SEVENTEEN

THE SCREECHING ALARM propelled Lane down the oak stairway of her home and into the café. Her nose instinctively sought the acrid smell of smoke . . . but there was none. As her eyes adjusted to the pre-dawn light filling the room, it took only a second for her to realize all was normal. Not normal. It wasn’t the fire alarm blaring but the security alarm.

Lane’s heart began an erratic pounding that only slightly distracted her from the alarm warning her that all was not normal. Her eyes tracked the first floor. Windows were still closed. Locked. The doors too. “Momma!” Noah came to her side, both hands covering his ears. “It’s hurting my ears.”

“I know, buddy.” Lane tucked Noah to her side. Why was her alarm going off? The memory of the man she had seen lurking on the side of her house came barreling back. Had he returned?

Glancing around once more to ensure nobody was hiding in the diminishing shadows, Lane went to the panel near the back door and entered the code. The previous owner had installed the alarm system, but Lane had never seen a need for it in sleepy-town Walton until the other night when she’d found the man peeking into her home. Odd. The alarm continued to blare.

Lane punched in the numbers again. In defiance, the alarm seemed to scream louder, growing more obnoxious with every passing second. Why wasn’t the code working? She was putting in the right code, wasn’t she?

“Momma!”

“I know, Noah.” Lane bit back her frustration. Why wasn’t this thing shutting up?

The phone in the kitchen rang. Great. Probably the neighbors complaining about the noise. Neighbors? Charlie. Would he know how to shut this thing off?

“Hello?”

“Lane, honey, is everything okay? I got a call from the alarm company—is that the alarm?”

“Yes, Ms. Byrdie.” Lane covered her other ear with her hand. She forgot she never updated the security company to call her instead of Ms. Byrdie. “It went off a few minutes ago, but I can’t get it to shut off.”

“I’m on Highway 17, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Lane hung up and tried the code again. Her head started to throb. Noah was rolling on the ground with his blankie wrapped around his head.

Brap-rap-rap-rap. Lane screamed and jerked around to find a face staring at her through the window of the back door. It took her several breaths to realize it was a familiar face—one that made her heart skip and gave her inexplicable reassurance. Charlie.

Lane unlocked the door and opened it. “You nearly gave me a heart—”

“Are you and Noah okay?” Charlie’s chest heaved. His chest. Bare chest. Muscles flexing with each shallow breath. “Lane?”

Oh my, she was staring. But how could she not? A half-naked man—never mind that he was attractive—was standing in her home . . . with a gun. A gun. “What are you doing with that?” she hissed, taking a step toward him to block the weapon from Noah’s line of sight.

“I heard the alarm.” Charlie looked around, his eyes searching. “I ran over.”

He ran over? For her? Lane’s heart jackhammered beneath her ribs and it wasn’t from the chaos of the morning. “I, uh. It’s okay. The alarm is spazzing out. Ms. B—”

“Is here, dear.”

Lane jumped. Ms. Byrdie was standing behind her, keys in hand and an impish smile playing on her lips as her eyes bounced between Charlie and Lane.

“This isn’t . . .” Lane looked down at her pajamas covered with tiny T. rexes eating donuts before turning to Charlie for help, but the shadowed expression he wore a second ago had relaxed into a playful smirk. His gun was no longer visible. “He was just . . .” It was now Lane’s gaze passing between Charlie and Ms. Byrdie. It was as if the two shared a secret . . . “Y’all really need to stop popping up behind me. Especially with this alarm going off.”

Ms. Byrdie cast one more conspiratorial look in Charlie’s direction before moving past them to the wall panel. She punched in the code, but it didn’t silence the alarm. She tried again to no avail.

“Maybe it’s the wiring.” Ms. Byrdie pulled out her cell phone. “Lane, why don’t you go show Charlie where the old electrical box is.”

Lane hesitated. She peeked across the room and saw Noah with his head still covered, only now instead of rolling on the ground he was walking around with his arms stretched out in front of him like a mummy. She rolled her eyes.

“Hurry, Lane, or you’re going to have the whole town here, and Joe hasn’t delivered the coffee beans yet.”

Charlie stepped aside and waited for her to lead the way. Outside, the short, high-pitched wail of the alarm ripped into the peaceful morning. Lane walked gingerly across the gravel to the other side of the house. “I’m sorry the noise woke you up.”

“I was up. Getting ready for a run.”

“You run with your gun?” Lane stole a glance at his body, wondering where he kept it. “Seems dangerous.”

Charlie cocked his head and offered a sly smile. “Only for the bad guy I’m chasing.”

