Harper woke late the next morning.
For one brief, blessed moment, she wasn’t sure why her head hurt so much or how she’d come to be sleeping fully clothed on top of the bedsheets.
But as her sun-filled bedroom swam into view, it all came back to her.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed.
She sat up slowly, hands on her head, which felt like someone was wrenching it in two with cold metal tools.
“Oh hell’s bells. Harper, you imbecile.”
Zuzu, who was draped across the foot of the bed, glanced up at her with cool green eyes.
“I kissed my boss,” Harper informed her, as she swung her feet to the floor. “Top that one, cat.”
The room felt unstable around her, and she had to find her balance before making her way down the hall to the bathroom for ibuprofen.
There, she reached for the medicine cabinet door but her reflection arrested her hand.
Her russet hair kinked and coiled around her. The long day of work and night of booze had left her hazel eyes bloodshot and her skin blotchy.
“You look like an idiot,” she told herself.
She swung open the medicine cabinet door and her face disappeared.
I hope he’s fired, she thought, uncharitably, as she downed the pills with water she cupped in her hands. Oh God. What if he’s not fired?
It wasn’t all on her, of course. They’d both been involved in that kiss. But that didn’t make it any better.
At least it was Sunday—she didn’t have to be back in the office until Tuesday. She had two days to recover. Two days to figure out how to handle things if he and Charlton worked out their differences. Or if they didn’t.
While she waited for the shower to warm up, she leaned against the wall and tormented herself by remembering the last minutes of the night—the way his lips had felt unfamiliar and curious against hers.
And that it had been quite a memorable kiss.
She was climbing into the shower when it struck her that he’d never once pulled back. If she hadn’t stopped things, there was no indication that he wouldn’t have been happy to go to bed with her.
She wondered if he was waking up somewhere now, swearing. Maybe he was hoping he was fired, too. But she doubted it. He didn’t seem the type to feel bad about kissing her.
After a shower, Harper brewed a pot of strong coffee, and sat at the table with her laptop and phone, forcing down a piece of toast her stomach didn’t want, and coming up with a plan.
Dells was right—she had to get the Anderson story out there.
She could take it to the cops or to Josh at Channel 5. But first she needed to answer those last unanswered questions.
Before Harper could go to Daltrey or Josh with her theory about how Peyton had done it, she needed one person—just one—who’d seen him that night, out of the hospital.
She wasn’t at all sure this was possible. But she had an idea.
Steeling herself, she picked up her phone.
Jerrod Scott answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Scott,” she said. “This is Harper McClain.”
“Oh, hello, Miss. McClain. What can I do for you?”
His voice was so distinctive—formal but warm, as if they’d known each other for years.
“I’ve been looking deeper at your daughter’s case,” Harper said. “I think you might have a point about Peyton Anderson. But I need your help to prove it.”
“Well, thank the Lord.” She heard him take a deep breath. “Tell me what you need.”
Harper explained the very basics.
The missing piece was all about travel. How had Anderson gotten from the hospital to the murder scene and back again, without a car, and without anyone knowing he’d done it?
There were several possibilities. Maybe Anderson had planted his car at the hospital before stabbing himself. If that was the case, she might never be able to prove a thing. But she didn’t think he’d take that risk.
Someone could have driven him—a friend. But he didn’t seem the type to leave himself open like that. People talk.
She’d come up with an answer last night on the way home from the bar. But the idea hadn’t crystallized until she sobered up.
A taxi.
It was so obvious, she wasn’t sure at first. But the more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed.
The way the driver’s eyes had assessed and dismissed the drunken pair of them—the way his look said he’d seen it all before and wasn’t interested now. That had been when she began to think it through. Cabdrivers pick up dozens of passengers a day. They pick up many people at hospitals—it was so normal. So forgettable.
And before she’d fallen asleep last night, it had occurred to her that Jerrod Scott had driven a taxi in Savannah for more than thirty years.
“I want you to see if you can track down a taxi driver who picked up Peyton Anderson at Savannah Memorial at around one-thirty A.M. that night,” she told him. “His left arm would have been heavily bandaged. If you can find that driver, bring him to me.”
Scott, who had listened as she explained her theory, didn’t say anything for so long, she wondered if he was still there.
“Mr. Scott?” she asked, hesitantly.
“I’m still here.” He paused. “Miss. McClain, even if we find this cabdriver, will anyone believe us?”
“Look,” she said, “I can’t promise we’ll convince them. But I believe if we don’t find out how he got from the hospital to downtown, Peyton Anderson will walk free from this. Eventually, he’ll kill someone else. I don’t want that to happen.”
A long silence followed—when Scott spoke again, his voice was gruff.
“Well, I’m grateful to you for trying. Tell you what—I reckon I know every cabdriver in this town,” he said. “Let me see what I can find out.”
“Mr. Scott,” Harper said. “I need this fast. Tomorrow might be too late.”
Harper spent the day sitting at her kitchen table, writing up everything she’d learned on the Anderson story. She wrote fast, not taking time to make it pretty. She just needed all the information in one place.
When she finished writing that night, she knew she’d made a devastating case. With one missing piece.
But Scott still hadn’t called.
When her phone rang at eleven, she pounced on it, her heart sinking when she saw Bonnie’s name on the screen.
She forced her tone to stay neutral.
“Hey, Bonnie.”
“I’m checking in,” Bonnie told her. “I haven’t heard from you and I was starting to get worried.”
“You shouldn’t worry,” Harper said. “I’m fine.”
Bonnie wasn’t convinced. “You want me to come over? I’m off tonight.”
“Bonnie, I love you but I do not need a babysitter.” Harper pulled her feet up onto the sofa. “There’s been no sign of the weirdo in days. Also, Mia’s now sleeping with a cop, so I’m protected.”
“I don’t like you being there at night alone,” Bonnie told her. “You should come over here and drink my wine.”
Harper shuddered.
“No wine. Ever again. I’m on the wagon.”
“Coffee then,” Bonnie said. “Chamomile tea. I don’t care. I want to watch you being safe.”
“You are kind and wonderful. But I have important plans to stay on my sofa. Also, I’m waiting on a phone call, so I have to go.”
“If this is a pretend phone call and you’re trying to get rid of me, God will know,” Bonnie warned her. “Also, since you won’t come over, I’ll tell you now—I think I’m breaking up with the pedophile gallery owner. He turned out to be totally flaky.”
“I’m going to need some time to recover from the shock,” Harper said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Sarcasm isn’t pretty, Harper,” Bonnie said. “Love you. Call if you get scared.”
After she hung up, Harper checked her voice mail in case Scott had called while she was on the phone.
But there were no messages.
That night, she sat up for hours, listening to her scanner and waiting for the call that didn’t come.