Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Present Day

It’s late afternoon when we pull into Oxford, Mississippi.

Oxford is a picturesque little college town that makes anything seem possible. I direct Ryan to a hotel right off the square that is a favorite with the college students. They study in the lobby during the day then take a short elevator ride to the roof for cocktails once the sun sets.

“Of all the places I thought you’d take me, this wasn’t one of them,” Ryan says as we pull into the parking lot.

This college town is home to Ole Miss, one of his alma mater’s rivals.

“Ever been here?” I ask, mainly just to keep him distracted. It was a long, quiet ride, and I don’t really want to get into why we’re here.

“Yeah, we came once when LSU played here.” He throws the car in park and turns to me. “Are we staying here for the night?”

I shake my head. “No. I need you to go up to the rooftop bar. Eat something. Get a beer. Pay in cash. I’ll meet you back at the car in one hour.”

I open the car and hop out. He’s right behind me.

“We should stick together,” he says. There are a group of girls weighed down by backpacks and purses, with Greek letters stretched across their shirts, giving us curious glances.

I wait for them to pass then close the distance between us, putting both my hands on his chest. “We talked about this. The fact that you’re here, in this town with me, while I’m dealing with what I am, is huge. I know you think I’m shutting you out, but you are the only person I’ve let in for years. But I need this hour. Don’t make me get it another way.”

We stare at each other for a minute longer, then he pulls me closer, kissing me on my forehead. “One hour,” he says. “You need the keys?”

If Mr. Smith is tracking my car, which is possible, I want him to know we’re in Oxford but I don’t want him to have the exact location of where I am right now. Not yet at least.

“No, I’m not going far and would love to stretch my legs.”

Ryan moves toward the hotel, and I start walking in the opposite direction. I turn down a quiet little street, not far from the square, and stop in front of a beautiful white house with a wraparound porch. Pink blooms explode from the hydrangea bushes in front of the house, and the hummingbirds flutter around feeders hanging from the limb of the huge oak tree.

Overflowing pots of spring flowers perch on each brick step. There is a small seating area on the left side of the porch and an old-fashioned swing hanging on the right side. I stand in front of the door, looking right then left, then wander to the seating area, where there’s a small couch and a rocking chair, both pieces covered in the signature red and blue colors of the university and the words “Hotty Toddy!” printed across the throw pillows. I fluff a few of the pillows, dusting off a thin layer of pollen that settles on every single surface this time of the year, spending a little extra time getting the cushions on the rocker just where I want them.

This is the home of my dreams, the safe haven I always wanted.

Too bad it’s not mine.

I shove down the wave of longing and move back to the door. A few minutes after ringing the doorbell, a blond teenager opens it.

“Hey,” I say. “Is your dad home?”

“Sure, let me get him,” she says, then closes the screen door in my face. I hear her yell for him and then his heavy steps coming from somewhere deep in the house.

The screen door opens slowly and Mitch Cameron asks, “Can I help you?”

I knew it was risky coming to his home, but this time of year and this time of day, there’s nowhere else he would be. And nowhere else I wanted to meet with him.

“Can I have a minute of your time? My name is Wendy Wallace and I was the one who helped you get out of your coaching job in Florida,” I say.

He steps back as if I’ve physically assaulted him. A glance over his shoulder tells him we are alone, but he doesn’t want his family to see me so he steps out onto the front porch, the door closing behind him.

I never expected to be invited inside.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re referring to . . .”

I move to the seating area, sit in the middle of a small couch while he watches me, trying to figure out my game. We stare at each other for a tense few seconds, then he eases into the rocking chair next to me. “I’m really at a loss as to why you’re here, Miss . . .”

“Call me Wendy. And I’m sure you are.”

I let the awkwardness settle over us. I invite it in to be the third member of this conversation. I let it unravel Mitch like nothing else could.

He throws his hands up and his voice goes to a higher pitch than is normal. “Look, I’m not sure why you’re here or what you want but I was fired. And I was blindsided by it, so maybe you’ve got the wrong idea about something.”

I lean forward and drop my voice to a whisper. “I’m going to cut through the bullshit and get right to it. You hired my boss to get you out of your contract. You hated the athletic director, and those boosters were a pain in your ass. And after meeting some of them, I can see why. Leaving on your own meant walking away from a shit ton of money, so you hired someone to get you out of it. But you’re an honorable enough guy that you didn’t want to wreck the program in the process. Which means you’ve got some sense of decency in there somewhere.”

Mitch has leaned back in his rocker, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. He looks afraid to move.

“Since asking what I need or want makes you think you’re admitting to something, I’ll save you the trouble. I need some money. I came in and did my job. You walked away with a big paycheck and quickly got a new job offer. A job offer I’m assuming you knew was coming. I think it’s only fair you help me out now since I helped you out then.”

His jaw ticks and his eyes roam from the top of my head down my body.

“Worried I’m wearing a wire?” I stand up and throw my arms out to the side. “Feel free to frisk me.”

He is not amused. But before he says anything else, his phone beeps. Pulling it from his pocket, he looks at the screen a second before tapping against it. A few seconds later, he’s finished and shoving the device back in his pocket.