As she rounded the corner of the house, Lane let out a hushed cry. “Wha—” She knelt to the ground and looked at her gardenias. The ones Charlie had given her. The white petals were scattered across the ground.

“Did an animal do that?” Charlie knelt down and fingered the splintered branches.

“A deer could, but they tend to stick to the tree line outside of town.”

Lane didn’t know why the sight of her flowers torn from their stems and pressed into the soil upset her so much. It was silly. They were just flowers. But they weren’t. Not to her. Unintentionally, Lane had assigned symbolism to these simple white blooms when she planted them. Hope. Promise. Expectation. It was irrational, she could see that now, but it felt purposeful at the time.

“I’ll get you a new one.” Charlie’s hand went to the small of her back. “To replace it.”

“No. There are still some buds on this one. It’ll survive.” Lane rose and pointed to a metal box attached to the house. “That’s the panel. Though, I’ll be honest, I don’t really know what I should be looking for.”

“We just need to find the wire to the security system. It should be marked.” Charlie opened the box. “Yep, right here. Hmm.”

“What is it?” Lane stepped closer. Warmth radiated from his skin and Lane forgot about her flowers. The beat of her heart filled her ears so loudly she was certain Charlie could hear it. She started to step back when something in the corner of the metal box caught her attention. Triggered something.

Charlie played with some wires and the house went silent. “You’ve got some frayed wires. Like something started chewing through it. I can’t imagine what since the box was closed but”—he looked up at her, the edges of his blue eyes crinkled—“what?”

Lane licked her lips, wrenching her eyes away from the toothpick. It wasn’t a coincidence, was it? The man who had come into her café was chewing on a toothpick. Had it been him the other evening too? Why had he returned?

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Charlie’s fingers brushed a piece of hair from her face, careful to avoid her bruised cheek. “What is it?”

Fighting to ignore the way his touch rattled her nerves, Lane shook her head. “Nothing. Probably nothing.” The words came out like they were stuck. “It’s . . . it’s a toothpick.”

Confusion drew Charlie’s brows together.

“That night, after finding”—she hated saying the words—“Sydney, there was this man. I’d never seen him before, but he was out here. He asked about a place to eat, but we were closed. A few days later, he came back. He asked about Noah and my husband—I guess he saw the picture near the cash register. He sorta gave me the creeps and I asked him to leave. I didn’t think I would see him again . . .”

“But . . .”

Lane heaved in a breath. “The other night after we talked in the memorial garden, there was someone standing outside the café, looking into the windows.”

Charlie’s expression tightened. “Was it the same guy?”

“I don’t know.” Lane rubbed her arms. “Whoever it was took off before I could get a good look at them.”

“And you haven’t seen him again?”

Lane bit her lip.

“You’ve seen him again?”

“Not exactly. At least I don’t think so. It might’ve been my imagination playing tricks on me. His questions about Noah and Mathias freaked me out so much that I thought I was seeing him around town, but whenever I’d try to get a second look he was gone . . . if he was even there to begin with.”

“And the toothpick?”

If Charlie had any doubts about her sanity, this would be the clincher. “The man was chewing on a toothpick.”

“Come on.” Taking her hand, Charlie pulled her in next to him as they made their way back to the porch. His eyes alert, body rigid—poised and ready to protect.

Lane wondered if her instincts were correct. Had the man returned? If so, why? Back inside, they found Ms. Byrdie filling a bowl with cereal for Noah.

“Charlie!” Noah scrambled off the stool and lunged at Charlie, who immediately scooped up the child into his arms like he’d been doing it all his life. “Where’s Bane?”

“At home, buddy.”

Hearing Charlie call Noah by his nickname stole Lane’s breath. That and the man was still shirtless—hiding a gun somewhere on his body. Lane needed a distraction. Quick. “Noah, you need to eat breakfast if you want to go to Pops’s.”

Ms. Byrdie smiled and handed Noah a spoon. “Did you figure out what the problem was?”

“Something might’ve chewed through the wire,” Lane said, grabbing the attention of both Charlie and Ms. Byrdie with her eyes. They weren’t going to discuss strange men lurking outside their home in front of Noah.

Charlie crossed through the kitchen and into the main room, with Lane and Ms. Byrdie following. “It might have been an animal or it could have been something else.”

“Something else?” Concern drew Ms. Byrdie’s lips into a frown. “Like what?”

“The other day there was someone peering into the windows of the café when it was closed,” Lane said.

Charlie went to each window and inspected the locks. “You have anything of value here? Money in a safe?”

“No, not really. I mean, we have a normal amount of money on hand, but a courier from the bank comes by and picks it up each night before we close. It’s nothing to break in for. Besides, this is Walton.”

