TWENTY-SIX

ADRENALINE PULSED through Charlie’s veins, forcing his mind to focus on the mission in front of him and not on the way he left Lane at the courthouse. He couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said to her father about wondering if everyone would be better off without her—so desperate to break free of her illness that she swallowed a bottle of pills—and lost her husband. Charlie’s heart ached for the guilt she bore on her shoulders.

“Hey, are we, like, supposed to wear masks too?”

Frost’s question hauled Charlie’s mind back to the present. He and Frost stood outside the circle of DEA agents with black knit caps pulled over their faces in the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse three blocks from the Bohemian Signature Gallery. Agent Edmonds was briefing them on their mission to infiltrate Annika’s gallery in search for answers.

“Just them.” Sweat gathered at his brow. Charlie’s gut told him that uncovering the drug-smuggling ring would provide the answers to help them solve Sydney’s murder. And to figure out Miguel’s role. Charlie had already begun forming theories and the end result to all of them had Sydney as an innocent girl caught in something bigger than even he could imagine.

“This is my first sting operation,” Frost whispered. “It’s kinda cool.”

“Listen and do whatever they tell you.” The flak vest added bulk to Frost’s small frame but didn’t impair his nervous energy. “You’ll do fine.”

Agent Edmonds broke free of the group. “You ready?”

“Heck yeah.” Frost slapped his vest.

“Good.” Edmonds cast an amused look at Charlie. “We have two unmarked vans. Both of you will be riding with me. We’ll be breaching the front entrance. My boys will secure the rear.”

“What about civilians—or, uh, customers? Pedestrians on the street?” Charlie asked. Summer was here and so were the tourists. He needed to assess such risks on every mission.

“Metro Police will be patrolling the blocks on either side of the gallery as well as the nearby parks. They’ll be there to assist if necessary.”

“I want first opportunity to question her.” In the short time since Edmonds’s call and his arrival in Savannah, they hadn’t established who would get to question Annika first. Charlie wanted to make sure the steely DEA agent understood they both had vested stakes in the mission.

Edmonds took his time adjusting the Velcro straps on his vest—or was he using his silence to make a point? Finally, he said, “Your tip about Nawabi put me on the fast track for a promotion. You know what that means?”

“First in line for a desk job?”

“Got that right.” Edmonds grunted. “I’m not a fan of sitting behind a desk . . . but my fiancée is. Got it in her mind that what we do can be dangerous.”

“Reasonable concern.”

“Yeah, well, I like making her happy, so I guess that gives you first rights to Annika.” Edmonds dug in his pocket and pulled out two earpieces. His gaze held steady on Frost’s edgy movements. “Here, you’ll both need these. You’ll hear a lot of voices, but the only one you need to listen to is mine.”

The directive was aimed at Frost. There was nothing more unnerving than a jittery team member, whether the mission took place on a dusty road in an Afghani valley or on the suburban streets of Savannah. No one wanted an accident.

Charlie put in the earpiece and Frost did the same. Right away chatter filled his ear. A disgruntled voice argued with another.

“You ready to arrest the wicked witch of Savannah?” Frost smirked.

“I’m ready for some answers.” Although Charlie wouldn’t mind seeing a pair of silver handcuffs melt the icy glare off Annika’s face.

“Load up. We roll in five.” Agent Edmonds’s voice spoke into their ears.

“You think Miguel Roa’s the killer?” Frost asked as he climbed in one of the vans after Charlie.

“I believe Annika is the link that will connect all the pieces.”

“You hear what they’re saying about him?”

Charlie gave a tight nod. If Miguel was involved in Sydney’s death, he’d never get a fair trial in Walton. Lane was right. The truth about Miguel’s condition had colored him as crazy and capable of murder without anyone batting an eyelash that maybe there was more to the story. Maybe Lane and Miguel really were similar. Two people forced to suffer alone because people didn’t understand them. They suffered in silence until it became unbearable. Like his friend Tate.

“I think it’s pretty cool of Lane to stand up for him.” Frost ran his hands down his pant legs. “There’s an old bridge near Coastal Highway that crosses a narrow part of the Ogeechee River. They call it the jumping bridge because people go there to, you know, end it. Rode my bike there one day after school when the teasing was really bad.”

Charlie’s throat grew dry. He knew exactly what bridge Frost was talking about.

