’t at my door to congratulate me.”

“Really?”

“Sheriff Huggins convinced them not to charge me since I was only fifteen—”

“Fifteen?”

“Anyway, Sheriff H. convinced them not to charge me in exchange for my promising to never do it again and to contact them after I graduated high school when I could begin my prestigious career posthaste.”

“But you’re still here.”

“My boy-crazy sister is enough reason to stick around here,” Ryan said, unsure if his discomfort was from the memory reminding him of a dream he once had or the way Vivian’s statement challenged him the way Sheriff Huggins had. He gave a quick wave to the woman approaching him with a to-go bag in her hand. “Afternoon, Ms. Byrdie.”

“Hello, Ryan, Vivian.” Ms. Byrdie was Sheriff Huggins’s wife and the unofficial First Lady of Walton. She practically raised several generations of residents and was happily spending retirement baking delicious meals at the Way Station Café with Lane Lynch. “I stuck an extra cookie in there for you.” Ms. Byrdie’s gaze moved between him and Vivian and a smile he’d seen before lifted her lips. “Should I pack another sandwich? Today’s a beautiful day for a picnic lunch at the memorial garden.”

“Oh, no.” Vivian stood too fast and her leg got caught on the stool, pitching her backward into Ryan’s arms. Her body pressed against his for just a moment, but it was long enough for an energy to pass between them. He helped her back to standing position.

“Thanks.” Her cheeks were pink.

An eruption of clapping, cheering, and whistles bellowed around them. Apparently, their little move had been entertaining. Vivian unwound herself from his hold.

“You okay, honey?”

“Yes, Ms. Byrdie.” Vivian tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I need to go.”

Bethany thrust a bag across the counter. “Here’s your lunch.”

Vivian handed over a $10 bill. “Keep the change.”

Something was up and Ryan didn’t think it had anything to do with the number of people still watching them. “Vivian.”

“I’ve gotta run. Work.”

Ryan watched her hurry out of the café. “Wonder where she’s rushing off to.”

“Anderson College, if I had to guess.”

“Anderson?” He looked over his shoulder at Ms. Byrdie. “What for?”

“She was asking about a teacher. Lauren Holt.”

Ryan spun around to the doorway through which Vivian had disappeared. This is not staying out of the way, Ms. DeMarco.