Ms. Byrdie pressed her lips together a second as though that kind of reasoning was no longer applicable. “What about the donations?”

Charlie’s gaze swung in Lane’s direction. “The donations for your father’s barbecue fund-raiser?”

“Yes.” Lane looked at the empty spot near the back of her café where the donations once took up space. “Those got picked up. But how would anyone even know they’re worth stealing?”

“Honey, this isn’t your father’s first fund-raiser,” Ms. Byrdie said. “And Meagan’s solicited some rather impressive donations. I’d wager there’s more money sitting in those boxes than the Savings & Loan has in its vault on most days.”

Lane couldn’t argue with that. “Do you really think someone would break in and try to steal the donations?”

“Maybe, if there was something someone wanted badly enough.” Charlie scratched the back of his neck. “Do you remember any of the items?”

“Not everything.” Lane rubbed her forehead. “There’s artwork, football tickets. I think there might’ve been a vacation voucher. But none of it matters since it’s not even here.”

“But who else would know that?”

Lane didn’t have an answer. Charlie’s tone and the way his jaw muscle flexed . . . his whole demeanor shifted from friendly neighbor helping out to suspicious police officer asking questions that unsettled her.

Charlie ran his hand through his disheveled hair. “I’d like you to come by the station later and give me a description of the man you saw.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Ms. Byrdie said. “Can’t be too careful these days.”

“You don’t think I’m being paranoid? I mean, he could’ve been someone just looking to see if we were open.” But even as the words left her lips, Lane knew it wasn’t as innocent as that. Sydney’s killer was still out there. “Well, this day is just starting out fabulous, isn’t it?”

The front door to the Way Station Café jingled open.

“Good morning!” The chipper voice belonged to Mrs. Kingsley, one of the ladies who, what felt like a lifetime ago, had tried to arrange a date for Lane with her grandson. Her eyes fixed suddenly on Charlie’s still-bare chest and the most ridiculous smile plastered her face.

“Oh, Gladys, I’m sorry.” Ms. Byrdie hurried behind the counter and flipped on the coffee machine. “We had a little alarm mishap this morning, but I’ll have your coffee ready in a second. Muffins won’t take but a few seconds to warm up.”

“Take your time, Byrdie. I’ll just enjoy the view.”

Charlie’s eyes grew as wide as his smile, which sent Mrs. Kingsley into a fit of adolescent giggles that seemed to eviscerate the tension that had only seconds ago filled the café. Charlie skirted behind Lane, his cheeks as red as Mrs. Kingsley’s lipstick.

“Deputy Lynch was just leaving.” Lane pressed a hand to his chest to nudge him in the direction of the back door—big mistake. Gladys let out a whoop and whistled. “You’re distracting our customers.”

“So, we’re back to deputy now?” Charlie put his hand atop hers, their fingers interlacing just long enough for her to feel the beat of his heart. “Don’t be jealous.”

Lane pulled her hand out from under his—thankful this intimate moment happened in the privacy of her kitchen. “I appreciate you coming over to check on me.”

“Anytime.” Charlie tilted his chin. He swallowed and for a second Lane thought he was going to kiss her—maybe hoped he would—but instead two dimples framed his perfect lips as he smiled before pushing through the back door and taking the steps down her porch two at a time. At the bottom he turned and started walking backward toward the fence that separated their yards. “Wanna bet my dog has probably eaten my pillows for breakfast?”

Lane shook her head as her lower lip slipped between her front teeth. She smiled at the thought of Charlie walking into a house full of feathers, his wiry dog perched innocently in the middle of it all. She started to laugh. A giggle at first, but then the feathery scene that began to unfold in her mind sent her into a fit of hysterics that left her holding her side and tears sliding down her cheeks.

Ms. Byrdie and Mrs. Kingsley stepped into the hallway, concern creased on their faces, but Lane couldn’t stop. Could barely breathe. And she didn’t want to stop. Or explain. Didn’t want to think about alarms blaring or the reason why. She only wanted to relish this moment of emotional freedom.

To laugh. To feel. To live.

Her laugh. Charlie hadn’t imagined it as he left the Way Station Café and made his way home after the alarm fiasco. Lane laughed. He couldn’t explain why that simple act or the way the sound of her happiness—even at his expense—kick-started his spirit, but it had. Charlie was willing to do many things for Lane Kent, and making her laugh was near the top.

“Brought you some muffins from the Way Station.” Charlie set the bag of pastries his aunt had brought over just before he left for work in front of Frost. “They’re fresh and warm.”