Frost tugged down on his vest. “I was ready to jump, but you know what stopped me?”

“What?”

“A girl on the trail below along the river waved at me. Smiled too.” Frost blushed. “I guess it was enough that someone noticed me. Made me think maybe I’d be missed if I was gone. So, I turned around and went home.”

Charlie swallowed as the memory of finding Lane on that same bridge pushed to the front of his mind. What would she have done if he hadn’t shown up? He still didn’t know if she had been planning to jump that day, but he couldn’t imagine a single day without her in his life. She had to know—had to believe—that she’d be missed. And he was willing to do whatever it took to convince her.

The van brakes squeaked to a stop and a second later Edmonds slid the door open. “Let’s move.”

Frost pushed his glasses up his nose with a shaky hand.

“Stick by my side and you’ll be fine.” Charlie patted Frost’s shoulder and slid the van door open. His phone vibrated. He didn’t recognize the number and let it go to voice mail.

“Nice and easy.” Edmonds’s voice came through the ear mic. “Alpha team on approach.”

Charlie and Frost fell into place behind Edmonds. Two other agents closed the ranks. The group was gathering curious looks from people on the streets, but a Metro cop was encouraging them to move along.

The inside of the gallery was dark. It was barely past six. The hours posted on the door said the gallery should be open for another two hours.

“Alpha team: we’ve got locked doors. What’s your status, Bravo?”

“Why would the gallery door be locked?” Frost’s whisper was strained.

An internal alarm rang inside Charlie’s head. On the battlefield, when there was a variance in routine it was usually an indication that something was wrong. He flexed his hands a couple of times to release the adrenaline pounding in his ears.

“Bravo team: back door’s been breached. Entering premises now. Stand by.” Beams of light flashed through the gallery. “Lower level clear. Bravo team approaching front entrance.”

An agent with a dark bandanna covering the lower half of his face opened the front door of the gallery. “My guys are heading upstairs.”

Charlie’s unease was confirmed when they entered the building. Paintings had been stripped from the walls. Frames were broken. Canvases were slashed. The computer at the front desk was smashed on the floor.

“What happened?” Frost looked around.

“Someone got here before us.” Glass broke under Charlie’s feet.

“Bravo team: building cleared and secured.”

Someone found the light switch and illuminated the ransacked gallery in fluorescent lighting. Charlie followed Edmonds upstairs to an apartment. It was decorated in modern furnishings in shades of gray as cold as the woman who lived there. A single bedroom was off to the side. The drawers were opened, clothes scattered on the floor.

Charlie exhaled. “She’s gone.”

“Somebody was looking for something.”

Edmonds led them back downstairs. Two DEA agents were collecting paintings while another had set up a table in the corner and was swabbing their edges.

“These paintings are, for lack of a better word, crap.”

A petite redhead walked toward them. Frost nudged Charlie. He didn’t recall seeing her at the briefing and he would’ve remembered, not because of her fire-engine red hair, but because she was the only one in a sea of DEA agents wearing a blue jacket with big yellow letters on it.

“Deputy Lynch, Deputy Frost, this is Agent Murphy. An art expert on loan to us courtesy of the FBI.” Edmonds introduced them. “See, we can play nice with the fibbies.”

Murphy rolled her eyes. “Most of that he got right, but no one said anything about playing nice.”

Frost snickered and drew an amused look from the female agent, which colored his cheeks almost as red as her hair. Edmonds’s cell phone rang and he excused himself.

Charlie gave Frost a pointed look before returning his attention back to the agent. “What were you saying about the art?”

“These paintings are amateurish at best. Most of the names I don’t recognize. I’d say, based on my initial inspection of what’s still intact”—Murphy looked around—“less than fifty grand worth of art and I’m being generous.”

“Fifty thousand?” Charlie toed a piece of glass. “Sydney’s single painting was listed at twelve hundred dollars.”

“Some galleries overprice the art to make a profit, but usually it’s on actual art.” Murphy lifted a torn piece of canvas. “This is just above student level.”

“Sydney’s art fits right in then.” Frost tried folding his arms across his bulky vest but after a few awkward seconds settled for sticking his hands in his pockets.

Charlie scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You don’t recognize any of the names on these paintings?”

“Only a few,” Murphy said. “Not enough to warrant this gallery’s reputation.”