I sit again since it doesn’t seem he’s going to take me up on my offer to see if I’m wired. We watch each other while he rocks slowly back and forth. It’s almost like I can see his mind spinning.

“Who are you really?” he finally asks.

“I’m no one,” I answer.

Mitch Cameron is living up to his reputation of a coach with nerves of steel.

“Well, No One, you’ve made a mistake. I loved my job in Florida and would have stayed until retirement if they would have let me. I was fortunate enough to land on my feet here and now this is home. And I protect my home. It’s best that you leave. Now.”

I deflate on the couch and his lips tuck in, stopping him from saying anything else. I can see the pity in his eyes when he stares at me.

Getting up from the small couch, I move toward the porch steps. He remains in the rocker.

Just as I’m about to step off the porch, I turn back to him and let my frustration bubble to the surface. All of the anger and the fury of my boss turning on me after eight years. And I let it explode out of me. “You know what? You’re an asshole. I did you a huge favor and now I need some help and you know what? You’re a fucking dick. Fuck you and fuck all the way off, you fucker.”

His face turns red and he stands up so quickly the rocker almost turns over. I’m focused on his chair, but thankfully it rights itself at the last minute. It would not be good if everything fell out of his chair right now.

Mitch spits when he shouts at me. “You have thirty seconds to get off my property or I’m calling the cops! No one comes to my house and talks to me like that, little girl!” He’s not worried about drawing attention now.

I need to make sure he’s good and pissed, so I throw him the middle finger before stomping down his front walk. That does the trick. He moves away from the rocker and stops on the top step, his hands balled in fists. I’m on the sidewalk in front of his neighbor’s house when he finally looks around to see if anyone heard us.

I scream, “Screw you, Mitch!” for good measure then jog down the block.

My temper is back in check by the time I’m a couple of streets away. That was out of control. Reckless. I let myself go in a way I’ve never done before.

And it felt really good.

I check my watch. Ryan should be back in the parking lot of the hotel waiting for me. I don’t spare another glance behind me.

By the time I get to my car, Ryan is sitting in the driver’s seat with the car running. I jump into the passenger seat and say, “Go.” I’m trying hard to hide the smile that is stretched across my face.

His hand rests on the gear shift, his face turned toward me. His mouth quirks when he says, “That smile says you’ve been up to no good. Need me to peel outta here like a good getaway driver, or do you want to give me a general direction to go?”

“Leave Oxford and head north toward Tennessee.” He’s teasing me and I’m sort of falling for it.

“I got you some food,” he says, nodding to the back seat.

Reaching behind me, my hand closes on the white plastic to-go bag. Inside is a cheeseburger with everything except onions and an order of sweet potato fries.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

We pull away while I grab the burger, taking a huge bite. He’s quiet while I eat, and I’m finding it hard to swallow past the lump in my throat. It’s the food that got me. And that he knew I liked sweet potato fries more than regular ones. And that I hate onions unless they’re cooked. The thoughtfulness of it has been so rare in my world.

I eat quickly then push all the trash back in the bag it came in when I’m done.

“So, just Tennessee?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes.”

His jaw flexes and he seems to struggle with holding back what he wants to say. Finally, he just spits it out. “You made a point to mention how important my appointments on Thursday are. I have a business in Glenview, Texas. It’s different work than what I do in Lake Forbing. I acquire things in a questionable way then sell those things for a significant markup. It’s not something that is public knowledge at home and I plan on keeping it that way.”

I’m floored by this admission. “But you’re telling me,” I say.

He glances at me, studies my face, then turns his attention back to the road. “Figured I’d go first.”

Neither of us say anything else. We ride this way for miles, him staring ahead at the road, me watching the blurred scenery from the side window.

“I’ll tell you everything. But not right now. I have to get past Friday.” It comes out as a whisper, but I know he heard every word. Because after Friday, I will know everything I need to know.

“I can live with that,” he says. “But come Friday, we’re putting it all on the table.”

My phone dings, saving me from having to say anything back to him, and a wave of relief courses through me when I see the notification.

Ryan glances my way and notices the change. “Good news?”

Nodding, I say, “Yes. Just what I needed.”

I open my phone and pull up the app that allows me to see an exact replica of what’s happening on Mitch’s phone right now. And sure enough, he did exactly what I hoped he would do. He reached out to Mr. Smith to complain about me.

It was a risky move visiting Mitch. I didn’t think he would invite me inside, but you never know when you’re dealing with deep-seated Southern manners. But luckily, he wanted to ensure there was distance between me and his family, and we kept to the porch. And when he sat in the rocker, right on top of the device I planted there just moments before, it was only a matter of him opening the message Devon sent to his phone while I was sitting across from him and we were in.

Given that he is just now getting in touch with my former boss tells me he thought about it for a bit, which speaks for that level head of his. I’m sure he worried about the risk of making contact again, but my showing up on his doorstep was far more threatening, which is why I had to make a scene before leaving. I could see he felt bad for me at first, and that wasn’t going to cut it. I needed him pissed. And a little bit scared of me. Enough to take the risk of reaching out.

