THE CLAPPING AND HOLLERING still echoed in Vivian’s memory as she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. It felt like every eye had followed her out of the Way Station. Her graceful exit out of Ryan’s arms had left her cheeks hot and her heart thumping. This was becoming a problem. Something about being around him triggered emotions she’d denied herself. A relationship, any kind, promised pain. It wasn’t worth it. She made a mental note to call Pecca and cancel. Going to game night this weekend would only make leaving Walton harder. And she was leaving Walton.
It would be in her best interest to stop letting Ryan’s roguish smile set a kaleidoscope of butterflies loose in her stomach. She smiled, replaying the banter that had taken place between Frankie and Ryan. It became obvious they were brother and sister when she saw the similarities between the two of them. They shared the same blue eyes that shined with flecks of amber, strawberry-blonde hair—though Frannie’s now sported a bright purple streak—and their smiles. Wide and full of life and love for each other. Vivian had noted one small difference—Ryan’s lower lip was slightly fuller. Kissably fuller.
Vivian flinched. Where had that come from? Left field, she thought. Definitely left field. Shaking her head, she forced her attention back to what it needed to be on—Harold. Or, more curiously, Lauren Holt.
If the woman was a teacher at Anderson College, she wasn’t one any longer. Vivian had run a search through the list of faculty on the school’s website and come up empty. So she called Carol to see if someone at the school might know what happened to Lauren, and Carol gave her the name of a journalism professor, Christine Mercer, who’d been at the school for almost twenty-five years.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Mercer was currently in class, so Vivian had to wait until class got out.
She found a parking spot off-campus on a nearby street lined with dilapidated homes. Vivian wasn’t sure any of them were occupied anymore based on their rotting porches, overgrown yards, and boarded-up windows. Though a group of men lounged on the cracked cement steps of one, so maybe people lived there. At least other cars were parked along the road.
Vivian cranked up the air conditioning in her car and unbuckled her seatbelt. She typed Lauren Holt’s name into the internet browser on her phone, then pulled a photo from her purse. Smasher had enhanced a still shot from the video of Harold and the woman and sent it to her. She compared the image of the woman with light-brown hair and a pretty smile with those on her browser. Hmm. This was interesting.
Everyone had a social media presence these days, even grandparents, yet Lauren Holt—the one Vivian was trying to locate—did not. Unable to make a match, Vivian clicked on the images tab and began scrolling through pictures of women named Lauren Holt until she found what she was looking for.
She recognized the background immediately—the gold dome atop Savannah City Hall, the river behind it. The woman in the picture had shorter hair, but her eyes, her smile . . . it was Lauren Holt. Vivian found another photo of Lauren smiling with a group of friends on a boat. Farther down was a photo of Lauren standing in the middle of students all wearing Anderson Cougars shirts. It was blurry, but there was a banner with the name Atkins on it. Why did that sound familiar?
Vivian opened another tab and searched for Atkins and figured out why. This year the Savannah Yacht Club gala was honoring Congressman Atkins, a longtime resident of the coastal area. Vivian clicked back to the images of Lauren and studied her. Who are you, Lauren, and what were you doing with Harold that night?
Tweet-tweet.
The sound of someone unlocking their vehicle pulled Vivian’s attention away from her phone. A few students were walking back toward their cars, which meant class was out. Vivian tucked her phone into her purse, then stepped out of her car, locking it while she crossed the street.
She worked her way through the current of students who were anxious to begin their weekend, filing from their classes in Bailey Hall. Streamers and banners of red and silver boasting the basketball team’s championship win still hung on the walls.
Room 117 was an amphitheater-style lecture hall. Vivian waited for a female student to finish talking to the woman standing at a lectern before approaching.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
“You must be Vivian.” Christine Mercer looked to be in her late fifties, with brown hair that was twisted into a bun. She crossed the room. “Carol sent me a message that you were on your way.” The professor had a surprisingly firm handshake.
“I appreciate you speaking with me and promise not to take up too much of your time.” Vivian pulled out the photo of Lauren Holt. “I wanted to ask you some questions about Lauren Holt. I believe she was a teacher here.”
