SEVEN

THERE WAS A RUN in the carpet near the edge of the wall in Dr. Eddie Wong’s office. Lane had been focused on it since her appointment began almost an hour ago. Focusing on the pulled thread of the gray carpet was easier than focusing on Dr. Wong’s questions.

Always the same. Do you feel like dying? How many times have you thought about suicide? Do you feel like a burden to those around you? And all her answers were on the little card she filled out at the beginning of every session. The one he glanced at after each question as though he was trying to catch her in a lie. The only lie between them was how this continuous conversation about her depression was supposed to make her feel better when it only reminded her of her guilt—and the fact that she was broken.

“If we’re going to make progress with your treatment, you’re going to have to let me know what you’re thinking.”

Lane stared at her psychiatrist. Wasn’t that his job? To tell her what she was thinking and why she was thinking it? And more importantly, what was wrong with her? Why she was this way and how she could fix it? Yes, Dr. Wong. Please tell me why I feel broken and not worth the breaths I take every single day. Oh, and if you have an answer for the guilt . . . She smirked. Those questions had gone unanswered all her life. Not even God heard her prayers. Or if he did, he chose to ignore them . . .

“What about activities? Are you doing anything fun?” Dr. Wong ran his fingers across a thin mustache and down the sides of his mouth to the goatee on his chin. He had more hair on his face than on his head, and it was graying, which was the only part of the man that made him look like a head doctor. The black T-shirt, dark jeans, and Converse high-tops gave the impression he was more of a hipster. Was the comfortable look supposed to make him easier to talk to?

“Lane?”

Fun? When was the last time she had fun? Laughed? Charlie. Lane shifted in the leather chair. He’d brought a smile to her face—a rarity the last two years. In fact, she smiled, laughed even, every time she thought about the way Wilbur, Clarence, and Ducky had harassed him inside the Way Station Café. What did that mean? Acknowledging the feelings Charlie stirred up within her felt like a betrayal. It unnerved her.

“Life’s busy.” Safe answer.

Dr. Wong tapped his pen against the notebook in his lap. If he was annoyed by her answer, she couldn’t tell. He seemed to always be studying her. Maybe, like her, he was trying to figure out why she was so defective. “What about your family? This is a big time in your lives.”

“Their lives.”

“You don’t think your father’s campaign affects your life?”

Lane thought about the words her father had spoken to her—his demands for her presence. The inherent threat if she failed to do her part. And pretend. She shrugged.

“Depression doesn’t only affect one person.” Dr. Wong chewed on the end of his pen. “You know that.”

She did. Every day, Lane was reminded of the effect her depression had on those around her. Mathias was gone. Noah didn’t have his daddy. Her mother wouldn’t discuss it. Her father used it to manipulate her. Her brother thought it was a joke. Darkness crept at the edge of her mind. The walls of Dr. Wong’s office felt like they were closing in on her. Wasn’t her session over yet? Her leg began to bounce as the urge to run set in.

“I’d like you to invite your parents to our next session.”

The oxygen was sucked right out of the room. Lane shrank back. Did she hear him correctly? “Yeah right. Are you serious?”

“I am. Sometimes those who don’t understand the illness don’t know how to show their support. I think it would be good for them to hear how you feel.”

The man was delusional. “My father is running his biggest campaign yet. He wouldn’t be caught dead coming into a psychiatrist’s office—no offense.”

“Lane, these appointments are for your benefit and part of the hospital’s condition of release.”

Condition of release? “I’m doing everything you’ve asked. I take my medicine regularly. Get exercise. Sunshine.” Never mind all the conditions her father had placed on her. Dr. Wong didn’t know that part. Everything she agreed to was to regain some normalcy to her life.

No.

Every deal Lane made was to keep Noah in her life.

“I’ve come to terms with my illness. I’ve accepted it and everything that comes with it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s my burden to bear.”

“We’re not meant to shoulder the burden of life on our own all the time. To be successful we need support from those who love us and believe in us.”

Lane wanted to argue with him. A therapy session with her parents wasn’t going to change their ignorance. They avoided the topic because they were ashamed. And she was left paying the consequences. Her moment of weakness—that cry for help—killed the only person who truly ever saw past her flaws. The alarm on Dr. Wong’s phone beeped, indicating their session was over. Finally.