There are a lot of things we don’t know about Mr. Smith. Despite Devon’s impressive skills, he has been unable to discover his real name or where he lives. The other thing we have been unable to uncover is how clients contact him and how they communicate. After dealing with Devon all these years, I know it’s not something as simple as a fake email address. So this is where Mitch comes in. Of all the jobs I’ve done, this was the only one where I felt certain who the client was, based on that slip from Tyron Nichols. Mitch Cameron knew he was being fired in Florida a week before I approached that megabooster. And he knew to speak to Tyron away from the listening devices in his house when he told him he’d want him on his team no matter what school he was coaching. Only one way he would have known those things.

Mitch Cameron was the client.

Now he is deep in a message board created to celebrate the love of a seventies band named King Harvest. I’m guessing most of these messages are meant for my boss, while a few just really love the one hit this band had, “Dancing in the Moonlight.” The new message window pops up and Mitch starts typing.

Gridiron Boss: I just heard Dancing in the Moonlight for the first time today.

That’s it. This must be how they make initial contact with Mr. Smith.

“Decision time,” Ryan says. He nods at the upcoming signs. “Straight to Memphis or somewhere else?”

“Not Memphis. Head northeast,” I say, and he flicks the turn signal on. “We’re going to Nashville.”

He glances my way. “Not Atlanta?”

“Not yet.”

He nods. “I’m going to pull over for gas since that’s a pretty good stretch. Get some more snacks.”

At the next exit, Ryan fills up the tank then heads into the store.

I’m glued to my phone, waiting for a reply to come through to Mitch. And while Mr. Smith may be hesitant to answer Mitch’s message, I’m hoping the overwhelming curiosity about what Mitch wants, added to the high probability that he is tracking me and knows we were in Oxford, will get the better of him. I need him to react the way I expect or I’m dead in the water.

Now that I know where to look, I open my browser and find the message board so I can snoop around instead of just seeing what Mitch is looking at. Since Devon can also see Mitch’s screen, I’m sure he’s doing the same. There are a lot of posts that say: I just heard Dancing in the Moonlight for the first time today. I always knew I wasn’t the only one working for my boss, but by the sheer number of posts, he’s got a lot more going on than I originally thought. There are a few usernames that could possibly match up to jobs I’ve done in the past, but I can only see their initial post. I’m sure the conversations with Mr. Smith are moved to private messages.

It’s only another minute or so before I get a notification that Mitch has a response to his message.

Kingharvestmegafan: What can I help you with?

Gridiron Boss: a girl showed up at my house. Said she worked for you. Wendy something. Asked me for money! She was out of control. Told me to fuck myself when I told her to leave. Screamed it loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I paid you too much money for some crackpot to knock on my door!!

Kingharvestmegafan: My apologies for the unexpected visit. I assure you, she will be taken care of and you will not be bothered again.

“There you are,” I whisper. “Got you.”

“Wait here. I’ll get us a room,” I say, one foot already out of the door.

He cuts the ignition. “Are you sure? I can—”

“I’m sure. Wait here.” He’s been frustrated with me since we left Oxford because I have dodged every question he has asked.

A few minutes later I’m back in the car and give Ryan the room number. We park right in front of the door since I asked for a unit on the ground floor. While we could afford nicer accommodations, I prefer to be able to make a quick exit if the need arises.

We packed light so it doesn’t take long to get settled in.

“I’m hitting the shower,” Ryan says. “I’ll find us some food after I get out.”

As soon as I hear the water turn on, I pull out my phone and scroll Instagram until I find a comment giving me the meeting time for tomorrow. I comment on a different post letting Devon know I received his message.

When the bathroom door opens, Ryan exits in nothing but a towel.

I could look at him all day. His body is exactly my type—fit and trim but not overly muscular. Ryan must see the glint in my eye because instead of moving toward his bag, he crawls across the bed toward me. His mood has greatly improved.

And I give myself this moment. I push away the plans rolling around in my head. Hit pause on my timetable. Relish these few stolen moments where we can be normal.

I pull him close and his weight settles over me. My hands drift up to his hair, still damp from the shower.

“It’s been a helluva week,” he says, his lips only inches from mine.

“And it’s only Tuesday,” I answer. Then my expression turns serious. “Regretting coming on this road trip?”

“Not yet,” he says with a laugh.

Ryan kisses that spot on my neck that he knows I love, and I feel it down to my toes.

“What if I did it? What if I had something to do with Amy Holder’s death?” My whispered words hang in the air between us. This is self-sabotage at its finest.

He stills. Then his head lifts and his eyes meet mine. “That’s not a question I need the answer to.” Ryan leans closer, his lips landing softly on mine. It’s not long before we’re skin to skin, and I lose myself in this moment as his hands and mouth roam slowly down my body before working their way back up.

His hands grip me tighter, he holds me closer, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear, then he buries his face into that sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. Whispered words flow out of him, broken sentences that shouldn’t make sense but do.

I soak up every word as my nails dig into his back. Show him I feel the same way without having to say it.