Chapter 27

"What?" I ask, lowering down into the chair, shock washing through me. "Start from the beginning."

"You didn't know?" she says, sounding pleased as hell that she gets to be the one to fill me in on the hot gossip.

"I don't know anything, I've been—" fucking Declan for the past few days, "—busy." I've told her about the developments with Declan, but she probably doesn't realize just how immersed in him I've been.

Declan returns from inside. When he sees that I'm on the phone, he kisses my forehead and walks back into the house, giving me privacy.

"What happened?" I hiss.

"Well, I don't know everything, but apparently the burn book went live this morning. Of course, Agnes put out a statement saying it was a hoax, but then a bunch of people saw Doug being marched out of the building with a box of his things. Everyone's saying it's real, and he got fired for sucking at his job. It's all over the internet."

"What the actual hell?" I ask in disbelief.

I think again about that leather journal, sitting out on Agnes's desk.

About the photocopies tucked into my suitcase.

And I wish that I'd had the balls to do it myself.

Who did?

I can't believe it was actually Doug, even though I suspect he would have had access to it. Why rock the boat? He was Agnes's human pet—the one person who ever got praised by her in meetings. The mascot of Agnes Lewis. He'd have to be insane to leak that book.

Insane…

I hear a crunching sound, and when I glance around the side of the house, I see a car pulling into the driveway. It's nearly dark now, but there's enough light left for me to see the two people sitting in the front seat. There's a flash of pink.

I know someone who's bold and more than a little crazy…

I know someone who might hold a grudge against Agnes and Doug, on my behalf.

Could my sister have done this?

My heart starts beating faster; my pulse elevates. I grab my underwear from the side table and tug them on. Then I start trying to put on my bra one-handed and nearly fall.

"Lainey, I have a lot of stuff I need to tell you—a lot—but right now I need to go."

"What?" she practically shrieks. "Wait until you hear what Agnes said about Martha Stewart. And I saw a photo of Doug looking sad! I'm going to text it to you. Maybe we can blow it up and put it on your wall."

"Gross. I don't want a photo of him on my wall."

"What about the bathroom? Ew. No. As I'm saying that, I realize it's gross."

I hold back an almost hysterical laugh. "Look, I'll call you back as soon as I can. I just…everything's all right, but I need to go."

"Okay, you're being extremely mysterious," she says slowly, giving me the chance to fill her in. But I can't. Not until I talk to Nicole. So I let the silence linger until she sighs and says, "I also need to tell you about quitting. Call me soon."

"I will."

My phone buzzes a second later with an image of Doug holding a cardboard box that's so full it looks on the verge of collapsing. His face is almost comically sad, his mouth drawn down like a caricature. I don't have it in me to feel bad for him. Or Agnes. She used me. She took advantage of my willingness to please and my foolish dream.

I finish putting on my bra, slip on my shoes, and then pause at the back door. Do I knock? It feels weirdly formal considering what Declan just did to me out here, but I don't want to barge into his space without him. I know he values his privacy. I glance inside, but there's no sign of him.

There's a murmuring sound of muted conversation, though, so I enter through the sliding glass door. It opens into a little dining area, attached to the living room and kitchen through open doorways that are too small for me to see more than a rectangle of each space. Rocket pads over to me from the entrance to the kitchen, wagging his tail, so I stoop to pet his head.

"What happened?" Declan says in an undertone. There's a pause, then, "Fuck. Fuck."

I take a step toward the front door, feeling awkward suddenly. Did he forget I was out there? Should I leave from the back?

But Rocket whimpers and pads at my leg, and I hear Declan say, "I've gotta go. I'll call you back."

He steps out of the living room, his whole body humming with agitation. It hits me that he's been relaxed all weekend, his guard down. But it's back full force, and because of that, so is mine—as if we were in a bubble and it just burst.

"I'm sorry, Claire. I've got to leave town for a couple of days."

"A plant emergency?" I ask, giving him an out, even though we both know it must be a personal matter, related to that part of his life that's cast in perma-shadow. The part that I'm not allowed to know about. There's a tugging feeling in my chest—a want that hasn't been filled. We've danced around his past for weeks, small bits of information leaking through but nothing major. This, I sense, is major.

"Yeah," he says wrapping a big hand around my waist. "An oak caught Dutch elm disease."

"Silly oak. Didn't it realize it was the wrong species?"