“One month.” Dr. Wong stood. “This is for your health and for Noah.”

Lane scowled. He was using Noah as leverage. Like her father. She hurried out of the building, ignoring the receptionist who was calling after her to make a follow-up appointment, and didn’t see the man holding the tray of drinks until it was too late.

Liquid and ice splashed all over the ground.

“I’m sorry.” Lane tried scooping up a cup before the remainder of its contents emptied out, but it was useless. The day couldn’t get any worse.

“Lane?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Was it possible to already recognize the absence of a drawl in his voice? What kind of God would allow this level of embarrassment? One, it seemed, intent on using Charlie Lynch to disrupt her life.

“Hey there, Deputy.” Where did this guy keep coming from? “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s Charlie, remember? Are you okay?”

A wet stain was spreading across his uniform. Still holding two white paper bags in one hand, he reached out to her with the other. Humor filled his eyes, making it nearly impossible to avoid matching the smile lighting his handsome face.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Ooh, taking his hand was a mistake. The touch of his skin set off an internal alarm. Too soon. She pulled her hand back. “I didn’t see you.”

The glass door to Dr. Wong’s office swung open. “Ms. Kent. Your appointment card.” The receptionist handed Lane the card as her eyes darted from Charlie to the mess then to Lane, before she turned around and returned to the building. Why couldn’t the ground just swallow Lane up like it did the ice?

“Money.” Lane grabbed her wallet. “Let me pay for the drinks and your dry cleaning.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was an accident. Unless”—Charlie narrowed his eyes—“you meant to douse a member of law enforcement in high fructose carbonated syrup?”

He was joking. He didn’t flinch. Lane fidgeted. He was joking, wasn’t he?

“I’m kidding.” Charlie lifted the white bags in his hand. “I saved what really matters. Lunch.”

“On a hot day like today, you might’ve been safer saving the drinks.”

Charlie’s lips curled and those dimples returned. He could easily be the poster boy for law enforcement. She was finding it harder to heed the caution bells ringing in her ears over the flutter of butterflies awakening from a prolonged dormancy inside her chest. Pay him and get out of there.

“Do you think this will cover it?” Lane pulled out a ten-dollar bill.

“It was an accident and taking money from a citizen while in uniform is a crime.”

Truth? Or more of his easy humor?

“Deputy Lynch.”

Charlie and Lane turned to see a woman crossing the parking lot in a skirt so tight her knees turned. Lane didn’t recognize her, but apparently Charlie did, based on the groan he released at the woman’s approach.

“Deputy Lynch, don’t you always pick up lunch a little closer to the station?”

“A change in scenery, Ms. DeMarco.”

The woman’s gaze cut to Lane, giving her a less-than-subtle once-over before her heavily coated eyelashes batted back in Charlie’s direction. “I’ve been looking for you. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions regarding the Sydney Donovan murder.”

“I’ve already told you and the rest of the reporters that if we get any new information, we will let you know.”

“So, no new leads? What about the person who found the body? Maybe they remember something. I can be very persuasive.” DeMarco’s voice dripped like syrup. “We can work together.”

The heat returned to Lane’s cheeks as she watched Ms. DeMarco sidle up to Charlie. The woman had a sort of citified poise about her that probably did make her very persuasive to the opposite sex, but she reminded Lane of a snake coiling for the strike.

“I think you should leave the police work to the professionals.” Charlie took a purposeful step out of Ms. DeMarco’s path and winked at Lane.

What was that? Flirting? A flood of emotions sent Lane’s pulse spiking to a dangerous level.

“What about new suspects? Evidence? Or the family?” Ms. DeMarco wasn’t going to be easily dissuaded. “Don’t you have anything to say about Walton’s reputation being ruined by this murder?”

That last comment was just loud enough that it drew the attention of a few people nearby. Charlie’s jaw flexed, his brows knotting as he took in her question.

“Ms. DeMarco, I’ve told you everything I can about our investigation and I expect you to do your job as a reporter. Report the truth. If you want to judge this beautiful city, that’s welcomed you by the way, on this one horrific event rather than on its character . . . well, all I can say is that would be a shame.”

