By the time Harper stumbled out of the police station that morning, the sun was up and the day had begun to broil.
All her muscles were stiff from sitting in that chair, hour after hour. Daltrey, in her determination to get everything right, had been relentless. By the end, she wasn’t sure she was making any sense.
She needed to call Baxter. Make sure she had the story for the website. First, though, she needed to go home and take a shower. And change. There was blood on her clothes.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she stumbled toward the parking lot, where she usually parked the Camaro, before realizing the car was still parked in the lot off Congress Street.
“Crap.” Raking her fingers through her tangled hair, she turned toward Habersham Street, wondering if she might be able to find a taxi.
She was so tired—it was hard to think.
“Harper.”
The voice came from her left.
Turning, she saw Luke, standing next to his car. He was in the same clothes he’d worn last night, although he’d ditched the suit jacket and tie. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes.
She was too worn out to be hurt and angry right now. She just missed him.
“Hey,” she said.
He was watching her in that way he had—unnervingly observant.
“Thought you might need a lift.”
Maybe another time, she would have refused. Right now, though, all she wanted was to get into that car with him. And go home.
She walked over to where he stood, under the sprawling branches of an oak. The Spanish moss hung so low, she had to push it aside to reach him—it felt like feathers against her fingers.
He held the passenger door open for her. She got in without saying a word.
The leather seats were smooth and warm. She clipped the seat belt in place as he started the engine, and the AC came on, blowing hot air that gradually cooled.
He pulled away into traffic, hands steady and assured on the wheel.
Harper tried to think of something to say to break the silence between them, but the night had drained her of small talk. Luke seemed to know this. He let her be.
After a while, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. The darkness behind her lids was filled with violence, though. She saw Richards, reaching out to Scott. Heard the shot.
Saw Anderson’s cold smile as he raised the gun again …
Blinking hard, she jerked upright, gripping the armrest.
From the corner of her eye she saw Luke glance at her, but he said nothing.
The journey to her house took about ten minutes. Luke pulled up to the curb, leaving the engine running.
There was so much Harper wanted to say to him. But she didn’t know where to start. It was a library of unspoken words.
“Are you okay?” he asked, when she thought the silence might crush them both. “It was a tough night.”
Harper looked down at her hands, knotted in her lap. There were dark stains at the edges of her nails.
“I couldn’t get all the blood off,” she said, as if that explained everything. “I tried for so long…”
She looked away, biting her lip.
It was just that she was so tired. Normally she’d be handling this better.
“You need to know it’s not your fault.” Luke turned to look at her, taking the sunglasses off so she could see those night-sky eyes, shadowed by lack of sleep. “What happened to Richards—that’s not on you.”
Harper didn’t believe him.
“Anderson must have followed me. I led him straight to the one man who knew for certain that he was lying about where he was that night. I helped him kill the witness who could have sent him down. How is that not my fault?”
“Because it isn’t,” he said. “That’s not how this works. You were not responsible for a killer’s actions.”
“But he’ll get away with it now, Luke,” she said, miserably. “And that’s my fault.”
He shook his head.
“We have Richards’s log, Harper. It was in his cab, and it lists the pickup at the hospital that night, exactly like you said. Daltrey got the CCTV footage from the hospital and the hotel. He’s on there. Clear as day. We’ve subpoenaed his phone records. If he was communicating with Naomi Scott, and we believe he was…” He reached across, putting his hand on hers. “He’s going down.”
Not trusting herself to speak, Harper looked down at their entangled hands.
“The person responsible is Peyton Anderson, and you will help us put him away.” His thumb stroked the side of her hand. “We’re looking for him now. We’ve got a warrant to search his apartment. His father is cooperating.”
Letting go of her hands, he touched her chin, tilting her face up, making her look at him.
“That’s what you did, Harper. You caught a killer. You did right by Naomi Scott. Keep that in your mind.”
As she listened, something that had held tight in Harper’s chest since that first shot last night loosened, just a little.
She blew out a shaky breath and nodded.
“Okay,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “Okay.”
“Get some sleep,” he said. “When you wake up, this will all be over.”
Nodding, Harper reached for the door handle. But at the last minute she turned back.
“Luke,” she said, “when this is all over … let’s talk.”
His eyes held hers. “I’d like that.”
She climbed out of the car feeling the weight of her own exhaustion so heavily, she barely noticed as Luke drove away.
She trudged up the front steps, wondering how much time she had before she needed to go into the office. It was not yet eight o’clock. If she could sleep for three hours, she was sure she’d be fine.
She was putting the key in the third lock when she heard her phone ringing inside.