The small office down the hall had turned into a headquarters of sorts. Files of reports, tips, and interviews were stacked in boxes and on the table. Photos of evidence were taped up. Sydney’s innocent smile the only bright spot on the wall of death and mystery.

“Hey, thanks.” Frost slipped one out of the bag. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

Charlie groaned. “Isn’t it too early for bad news?”

“Test results came back on Jolene Carson’s vehicle. Brown spots were blood, but not human. Jolene was telling the truth.”

“I can’t say that I’m disappointed.” Charlie dropped into the chair next to Frost. “I didn’t really want to believe Jolene was capable of killing her best friend.”

“Yeah, but she sure didn’t hesitate to tease her,” Frost said around a bite. He pushed up his glasses. “After we found the blood on her car, Deputy Wilson and I made some calls to some of Sydney’s friends and teachers. Jolene might be popular, but it’s because most students are afraid of her. Some even said she’s a bully.”

“Maybe that’s why Sydney hid her art.”

Sheriff Huggins stepped into the office, dwarfing the room. “In my day, if you didn’t like someone you said it to their face. You might have scuffled in the schoolyard, but then it was over. These days kids bully from the safety of a computer.”

Frost nodded with an expression of someone who knew firsthand. “How about some good news?”

Charlie looked at his watch. “How long you been at this, Frost? Our shift only started a half hour ago.”

“Came in a little early.” His gaze promptly swung to the sheriff. “I’m saving up the overtime to help my sister with college.”

Sheriff Huggins placed a hand on Frost’s back and, oddly, he didn’t look as scrawny as he had before . . . of course, he was already working on his second muffin. “Son, whatever it takes to end this investigation.” The sheriff reached in front of Frost and grabbed a muffin before looking at Charlie and sitting down next to them. “Don’t you tell your aunt about this.”

“No, sir.” Charlie wouldn’t tell him that Aunt Byrdie had purposely put low-fat muffins in the bag. “Alright, Frost, what do you have?”

Frost started typing and a second later the three screens on the desk came alive. “Agent Padello was able to get me the video feed of the surveillance cameras outside Ms. Benedict’s gallery—”

“Annika Benedict gave us access to her security footage?” Charlie could see the sour look on the sheriff’s face. He was probably thinking the same thing—Frost went through one of his special ways.

Frost let out a “yeah right” laugh. “No. But we didn’t need her permission because this footage came from a nearby business and the city cameras.” He looked at Charlie and the sheriff, a smile playing at his lips. “Smart, right?”

“Very smart,” Sheriff Huggins said before he swallowed the last bite of his muffin. “Now that my blood pressure is good and high, why don’t you tell us what you found?”

“Right.” Frost pushed up his glasses. “So, I thought since we found something in the video at the storage unit, maybe I’d find something outside the gallery. Here’s footage taken on Wednesday afternoon from the alleyway behind the gallery.”

After a few keystrokes, one of the screens played a video of Sydney rushing out of the alleyway, carrying a rectangular object. Her movements hurried, she looked over her shoulder before walking into the street and out of range of the video.

“Do we have more? Where does she go?” Charlie sat at the edge of his seat. Seeing the teenager living, breathing . . . did she know that less than twenty-four hours later she’d be dead? “What was she carrying? A painting?”

“Do any of the videos show where she goes next?”

Frost rotated in his chair and shook his head. “Once she crosses Bull Street and heads into the park, the sun’s glare blocks her movements.”

Charlie pressed back into his chair. Frustrated. Tired. Angry. He pinched the bridge of his nose. If this was good news, it was going to be a very long day.

“Is there footage of Sydney leaving the gallery?” Sheriff Huggins asked.

“Not directly, sir. The cameras in that alleyway were positioned to catch footage of the businesses who owned them, but based off what she was wearing we can see she’s coming from that direction.”

“So, she was probably carrying a painting.”

“That’s the good news.” Frost’s voice picked up. “After Lynch spotted the name of the gallery in that photo, I thought maybe if I”—Frost hit a few keys to manipulate the image on the screen until it grew larger and larger—“focused on what we could see, we’d find a clue.”

“An address.” It was blurry, but Charlie could make out what appeared to be an address label on the package Sydney was holding.

Before either Charlie or Sheriff Huggins could ask, Frost was already typing again. “Tax records show the home belongs to Seth and Callista Hollins of Chicago, Illinois. A second home currently occupied by their only son, Savannah socialite and playboy extraordinaire, Floyd Hollins.”

“You got that from the tax records?”

“Social media, my dear Watson. I thought by now you’d understand the method to my madness.” Frost’s voice became nasally. “His profile on the LINKUP website says he likes rugby, polo, and women who are hot. Spelled h-a-u-t-e.” Frost turned to Charlie. “But pronounced hote. It means ‘fashionably elegant’ or ‘high class.’”