“That first day we came by, two students from the art school were filling out applications to have their art displayed here. Said it was the first time the gallery’s been open to students’ work. What if Annika was exploiting unknown artists? You’re the expert, but if you don’t recognize the artists, then it’s possible regular customers wouldn’t either.”

“Her computer might’ve been smashed, but it seems your gallery owner kept written records of her clients.” Edmonds walked over. He held up a notebook. “Found this hidden behind a canvas propped up against a wall safe. Recognize any names?”

Charlie scanned the rows of names and landed on one. “Floyd Hollins.”

“That book gives us the names of people she paid and used to ship her paintings.” Edmonds lifted his eyebrows. “We’ve even got a couple of dealers listed on there.”

“If Annika’s involved in the drug smuggling, why would they do this to her gallery?” Frost asked. “Or kill Marco Solis? Wasn’t he the kingpin’s cousin or something?”

“Only by marriage, and maybe El Chico found out they had double-crossed him.” Edmonds tapped the notebook. “Some of these names belong to members of a rival organization.”

“Maybe it was a warning.” Murphy looked around. “And they came back.”

“You think that’s why they killed Sydney?” Frost’s glance moved between them. “She found out about the drugs and was going to rat on them?”

“You might be on to something.” Edmonds raised his eyebrows. “If Annika and Miguel are connected, maybe she paid him to kill the girl.”

That theory didn’t make sense. Or maybe he was being blinded by his desire to prove Lane right. Prove Miguel wasn’t the killer. “Jolene and Annabeth left Sydney at the gas station, but her body was discovered more than a mile away. Why would a teenage girl, alone and in the middle of the night, walk into the woods?”

“She wouldn’t,” Murphy said.

“Unless she knew where she was going.” Frost’s bounce returned. “Miguel’s house was a few miles away, right? And remember the video—the one with Sydney leaving the studio the day before she was killed? She was carrying something.”

“A painting.” Charlie furrowed his brow. “What if Sydney was walking to Miguel’s house? For help?”

“Maybe she gave him the painting?” Frost added.

“So, they know each other?” Edmonds shrugged. “He’s your suspect.”

“Maybe not. You said El Chico’s cartel is responsible for the biggest drug distribution in Atlanta. Abas Nawabi’s presence in Savannah proves El Chico’s reach is crossing borders. I think it’s safe to assume he’d probably do anything to keep that part of his business, well, in business.”

“You think they’re cleaning up?” Edmonds’s forehead creased. “Came after Annika?”

Murphy spread her hands out at the mess around them. “If they are, it could mean they’ll be going after Miguel next.”

Charlie clenched his fist. “Or they’ve already found him.”

Lane’s hands shook. She looked at the bottle of pills and allowed herself to go back to that night. She knew growing up that she was different, and it wasn’t just awkward adolescence. Her mood shifted so frequently that she was often punished for her insubordination, particularly when it happened in public. Lane’s parents just didn’t understand—and they never asked her about it.

In health class, Lane learned about depression and anxiety and all it took was a quick search on the computer for her to know she probably had both. She tried to talk to her school counselor, but the overworked woman handed Lane a couple brochures on the topic and gave her the number to a suicide hotline. What Lane needed was someone to listen. To hear her out and explain that she wasn’t the same as those people on the news who went on killing sprees. She wasn’t a killer . . . and yet it was because of her that Mathias was dead.

Lane dropped onto the sofa at the Way Station Café, thankful she’d thought to close it. After hearing what people were saying about Miguel—and now what they had heard about her—she didn’t need the spectacle inside her home. It was bad enough to imagine what that reporter or Ms. Carson were going to say. This would affect her father’s election. Mr. Adams made sure Lane was aware of that, but what about her father? He hadn’t even mentioned the election after her little emotional blowup. Give it time, she thought.

A noise startled Lane. Had she forgotten to lock the door? “I’m sorry, we’re closed—”

Ms. Byrdie stood there jingling her set of keys in the air. She set them on the counter and came to the couch. “Huggy called me.”

Ms. Byrdie’s concern was enough to cause the tears Lane had been shoving down inside to burst forth like a geyser. Ms. Byrdie dropped next to Lane, wrapped her arms around her, and allowed her to cry.