“Wha—I . . .” Ms. DeMarco huffed and gave Lane a disdainful look before storming off in the direction she had come from.

“I don’t think speechlessness is a good trait for a reporter.” Lane smirked.

“She’s new. Works for some paper out of DC and is trying to make a name for herself by writing a story about Walton’s first murder in thirty years.”

There wasn’t any malice in his tone. Just . . . understanding? The good-looking deputy was catching her off guard in more ways than one. Did he really believe what he said? That something could be defined by more than one horrific event? Or someone?

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it in on Monday.” Charlie looked sheepish. “This case makes me lose track of time—”

“Oh, no, I get it. Ms. Byrdie said Sheriff Huggins is sucking down antacids like they’re Tic Tacs.” Lane played nonchalant. Or at least she hoped she was. Disappointment was what she really felt when Charlie didn’t show up at the Way Station Café and she wasn’t ready to admit that—or the possibility of what it meant. She eyed the stain on his uniform. “I feel really bad about your uniform. Are you sure I can’t pay for the dry cleaning at least?”

Charlie waved his hand. “It’s almost dry. Sticky but dry.”

“Okay, but promise me you’ll stop by the café and I’ll make it up to you.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she put thought to what she was asking. “I mean, for breakfast, or coffee. We have these cinnamon rolls that the whole town loves and I’m sure y’all could use some coffee, right? On the house—to make up for the mess I’ve caused. I insist.”

“Okay, but only because everyone at the station will appreciate it. I’m glad we ran into each other.”

“It was mostly me running into you.” She blushed.

“Most excitement I’ve had all day. Well, except for hiding from Ms. DeMarco.”

“Have a good day, Charlie.”

“You too, Lane.”

Lane turned and strode to her car before Charlie could steal another one of her breaths. Could he hear the anticipation in her voice to see him again? Why was his presence in her life so disarming? And what was she going to do about it?

Charlie dropped his hat on his desk and wiped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the humidity, but the pressure outside was nothing compared to the pressure mounting inside the station. Deputies hunched over their desks, pounding back their third or fourth cups of coffee as they answered the assault of phone calls.

Everyone had a tip. Heard a strange noise. Or wanted details. The peaceful community Sheriff Huggins worked so hard to maintain had been shaken. Now the citizens of Walton wanted answers. And based on the messages sitting on Charlie’s desk, so did the reporters. Just like Ms. DeMarco—they’d have to wait.

Charlie changed out of his sticky uniform and into a fresh one before heading back to the small room reserved for him and Deputy Frost to use while the investigation remained active. The flurry of activity he passed reminded him of the chaos in the Tactical Operations Command when a unit was under assault.

When the scrap hit the fan, the TOC became a lifeline, sending in reinforcement or air support to those fighting the enemy. But this was different. They didn’t even know who the enemy was. Yet.

The drone of chaos quieted as he made his way to the small office at the back of the building. After a quick stop at a vending machine, Charlie entered the room with humming fluorescent lights and no windows.

“Sorry it’s late.” Charlie lifted the bag holding their lunch. “And probably cold. I owe you.”

And it was a debt well worth it. Running into Lane, literally, had been the highlight of an already long day. And it might have been the exhaustion he felt, but Charlie swore he saw a spark light her eyes when she insisted he stop by for breakfast. Or did he want to see that? Lane Kent was married. And the breakfast offer wasn’t just for him. It was for the entire station. He blew out a breath. Definitely exhaustion.

“No biggie.” Pushing up his glasses, Deputy Frost looked away from the computer screen. “I think I found something.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie took a seat in front of the desktop computer, their sandwiches forgotten.

Frost’s thin fingers moved nimbly over the keyboard before a Facebook page filled the screen. “Check it out.”

Charlie leaned forward. The name on the account was Saint Denis. The cover photo was of a redbrick wall lined with paintings in bold strokes of greens and blues. In the corner was a smaller black-and-white image of a woman who was not Sydney Donovan but the iconic Audrey Hepburn. “Who is Saint Denis?”

“Not just a who”—Frost adjusted his glasses again as he resumed typing—“but also a location.”

“A location?”