"Trees aren't known for their intelligence," he jokes. Neither of us are smiling. He pulls me to him, close enough that I can feel his heart beating fast. "This last week has been…well, you'd give Sandra Dee a run for her money. You're fucking perfect."

"I'm not perfect," I say, feeling my cheeks burn. "No one's perfect."

"That's not how I meant it," he says, his tone intent. "I told you I'm not good with words. What I meant is that you're perfect the way you are. There's nothing about you that should be changed." His lips twitch. "No leather jacket. No final makeover montage. I like you exactly the way you are, Claire Rainey."

My mouth drops open to object. "But I'm too agreeable. I go along with everything."

"I've seen no evidence of that," he says with a partial smile. And I realize he's right—I've never really been like that, with him. Maybe because right after I met him, I saw the vulnerability he usually keeps so close to his chest. We saw each other on that plane, everything else stripped away.

I let a hand lift to his beard, to the angles of his face. "I'll bet you say that to all your friends with benefits."

He scratches his head, looking conflicted, then says, "That's not how I see you. But I can't—"

"You still think you shouldn't get close to anyone, and you won't tell me why," I say sadly, my voice thick.

He swallows. "I want to, but I can't yet. Not until I talk to my brother and sister. It doesn't only concern me."

I'd gathered as much from what little he's said. And while I want to push him, I don't. His secret is big, or at least he thinks it is, and we've only known each other for a couple of weeks, even though it feels much longer. So it makes sense that he's not ready to tell me everything. I have to admit I'm not ready to show all of my cards either. Because if he finds out Nicole and Damien are private investigators, he'll worry that Nicole will take a back-hoe to all of his secrets. Frankly, it might be a legitimate concern, especially if she just went rogue and took care of Agnes and Doug on my behalf.

If he knew about them, he'd push me away. Maybe he'd even blow town altogether, a thought that chokes me. I've seen his paradise down the hill and the joy he takes in his work, and I hate the thought of him being torn away from the existence he's carved out for himself because of me, my illegitimate father, and my sister.

Still, there's something I do need to tell him.

"Agnes," I say, slightly breathless. "She's finished." I explain what happened with the burn book and Doug, plus my suspicion that my sister was behind it, and he does me the courtesy of not acting impatient, even though he's obviously worried about whatever he was told on that phone call.

"They deserved it," he says, unwavering. He tucks hair behind my ear, then kisses just beneath the lobe. "They deserve worse, honestly. But why do you think Nicole did it?"

He doesn't really get it…

He hasn't been left notes adhered to tables with knives, or experienced the subversion of Nicole. Or at least he doesn't know that he has.

"She's been away from the house all week, and she knew about the burn book," I settle for saying. "She'd give Machiavelli a run for his money. I really think it was her."

He considers this for a moment and then nods. "I like her more if it was. You deserve to have someone to stand up for you, to stand by your side. I wish I'd been the one to do it."

It goes without saying that he thinks he can't be that person for me, but I'm glad he at least wants to be. That's something, right?

I lift up on my toes and kiss him, and he kisses me back hard, his hand wrapping into my hair as if it can't help itself, and I get the sense that he wants to recapture what we lost.

"I've got to go," he says when he pulls away. "But it shouldn't be for more than a couple of days."

Worry wraps around me in an uncomfortable squeeze. What if he doesn't come back? But he's in a hurry, obviously, and so am I, so I kiss him one more time and then hustle out of the door, Rocket giving me a parting lick on my heel.

My head feels buzzy and weird, because of Declan, and Agnes, and maybe a little bit because of the pot. But I go over to Dick's house and stride inside with purpose pounding through me. I will find out what Nicole did. I will find out why.

I hear noise in the kitchen, and when I walk in, Damien and Nicole are sitting at the table having a drink. Nicole seems relieved to see me. "Oh good, you're okay. The glasses are certainly something…and you look like you've been getting some very thorough stick shift lessons this weekend."

I lift my fingers to my hair self-consciously, then feel pissed at myself for giving in to the impulse.

Damien rises and kisses the top of Nicole's head. "I'm going to leave so you two can have a private discussion."

He goes, taking his drink with him, and winks at me on his way out. Both of them are in high spirits. But is it because they've been reunited after a few days apart or because they toppled a lifestyle goddess?

I sink into the chair Damien just left, and Nicole pours me some bourbon. I ignore it, my gaze on her.

"Were you in New York City?"