Sheriff Huggins and Charlie exchanged amused expressions before the sheriff asked, “And LINKUP is?”

“Dating website, and no, I don’t have a profile,” Frost added quickly.

Charlie believed him. “Does Floyd’s profile say anything about him being an art connoisseur?”

“No.” Frost scratched at the cowlick in his hair. “Unless you consider posters with women who—”

“That’s not what he means.” Sheriff Huggins adjusted his gun belt.

Frost typed and a second later a profile page for Floyd Hollins popped up on one of the screens.

His wavy blond hair curled over a tanned forehead and his teeth were unnaturally white. The kid stood in front of a massive boat—no, yacht—wearing a polo shirt with the collar popped and plaid shorts. Frost didn’t seem far off on his assumption of status. The profile picture stunk of money and privilege.

“Frost, I want you to contact Agent Padello and see if you can get the financial records of Mr. Floyd Hollins, particularly those connected to art purchases.” Sheriff Huggins stood. “If he’s purchased Sydney’s art before, maybe Ms. Benedict will be more helpful since she won’t be divulging any private client information.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lynch, how about you and I take a drive into Savannah and see if Mr. Hollins can teach us a thing or two about art.”

Charlie nodded as he rose from the chair. “Great job, Frost.” He gripped the young man’s shoulders like an older brother and felt some meat on his bones. “You’ve been working out?”

Frost’s face turned the color of ketchup. “A little.”

“If you ever need a workout buddy, let me know.”

“Really?”

“Sure. But for now, you just keep giving that brain of yours a workout.”

In the hall, Sheriff Huggins was waiting for Charlie. “You know, that kid looks up to you.”

“He’s a good deputy, sir. Truth be told, we’d be a lot further behind in this investigation without him . . . or his brain.”

The sheriff let out a low laugh as they walked through the station. Charlie could see Lane wasn’t the only one his uncle poured out fatherly affection on. He gave it freely to anyone who needed it and doled it out in whatever form necessary. For Frost, it was mentorship and guidance. For Lane . . . protection.

Who was the man who had come into the café and asked about Lane’s husband and Noah? Charlie didn’t doubt Lane had seen him in town, but why was he here? Surely, Lane would’ve recognized him if he was a local. Was he the same man she had seen outside her home? Charlie’s gut said he probably was, but were the man’s intentions criminal? And what was the focus—the value of those donations or was it something more?

The image of Miguel striking Lane—even though he did it accidentally—flashed in his mind. Why was she so protective of the disheveled man? How well did Lane really know him?

“Do you know a man named Miguel?”

“Miguel?” Sheriff Huggins slowed. “Why?”

Had his aunt not told him what happened? “Last night he showed up at the Way Station Café. He was agitated . . . he hit Lane.”

Sheriff Huggins’s jaw flexed. “Byrdie told me it was an accident.”

“Lane said it was, but does that matter? He might’ve been drunk or on drugs or—”

“He’s a veteran.” Sheriff Huggins let that sit between them a few seconds. “He’s a few years younger than I am. Went to Vietnam with the rest of us and came back like most of them. He’s got issues the military understands a lot better now than they did then, but he’s mostly harmless.”

Harmless? “The bruise on Lane’s cheek might say otherwise. I can’t tell you how many investigations I had to look into where PTSD mixed with alcohol or drugs created the perfect storm. I’m concerned Miguel could hurt someone else.”

Sheriff Huggins stopped outside the steps of the sheriff’s station. “We live in a small town, Charlie. Under most circumstances, that’s a good thing. Neighbors look out for one another, but you know that old saying ‘sticks and stones’? Well, words can be deadly.” Sheriff Huggins heaved a sigh. “Miguel’s been sober for more than two decades, but I’ll stop by his place and check on him.”

“Thank you, sir, but . . .” Charlie stared in the direction of the Way Station. His eyes lingered on the men passing by as though he could guess if they were the one bringing fear into Lane’s life. “Someone has been harassing Lane. Showing up at the Way Station after hours. Peeking into her windows. Her alarm went off this morning, and I’m just concerned—”

“Your aunt called me this morning and told me.” Sheriff Huggins wiped at his forehead, which was already glistening with sweat. “Lane’s coming in later to give you a description of the man, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Let’s get that and go from there.”

The conversation was over. Whatever the sheriff was thinking behind his crystal-clear eyes, he was keeping it hidden from Charlie. His uncle warned him not to hurt Lane, and Charlie wasn’t going to allow anyone else to hurt her either. Whatever it took—he’d protect her.