“A cathedral in Paris, France.” Frost pulled up a screen filled with information and photos of an old gothic church. “Saint Denis was decapitated. There’s a story that he picked his head up and carried it six miles. Look.”

Sure enough, there was a photo of a stone statue with wings holding a head in its hands. “Does this have something to do with Sydney?”

“I’ve traced the account back to her.”

“Legally?”

“Mostly.” Frost returned to the Facebook page. “It’s a private account, so I can’t show you anything more than what’s been made public until I talk with the FBI. There’s an album here, but it’s mostly photos of art. Paintings.”

Charlie watched Frost scroll through the album. Each click displayed the bold colors of painting after painting. Why would Sydney Donovan have a private Facebook account full of pictures of art? Was she an artist? He didn’t remember seeing anything in her room to indicate a love of art. No painting supplies. No books on art. No posters of abstract paintings beside the photos of Hollywood hunks taped over her bed.

“Who’s the artist?”

“I tried enlarging the photos, but as far as I can tell there’s no signature. At least not that I can see,” Frost said.

Charlie blew out a frustrated breath. An account tracing back to Sydney Donovan with pictures of art meant what? She was a budding artist? A hidden artist? Did her parents know?

“Wait, stop. Go back.” Charlie squinted at the screen. “Click on that.”

“You want to like the picture?” Frost’s glasses slipped down his nose as he frowned.

“No. I want to see who liked it.”

When Frost clicked the button, only one name appeared and caused him to snort. “Art D. Healer.”

“Click on the name.”

Frost obeyed and another screen opened up. “It’s private.”

“And you can’t see who it belongs to?”

“I can try.” Frost grabbed a second laptop from the desk next to him. Stickers covered the back of it. He typed a bunch of ones and zeroes Charlie couldn’t follow. A few minutes later Frost pulled his hands back from the keyboard. “The only name that comes up is Art D. Healer. I’ve got some friends who—”

“No.” Charlie roughed his chin. “We have to do this legally. We’ll call Agent Padello. He might be able to help.”

“The FBI will have to help, because I doubt Art D. Healer is a real person. I mean, come on. How lame is that?” Frost leaned back in his chair. “No imagination.”

“May I?”

Frost slid his chair back and grabbed a sandwich out of the bag.

While Frost munched on his cold lunch, Charlie clicked through the photos again.

“Heard the autopsy report was gruesome,” Frost said through a mouthful of food.

“I guess that depends on what one considers gruesome.”

Frost’s chewing stopped.

“It wasn’t pleasant.” And it wasn’t, but Charlie’s opinion of gruesome had been formed on the battlefield.

“You probably saw a lot of death in the war.”

“More than I’d like.” Charlie paused on a picture. It was different from the rest. Not a close-up of a painting like the others. This one was taken outside, looking into the storefront of a gallery. He looked closer. “Ever hear of Ainsley’s Antiques?”

“No.”

“Google it. Find out where it’s located.”

“Are you looking for antiques?” Frost licked his fingers and was about to wipe his mouth across the back of his sleeve when he looked up and saw Charlie watching him.

“No, but we might be closer to finding out why Sydney has a Facebook page of art.”

Frost grabbed a napkin before leaning in. “What? How?”

“Look at the reflection in the window.” Charlie focused on the lettering above Sydney’s head. “The gallery in this picture is nearby Ainsley’s Antiques and maybe someone at that gallery knows about Sydney’s secret love of art.”

“Oh, man. I can’t believe you caught that.” Frost pushed up his glasses. After a quick computer search, a smile appeared on his face. “Bohemian Signature Gallery is located by Ainsley’s. It’s in Savannah.”

“What’s in Savannah?” Sheriff Huggins stepped into the room, his large frame dominating what remained of the cramped space.

“Deputy Frost found a private Facebook account linked to Sydney Donovan.” Charlie lifted his eyebrows so Frost could continue. “He’s got some serious computer skills.”

“That he does.” Sheriff Huggins patted the young deputy on the back. “Show me what you got.”

The new lead sent a glimmer of hope pulsing throughout the station. Charlie planned to drive into Savannah tomorrow to meet with Annika Benedict, the owner of the Bohemian Signature Gallery.

“I have a sleeping bag in my trunk.”

Charlie looked up from his notes to find Deputy Cecilia Benningfield staring down at him. “What?”