“She was. Taught political science. Left about two years ago.” Mrs. Mercer’s expression shifted from friendly to one Vivian knew well. It was the look someone gave when they wanted to help but couldn’t—or wouldn’t. “Carol mentioned you’d be asking about Lauren, but I’m afraid I didn’t know her very well.”
“What about her relationship with Harold?” The question slipped through Vivian’s lips before she could stop it, but there was a flicker of something in Mrs. Mercer’s expression that said she’d asked the right question. “I know Harold came in to speak to Ms. Holt’s classes each semester. Can you tell me what kind of relationship they had?”
“Professional.” Her tone was terse, factual, and resolute—as was the look in her eyes. “Harold loved speaking to the students about journalism and storytelling. And he adored Carol.”
Vivian felt chastised, but she had to get to the truth. “I wasn’t implying—”
“Maybe you weren’t, but all it takes is a whisper to ignite a flame capable of destroying.” Mrs. Mercer eyed her. “As a reporter, you know this better than most.”
“I do.” Vivian straightened. “I also know that a lie can lead to death, but the truth can be freeing.”
“Quoting him, huh?” Mrs. Mercer said, looking impressed. “Harold said you were ambitious. Saw great potential in you.”
The compliment sent a burn to Vivian’s cheeks. “He was one of the greatest men I’ve ever known, and all I’m trying to do is get to the truth behind the story he tried telling me before he died.”
The lines of her face softened before she glanced over Vivian’s shoulder toward the door. “Harold was a kind soul. It was his calling to help others, and he did it often without thinking of the consequences.”
Vivian’s pulse surged.
“No one here really knows why Lauren left Anderson, and truthfully, it’s not anyone’s business.” Mrs. Mercer began gathering her belongings. “I think Harold saw a bit of his daughter in Lauren, but it was never more than that.”
A small weight of relief lifted from Vivian’s shoulders. “When was the last time you saw Lauren?”
“Maybe a week or so before she quit. I could tell she was upset, but I figured it was none of my business.”
Vivian frowned. Mrs. Mercer was a journalist. Sure, she’d been teaching for almost a quarter of a century, but why wouldn’t she be curious about a colleague’s distress?
“Did Harold ever mention Lauren to you after she left?”
“I’m sorry, but I really should be going.”
Frustration mounted. “What about now? Is Lauren teaching somewhere else? Are there any other teachers here who knew her that I could speak to?”
Mrs. Mercer skirted around Vivian, aiming for the exit. “I wish I could be more help.”
Vivian started to open her mouth, when the woman turned and faced her. “Harold was an asset to Anderson and a dear friend. He’ll be missed.” She sniffled. “If I knew anything that could help you, believe me when I say I’d tell you.”
It didn’t look like the woman was lying and why would she? Vivian retrieved a card from her purse and walked forward. “If you think of anything.”
Mrs. Mercer took the card and nodded. “He was a good man.”
Vivian tucked her chin. “A really good man.”
And it was the truth. Vivian didn’t need anyone else to corroborate that. When she called him out of the blue asking about a job, Harold didn’t ask a single question. He welcomed her to Walton with not only a job but also his family’s cottage home to use until she moved to Atlanta and took the job he had prearranged with his brother on her behalf. “He said you were ambitious.” Harold Kennedy’s belief in her was Vivian’s driving motivation to prove he wasn’t wrong about her. She would not let the story he was trying to tell her disappear with his last breath.
Vivian left Bailey Hall and decided to walk around campus. A slight breeze left the normally muggy air feeling light and cool. Passing groups of students, Vivian wondered if any of them knew Lauren Holt.
A bump from behind jarred her forward.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” A tall, lanky black kid smiled down at her. “I didn’t see you.”
Two more boys jogged up behind him.
“Dude, you ran into a teacher,” the boy with hair so blond it was almost white said. “That’s a point deduction.”
“At least ten points.” The other one piped in. His dark, curly hair was pulled into a bun. A bun.
Vivian noticed she was staring up at all three boys. They were giant. At least eight inches taller, maybe more, than her own five-four.
“Ross, Fellows, Alonso.” A male voice spoke up from behind her. “What are you doing?”