Lane didn’t know how many minutes passed, but when she pulled back she noticed that tears were streaming down Ms. Byrdie’s face too.

“Are-are you okay?” Lane hiccupped.

Ms. Byrdie took Lane’s face in her hands so that she was looking directly into Lane’s eyes—into her soul. “Lane Kent, I love you. I do. I love you. There’s nothing you have done or will ever do to make me stop loving you. From the moment you stepped into my library, the good Lord pressed a love for you so deeply on my heart that I couldn’t ignore it. I love you. I love you.”

Lane felt the wall of fear she’d built within her begin to crack. Those words were so simple, people tossed them around every day, but the power they held when said the way Ms. Byrdie was saying them . . . it ripped at the seams of doubt Lane had sewn so tightly around her heart.

Unlovable. That’s what she felt like growing up with these thoughts. An unlovable mistake.

“I messed up.” Lane took in a shaky breath. “I told Charlie about Mathias. I blurted it all out right there in the middle of the courthouse for everyone to hear.” She cringed. “Including that reporter.”

“Vivian?” Ms. Byrdie shook her head. “Honey, that young thing is in search of a story because she’s desperate to forget her own. Don’t you worry about her. Now, what did Charlie say?”

She had no reason to hide anything from Ms. Byrdie, but they weren’t two girlfriends chatting about a crush. Charlie was her nephew. And this was more than just a crush. Her heart had begun to long for him in a way that Lane couldn’t ignore any more than she could ignore her depression.

“He told me it wasn’t my fault. That it was an accident.”

“And you don’t believe him.”

Lane’s breath caught in her chest. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t called him—” She choked on the words. “He died because of me.”

Ms. Byrdie wrapped her hand around Lane’s and squeezed. “What happened to Mathias that night was an accident. Plain and simple. That boy loved you to the ends of the earth. Whatever God’s reason was for taking him home that night does not rest on your shoulders.”

A tear slipped down Lane’s cheek. “What if God made a mistake by allowing me to live instead of Mathias?”

“Honey, God never makes mistakes. You are here on purpose, Lane. With purpose.” Ms. Byrdie rose. “Come with me.” She led Lane to the hallway where a large mirror hung on the wall. “Tell me what you see.”

“I don’t know. Me?”

“Come on, look harder. Tell me what you see.”

Looking at her reflection, she didn’t have to try harder. Her hair hung limply over her shoulders. The dark circles under her eyes had darkened, making her fair complexion appear washed out.

“I see someone who needs a haircut but doubts it’ll make a difference. And it wouldn’t hurt for me to spend a few hours in the sun or maybe get some sleep, but those seem to evade me as well.” Exasperation edged her tone and she lacked the courage to look Ms. Byrdie in the eye.

“Here’s what I see.” Ms. Byrdie brushed a piece of Lane’s hair from her forehead. “A woman who has faced tremendous obstacles and tragedy and still finds a way to persevere. Who, in the midst of too many sleepless nights, spends hours putting together ingredients so she can offer some home-baked love and kindness to those others overlook. Someone who looks past the flaws in others and sees their beauty and potential, even when she misses it in herself.”

Tears stung Lane’s eyes. She dropped her gaze at Ms. Byrdie’s words. “I wish I could see those things, but all I see is a broken mess.”

“Lane Kent, you listen to me. If all you see when you look in the mirror are your flaws, then you’ll believe that’s all anyone else will see. You are not broken. You are perfectly made. You have to stop punishing yourself for the way God made you—even for your depression. You need to forgive yourself and take captive those thoughts that you are anything but the woman our Creator designed you to be.” Ms. Byrdie’s soft words reached deep into her soul. “God used Mathias to save you that night for a purpose—his purpose—now fight for the life you deserve.”

“But I don’t deserve it.”

“If that’s true for you, then it’s true for all of us.” Ms. Byrdie brushed the tears from Lane’s cheeks. “He makes all things new. Every morning you wake up is a day you can live in the freedom of knowing God has plans for you.”

“And you believe those plans include Charlie?”

“Huggy and I aren’t the only ones who see the beautiful, courageous woman you are. Charlie sees it too. He cares a great deal for you, and I think he imagines a future with you and Noah in it.”

That light—the one Lane saw in the faces of the customers Ms. Byrdie spoke to—Lane thought she saw a glimmer of it in her own.