Chapter 2

“Solid piece on the Kwikie Mart robberies.” Marcus Fallon stood near Brogan’s desk.

Brogan automatically hit the save button on his current work before turning his full attention to his boss. The seasoned editor and owner of the Northern Virginia Herald rarely complimented his reporters. “Thank you, sir.”

Despite Brogan’s fifteen years of experience, Fallon hadn’t treated Brogan any differently from his fresh-faced colleagues who populated newsrooms of small newspapers like the Herald. Nearly a year into his job as a general assignment reporter for the daily news outlet, Brogan still had the uncomfortable feeling he had to prove his integrity and journalistic chops with each piece he submitted. But if that’s what it took to redeem his career, he’d do it.

“It looks like there’s more to the story than the heroic efforts of a cleaning woman.” Fallon unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and popped it into his mouth.

“I agree. The timing of the robberies seemed too convenient to me.” Brogan paused to gauge the older man’s reaction to his statement. He wanted to pursue the angle of Mr. Patel’s son working each time the robberies happened, but if he pushed too hard, Fallon was just as likely to assign it to another reporter. If Brogan played his cards right, this story had the potential to springboard him back into the investigative work he craved.

Fallon didn’t speak for a moment, the clacking of computer keyboards and muted conversations of the three other reporters signaling a busy newsroom. The editor straightened. “Okay, why don’t you do a little digging into that and have a follow-up piece on my desk by three p.m. on Saturday.”

“Sure.” Brogan kept from showing the relief and delight coursing through his body. Three on Saturday meant he had a shot at the Sunday edition, the biggest print run of the week. Like most community newspapers, the Herald lived online except for the Wednesday and Sunday print editions.

“Keep me abreast of any developments and fill out a photographic request with Seth.” Fallon took a step away from Brogan’s desk then tossed over his shoulder, “And be sure he gets a photo of the soda-throwing cleaner.”

Brogan agreed. He’d certainly like to see Mel Harman again, and if the reason had more to do with her dark-blue eyes and hair as white blonde as the sands of a Caribbean beach, he wasn’t going to say so.

* * *

By Friday afternoon,Brogan had the basic outline of Veer Patel’s life, and it was much as he had suspected. According to some of his friends, the younger Patel frequently stopped by MGM National Harbor in Oxon Hill, Maryland, an easy distance from Fairfax. A source at the casino told him that Veer owed thousands of dollars to the casino, although Brogan hadn’t managed to nail down the exact amount.

Patel’s parents had no idea of their son’s gambling, telling Brogan about Veer’s veterinary medicine studies at the University of Maryland, along with his volunteer work at a local animal shelter. But a check with the registrar at the university revealed Veer had dropped out last semester, and his fellow volunteers at the animal shelter hadn’t seen him for months.

“Hey, Brogan.” Seth Whitman, the paper’s sole photographer, propped himself against the top of Brogan’s cubicle wall. “We on for stopping by the Kwikie Mart tonight?”

“Yeah, I’ll meet you there about one thirty a.m. Mr. Patel said Mel, the cleaner, arrives at one.” Brogan kept the fact that Veer would also be working that night to himself. He would, however, call the Fairfax City detective assigned to the case, just to check the status on catching the robbers—and to give him a gentle nudge in Veer’s direction. It usually paid to make detectives look good, and Brogan could use a few friends inside the local police department.

* * *

Melender openedthe hatchback to access her cleaning supplies, pausing to wipe the sweat from her forehead. August in Virginia was never pleasant. Even though the sun had long gone to bed, the temperature still hovered in the upper eighties, wrapping everything in a snug, heavy blanket of humidity. She wasn’t looking forward to buffing the floors at the Kwikie Mart in addition to her usual sweep and mop. Squeaky Clean’s motto was Never Let Dirt Win, and that meant rotating deep cleaning throughout the month for regular clients. With the small square footage of the store, buffing only added an extra half hour to her usual time, but the hot weather would make the task exhausting.

Carrying in her mop, bucket, broom and dustpan, and a carryall of various supplies, she called out a greeting to Veer Patel, who merely grunted before returning his attention to his phone. The twenty-one-year-old had become even more surly over the past month. The thought planted by that reporter of Veer being involved in the robberies hovered at the back of her mind.

She headed straight for the single-stall bathroom at the back. While the clerks cleaned it daily, she did a deep clean on Friday nights. Tonight, the small, windowless room reeked of body odor and something she didn’t want to identify. After propping open the door with the mop bucket, she snapped on her ventilated mask and long rubber gloves, then set to work. Once into the rhythm of the chore, her mind drifted to Tuesday’s online article about the convenience store robberies. There was her name, Mel Harman, sprinkled throughout the article. In fact, the piece seemed to be more about her thwarting the robber than about the previous two robberies.