A man wearing a red polo shirt with a cougar stitched on the pocket walked up. His dark brown eyes glanced in the direction of the trio of giants. He too had to look up.
“Just messing around, Coach. Didn’t see her,” the black boy said. He dipped his head sheepishly. “Sorry, Miss—”
“DeMarco. But I’m not a teacher.”
That bit of information transformed all three of the boys’ faces. Suddenly, they were looking at her with interest.
“Aren’t you boys supposed to be in the gym?” Their coach shooed the boys forward before giving Vivian an apologetic look. “Sorry. Apparently, I’ve kept them in a dungeon so long they’ve forgotten how to interact in civilization.”
“A dungeon?”
He smiled. “They seem to think so.” He held out his hand. “Coach Robbins.”
Vivian knew the name. Harold had mentioned it more times than she could count in the last couple of months. Pete Robbins was the men’s assistant basketball coach and a key reason Anderson now had a title.
“Vivian DeMarco.”
“You’re not a teacher?”
“A reporter.”
Coach Robbins’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah? Here to do interviews on our amazing team?”
Vivian cringed. “Afraid not. Don’t know much about the sport, but my boss loved it.”
“Well, if you ever want to learn . . . I make a pretty good teacher.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Vivian refused to look into his eyes. He wasn’t bad looking but a bit too old—and nothing at all like Ryan. “I should go.”
“Have a nice day, Ms. DeMarco.”
A shiver skittered over her skin. At one time she used to appreciate—even strive for—approving glances from men. She’d spend hours a day picking an outfit, applying her makeup, paying excessive amounts of money at hair and tanning salons, and working out to make sure she looked good. Looking good gave her the upper hand. It was a lot easier to get someone to do what you wanted them to when they liked what they saw.
When she lost her job at the Herald, Vivian struggled with emptiness. It didn’t matter how much she dressed up on the outside—it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t enough. Now the idea of using her looks to . . . manipulate . . . It made her feel cold.
Vivian crossed the street and was leaving Anderson’s lush campus when a shrilling wolf whistle slowed her steps. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed three men converging behind her. She couldn’t tell if they were the same ones she’d seen earlier, but she wasn’t going to stick around to find out. Keeping her eyes on her car, she picked up her pace.
“Hey, you!”
Vivian’s heart catapulted into her throat. She dug into her purse for her keys. Her heel hit a hole in the asphalt, causing her to stumble forward. Why hadn’t she pulled her keys out earlier? Or at least her Mace? Because this isn’t DC.
The biting stench of body odor hit her before she felt fingers digging into her arm. “I was talking to you, girl.”
Vivian’s eyes flashed up to the man holding her, fear throttling her throat. “Let me go.”
A wicked smile exposed stained teeth and breath that made her gag. “Nah, Juliet. You and me are going to have some fun.”
She tried yanking her arm free, but the man held tight. “I said, let me go!”
“Hey, fellas, what’d you say we have some fun with Juliet, here?” He looked over his shoulder at his two friends. They hung back, shifting on their feet with uncertainty and confusion etched into their dirty faces.
He turned his gaze back to her and Vivian gasped. “It’s you. You stole Harold’s laptop.” She didn’t know how she recognized him, because the last time she saw him it was pitch dark except for the flashes of lightning, but she had no doubt that this was the same man.
Confusion clouded his eyes before it cleared. He jerked his hand back like touching her suddenly burned and started backward, shaking his head.
Vivian took a step toward him. “Stop!”
“Hey!”
Vivian turned and saw Ryan jogging toward her. Where had he come from? She didn’t care. He was here and she needed him. “That’s him, Ryan. The one who broke into the Gazette.”
“Stop!” Ryan ran past her, hand on his holster. “Walton County Sheriff’s Department.”
The man turned and started to run, aiming for a grassy knoll, but before his foot hit the dirt beyond the pavement, Ryan’s body barreled into his side and sent him face-first into the ground. Vivian rushed over.
“Your timing is impeccable.”
Ryan grunted, turning the man over on his stomach and cuffing him. “And you have an impeccable ability to get into trouble.”