Hastily, she shoved the door open, typed the code into the beeping alarm, and ran into the living room, dropping her bag on the couch, and grabbing the phone off its stand on the sixth ring.
“Hello?”
“Finally,” an unfamiliar voice said. “This has been a long time coming.”
The voice sounded older. Male. Harper frowned.
“Who is this?”
“Someone who has secrets to tell.”
“Look,” Harper said wearily, “I’ve had a long night. If this is about a story, call me at the newspaper this afternoon. Right now, I…”
The chuckle in her ear made her voice trail off.
“Come on, Harper. You’re a reporter. You must be more curious than this. You figured out how I was getting in, and you cut off all my access routes. So now I have to call you. It’s a hell of a thing.”
Harper’s blood turned to ice.
“Who is this?”
“I think you know who this is.”
For one second, she stood frozen, the phone in a viselike grip. Then she grabbed her bag and rifled through it, pulling out a notebook and pen. Flipping furiously to a clean page, she wrote, Over 45 years old. No Southern accent.
“You must have questions for me.” he said, almost kindly, as if he knew she was tired.
“Why did you break into my house?” Harper’s voice was airless. “What do you want?”
“I have some information for you. But before I gave it to you, I wanted to know who you were.”
Harper frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We met, long ago,” he said, not answering her question. “When you were young. I knew your parents. How is your father, anyway?”
Harper’s pen slid across the page, scratching a thick black line.
“You know my dad?”
“I knew him back then.”
His voice was steady, unafraid. Almost helpful.
Whatever she’d thought she’d do in this moment left her mind now. She had to force herself to think.
“Were you a friend of my parents’?”
“Of a sort.”
“You said you wanted to know who I am,” she said. “Why?”
There was a pause. Harper thought she heard a car through the phone, driving by him. Was he on a street?
“At first,” he said, “I wanted to warn you that you were in danger. I told you to run. But you didn’t. That surprised me. You’re not much like your father. And, I suppose, in the end, that’s what I wanted to know, when I first checked in on you. I wanted to see if you were more like your mother.”
Harper’s knees gave. She found herself sitting on the sofa with no memory of lowering herself there.
“You knew my mom.” The words came out as a whisper.
“Yes. I knew Alicia,” he said, and she thought—although this must have been wrong—that she heard emotion in his voice.
Harper didn’t want the man who broke into her house and invaded her life to talk about her dead mother with such longing and loss.
“I don’t understand what you want.” Her voice hardened. “Why are you telling me this? Who are you?”
“I’m telling you,” he said, “because I want you to know I’m for real. And because you’re in danger. The person who killed your mother is looking for you. He’s been in prison for a long time and he’s about to get out. And he’s going to come for you.”
The phone nearly slipped from her nerveless hand.
“Who killed my mother?” she demanded, no longer interested in being toyed with. “If you know so much, tell me. If this is some sort of joke, I swear to God, I will find you and…”
“I don’t joke.” His voice was steady and insistent. “If you are as smart as I think you are, you’ll know that. I’m telling you to find a safe place and go there until I can sort this out. The person we’re talking about is very good at what he does. He considers his job unfinished.”
“Who is he?” Harper demanded. “Who killed my mother?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said. “Over the last year, I’ve learned what kind of person you are. And I know what would happen if you knew. You’d go look for him. That cannot happen. Because that is a fight you will not win, Harper McClain. For once, I need you to do the smart thing, not the brave thing. Get out of my way, and let me take care of this. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. I owe your mother this much. It’s not enough. But it’s something.”
Harper stared across the room, trying to absorb this. She had no idea who she was talking to, but all her instincts told her to believe him, which was insane. He’d broken into her house. He’d broken into her car. He’d invaded her life. She had no idea who he was.
And yet.
Still, she wasn’t naive. She knew better than to believe.
“Why should I trust you? You broke every law to get to me. And now, all of a sudden, you’re full of advice I’m supposed to take. How do you think that plays?”
“Badly, I’d imagine,” he said. “But I think you know I’m telling the truth. You’re a good reporter, Harper. Listen to those instincts.”
She heard what sounded like a bus rumble by him, and his voice faded for a moment.
“Hold on,” he said, his tone changing to something like alarm. “What’s this?”
“Just tell me who you are,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone…”
“Harper, listen.” His voice had changed completely. He sounded urgent and tense. “There’s a man walking up to your house. He’s got a gun. Don’t open your door.”
Harper stood up. Was he outside her house right now?
“I don’t understand…”
“You don’t need to understand.” His voice sharpened. “Call the police. Do it now. Tell them Peyton Anderson is outside your door. Do it, Harper. Trust me.”
“Wait…” she said.
The phone in her hand went dead, just as someone pounded his fist against her door.