Worrying about the publicity was “borrowing trouble without any intention of paying it back,” as her grandmother Sudie had always said. But Melender could only disappear for so long.

Thirty minutes later, she’d finished the bathroom and dusted the display shelves. On her way to tackle the front windows and entry door, she glanced at the wall clock above the door. 1:35. Good, she was a little ahead of schedule. Moving a spin rack of summer hats and sunglasses to the left of the door, she sprayed the floor-to-ceiling window then began to wipe down the inside glass using a long-handled squeegee. She’d made it to the far-left corner when the door’s bell chimed.

“Miss Harman?”

At the familiar voice, Melender stilled. She bit back a groan at the sight of Brogan Gilmore, the handsome reporter, along with a dark-haired younger man holding a camera. “Just a minute.” She squeegeed the dripping liquid off the window with quick fluid motions before turning to the two men who approached her. “Can I help you?”

Sudie would have taken her to task for the borderline rudeness in her tone, but Melender didn’t care. The sight of the camera only meant one thing—the pair had come to take her photo, something she couldn’t allow under any circumstances.

If Gilmore noticed her tone, nothing in his expression showed it. “I hope so,” he said. “This is Seth Whitman, the Herald’s photographer. We’re running a follow-up piece to the robbery story.”

It was even worse than she’d feared. Another story with her name and picture. Her heart rate kicked up, and she struggled to maintain a calm expression. She’d gotten soft during her eight months on the outside, allowing someone like this reporter to rattle her. But she liked her life, liked the quiet and the solitude. Liked the way she slipped like a ghost through it with no one really noticing her. After years of scrutiny, this little slice of anonymity was pure heaven.

“Thanks, but I only did what anyone else would have done. I don’t want my picture taken.” She moved around them to start on the right side of the windows.

She wasn’t surprised when the two men followed her, but she largely tuned out Brogan’s voice as he attempted to persuade her to agree to the photo. Instead, she concentrated on spraying her cleaning solution on the window, then using her squeegee to carefully remove the liquid along with the grime. If she ignored him, surely he’d give up and leave her alone. As she shifted the metal rack holding newspapers away from the second window, another thought hit her with the force of a tree being felled in the forest. They couldn’t take and publish her photo without her permission, could they?

The doorbell tinkled the arrival of someone else. Melender nearly sagged with relief at the distraction. Maybe Mr. Patel had come in after all.

“Did you think you could hide from me?”

Melender froze, her squeegee halfway down the glass. Slowly, she turned to see Ruby Harman Thompson. Her aunt glared at her so fiercely that Melender would have taken a step back if the newspaper rack hadn’t been digging into her hip.

“You little conniving…” The words Ruby uttered didn’t make Melender flinch, but the venom behind them did. “How dare you come back to this area as if nothing happened!”

Melender stopped listening as her father’s only sister continued to spew foul language like a broken sewer pipe. Ruby’s auburn hair had been expertly colored to maintain its natural color, while her expensive yoga pants and fitted top showed off her still-trim figure at fifty-six. Ruby had indeed done well for herself in the years since she’d shaken the dust of Maple Hollow from her bare feet. But a closer look showed the years Melender had been away hadn’t been kind. Faint lines bracketed her eyes and mouth, and Melender could see pain behind her aunt’s anger. It was the pain that kept Melender’s mouth shut. That her aunt had suffered, Melender had no doubt.

“Excuse me, ma’am? I’m Brogan Gilmore with the Northern Virginia Herald. What’s going on?”

Melender glanced at the reporter. The hungry look had returned to his eyes, one she’d seen all too often from those eager to feast on the pain of others.

Ruby turned to the reporter, the semblance of a smile crossing her red-painted lips. “You wrote the story about the robberies.” Ruby eyed him, tapping a red-tipped nail against her cheek as her smile broadened.

The words flowed like lava from her aunt’s lips and would consume Melender if she let them.

“I suppose you want to know why I’m harassing this—how did you put it in your story?—ah, yes, heroine.” Ruby cut her eyes to Melender, then back to Gilmore.

“I admit to being curious.” Gilmore took out his notebook and pen.

A prayer looped over and over in Melender’s head. Please, God. Help!

“You see,” Ruby’s voice sharpened as if she was honing a knife, “this person you called Mel Harman is really my niece, Melender Harman.”

“Your niece?” Gilmore’s forehead creased, as if he recognized her name but couldn’t immediately place it.

Ruby’s eyes glittered as she drove the knife home. “Yes, my niece. The one who killed my one-year-old son.”