“Your shift ended two hours ago. I have my grandson’s sleeping bag in my car if you’re planning on being here all night.”

Benningfield was kindly regarded as the den mother of the station. She came in early to make sure coffee was made and kept it hot all day long, and she never forgot a birthday.

“No, that’s okay. I didn’t realize the time.”

“Sheriff is a stickler about overtime . . .” Benningfield’s benevolent face creased in thought. “I suppose he’d allow it now, under the circumstances.”

“Oh, I don’t need the overtime.” He glanced down at his notes again. “Just making sure I’m not missing anything.”

“Don’t worry. In all my years here, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a new deputy as eager as you.”

“What about Frost?”

“Ha!” Benningfield’s laughter echoed in the quiet station. “That boy’s eager all right, but it’s just youthful pride. You’re out to prove something. But remember, this is a job like any other. At the end of the day, you gotta go home to somebody. Hopefully, in your case, a nice young lady.”

Charlie couldn’t stop his thoughts from going to Lane. What it would be like to go home to her and Noah after a long night. Benningfield was smiling at him like she could read his thoughts. He cleared his throat. “No. No girl. Just an insane dog who probably thinks I’m AWOL and has taken over the house.”

“A dog is as good a reason as any to call it a day, but I hope you’ll find as great a purpose to invest your time in out there as you do in here.”

Deputy Benningfield’s remarks followed Charlie from the office. Inhaling a deep breath of the country air, he watched streaks of orange melt into soft peach across the sky as the sun began to set. A greater purpose? That’s what he’d come to Walton to find, right? And what greater purpose was there than finding out who killed Sydney Donovan? Even his dad would have to agree that bringing a killer to justice was a purpose worthy of leaving the Marines.

But first he needed to rescue his home from the Terror Terrier.

Charlie found Bane rebounding between the front and back doors. By the time Charlie changed out of his uniform, the dog was certifiably manic. “Okay, bud. Leash first.”

Bane’s harness did nothing to stop him from dashing between Charlie’s legs and lunging out the door as soon as it opened. “Bane!”

The dog jerked to a stop, tightening the entangled leash wrapped around Charlie’s lower extremities and pitching him forward. Letting go of the leash was the only way he could prevent the inevitable, and like Houdini, Bane whipped around, pulling the loosened leash until it was free and he was gone.

Ugh. That dog. Charlie heaved out a sigh and started for the street in search of his headache.

“I believe he belongs to you?”

Charlie turned to find Lane walking toward him, Noah smiling at her side. Bane was in her hands, tail wagging, tongue dripping. Charlie swore the dog was smiling at him.

“Not unless you want him?”

“Momma—”

“No.” Lane shot Charlie a look that could only be understood to mean don’t you dare. “This is Charlie’s dog and he’d be very sad without him.”

“Right.” Charlie took Bane and made sure he had a grip on his leash before setting him down. “I was just taking him for a walk . . . would you want to join me?”

“Actually, we—”

“We’re getting ice cream. Do you like ice cream?”

“Ice cream is my favorite.” Charlie smiled at the exuberant little boy pulling his mother’s hand.

“Mine too! You can come with us.”

“Noah.” Lane’s voice rose.

“That’s okay.” Charlie read her reaction loud and clear. He should go. A tickle of attraction was beginning to cloud his judgment. Or maybe it was a lust for some human companionship? Didn’t matter. He needed to go home. Study the case. He didn’t have time for ice cream. “I should really take Bane on his walk.”

“He can go with us,” Noah pleaded. And like Bane understood the little boy’s plight, the dog sat obediently next to him and lifted a paw.

“Well, with those faces, how can we resist?” Lane’s shoulders relaxed a fraction and she ruffled Noah’s hair. “We’re walking to Sandie’s. A couple of blocks away.”

Soft auburn hair fell over her forehead, but he could still see her eyes. They seemed to be searching. Maybe for a way out of the uncertain invitation.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Noah answered. Lane nodded.

Two blocks, two cups of butter pecan, and a cone of rocky road later, the three of them sat around a small iron table in front of Sandie’s Ice Cream Shoppe. The day’s heat hung around, even with the sun gone, and was doing a number to Noah’s frozen treat. Most of it was dripping down the side of his hand.

“You should’ve let me pay for the ice cream. Make up for what I did to your uniform.”

“And miss out on the cinnamon roll offer?” Charlie raised his eyebrows. “There’d be riots if I didn’t show up with those cinnamon rolls.”

“Did you know my daddy was an Army soldier?” Noah said as he licked the melting ice cream.

“Noah, it’s not polite to talk while your mouth is full.”

“My mouth’s not full, Momma. My hands are.” He held up a sticky hand covered in ice cream.

Charlie couldn’t help laughing and for a fraction of a second he noticed the curves of a smile lift the edges of Lane’s lips, but before he could linger on them too long she turned and grabbed for some napkins.

“Your husband, is he deployed?”

The second the words fell from his mouth, he regretted them. Darkness seemed to shroud her features for a moment until the emotion vanished almost as quickly as the ice cream was melting. Deployment was hard on families. He knew better.

“No. He died two years ago.” Lane finished wiping Noah’s hands.

He’d been a fool not to figure it out before. Noah wore his father’s dog tags and referred to him in the past tense, and she always changed the subject to avoid talking about him. An ache settled in Charlie’s chest. Another casualty. Another family left behind.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She frowned, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “It wasn’t your fault.”

That was an odd response. “No, but we should all bear the burden of responsibility for the sacrifice made by your husband. For that I’m grateful, and I’m sorry for your and Noah’s loss.”

Lane’s eyes flashed under thick, dark lashes. “I think that’s enough ice cream for the night. Can you tell the deputy thank you for joining us?”

“What’s a deputy?” Noah tilted his head.

“It’s a police officer.” Lane took the soupy mess from Noah’s hands and pitched it into the nearest trash can.

The little boy wrinkled his nose and brought his finger up to his chin in deep concentration. His eyes grew wide. “But you’re not wearing your policeman uniform.”

“I’m not working right now.” Charlie smiled at the little boy, admiring him. “But I have this.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet and showed Noah his badge.

“Don’t touch that,” Lane said as Noah reached for it. “I don’t think the deputy wants sticky ice cream fingers all over his shiny badge.”

“Charlie.”

Confusion pinched the smooth skin between her eyebrows.

“He can call me Charlie.”

“If I wash my hands, then can I touch it?”

“Noah, it’s getting late.” Lane glanced at her son.

“Can I walk Bane back to our house?”

Lane seemed tense. Maybe she really didn’t want to be here with him? His stomach knotted. He finished the last of his ice cream and tossed his trash. “It’s alright with me. Bane actually seems calmer around Noah, but I’ll hold the leash too.”

“Please, Momma.”

If Lane could resist Noah’s pleading eyes, she was a lot stronger than he’d ever be. A single outing for ice cream and Charlie was already willing to give Noah anything and everything the little boy wanted.

Lane chewed on her bottom lip for a second before answering, “Okay, sure.”

Charlie couldn’t tell who was more excited—Bane or Noah.

“He’s licking my fingers.” Noah giggled.

“I think he likes you.” Charlie watched his dog’s pace slow to match the little boy walking him. Kid’s best friend. Maybe he could convince Lane to let Noah help him walk Bane every day. Or at least play with him. A good excuse to see more of them.

The chirping of crickets serenaded them home and Charlie couldn’t deny the desire burning in his heart for more of this. This is what he longed for. Summer nights walking with a beautiful woman and their kids. And dog. The thought made him smile and he stole a glance at Lane. She was watching Noah and Bane. Charlie would do anything to know what she was thinking, but the walk to his house came to an end too quickly.

Lane took the leash from Noah’s hand. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

“Thanks for inviting me.” Charlie searched her face for any indication that her emotions matched his, but nightfall obscured the answer. “I can walk you to your house—”

“We’ll be alright. Good night, Charlie.”

“Good night, Charlie.” Noah echoed. “Good night, Bane.”

Charlie watched mom and son walk until they rounded the corner heading to their street. Bane barked after them.

“Yeah, I know, Bane.”

What did he know? Lane was a widow. She was protective of Noah. He also knew that ignoring the way his heart pounded in his chest for the woman who still wore a piece of her heart on her finger was going to be impossible.