Her smile widens, showing teeth, like she's a vampire. "Ding, ding, ding."

"Damien told you about the burn book. You brought down Agnes, and you made it look like Doug's fault. Why?"

She looks a little puzzled by the question, and for a moment I think I got it wrong. For a moment, I'm…disappointed. I'm surprised by the realization that I want it to have been her—and it takes me a beat for another thought to follow in the wake of that one. I want it to be her, because if it was her, she did it for me. If it was her, then I played a hand in the downfall of the woman who made my life hell for years—and the man who mistreated me.

"That's a stupid question," she says finally. "So I'm going to give you a stupid answer. Will you believe me if I say I did it because of the Chanel No. 5?"

"Maybe," I say, my pulse picking up again. Because this sounds an awful lot like a confession.

She gives her head a small shake, smiling slightly, her hair giving her the look of an impish fairy. "It's simple, Claire, and it's for the best if you understand. You're my sister. If someone fucks with you, they fuck with me. And no one fucks with me. After our talk the other night, I knew Agnes and Doug were owed a lesson, and there's nothing I enjoy more than playing teacher."

It hits me like the Jeep I can finally drive that two people have made massive gestures for me this week—Declan, learning how to drive stick shift for me, and Nicole, taking down my ex-boss. It's hard to wrap my head around it, even though my life and my very personality have been shaped by a much larger act of kindness—by my father's decision to raise a baby who wasn't his. I struggle to believe I deserve it, but I know Nicole's not a person who'd take kindly to that kind of protestation.

"I can't believe you did that for me," I say instead. "I'm…I'm speechless."

"You're talking an awful lot for someone who's speechless."

"I'm metaphorically speechless," I say, grabbing the glass of bourbon and taking a long, calming sip. "I…I saw the photo of Doug walking off with a box of his stuff."

Her teeth gleam like an apex predator's. "I know, I'd like to blow it up and hang it on the wall."

I laugh. "That's exactly what Lainey said, but I'd prefer not to have to look at him every day. How'd you do it?"

Her approving look suggests this is a question she was waiting for me to ask. "The photocopies in your suitcase helped."

My mouth puckers. "You have my suitcase?" Without it, I have a grand total of four outfits I've been rotating, some Nicole's, some purchased from a very cheap secondhand store downtown. "How long have you had it?"

"Oh, don't get your titties in a twist," she says, as if it's no big deal to steal someone's baggage and go through it. "You might have made a few phone calls, but at the end of the day, you were content to let it stay lost forever. I'm never content to let anything go. So I drove up to Charlotte after taking care of some other business last week, and I made enough of a stink that someone listened. Lo and behold, they found your bag, same as they would have done if you'd been more of a squeaky wheel, and they gave it to me."

"Why would they give it to you?" I ask, feeling my cheeks heat, my ire rise. I don't know who I'm more pissed at—her, the TSA, or myself.

"Because I had the claim tag, obviously. You really need to keep better track of your things. I was going to give it to you as a surprise the night we had the bonfire, but we got distracted, and then Damien told me about the burn book, and it gave me an idea. I like to follow through on my ideas before anyone can talk me out of them."

"It's fucked up that you went through my things," I say.

"Probably," she admits, watching me, "but I find it interesting that you object to that, and not to me messing with Doug and Agnes."

"I'd like to have my bag back."

"It's already in your room."

"So I guess you released the pages to the press. But why would that require you to fly to New York?"

She clucks her tongue. "They would never have dared to press publish if I'd been that direct. I broke into your old office and sent a scan of the pages from Doug's computer. In case that wasn't enough to truly fuck him and Agnes over, I found the original book and had it couriered to the offices of Gabber Media. Traceable to him, of course. Do you think he cried?" She asks it conversationally, as if we're discussing the weather.

Gabber Media is infamous for their takedowns of poorly behaving public figures, so she definitely did her research.

"You could have gotten caught," I say, impressed and a little horrified. "Arrested."

"Oh, Claire," she says, her tone almost pitying. "If you're so scared of everything, you're never really going to live. You'll spend the rest of your life as an indentured servant to someone who's braver than you."

I have that stabbed-by-a-butter-knife feeling again. Except maybe I've been the one doing the stabbing all along. I take off the glasses and rub my eyes. "I don't know whether to thank you or tell you to go fuck yourself."

She laughs. "I get that a lot." She plays with her glass of bourbon, watching me, then says. "I've got something else to tell you. I'm not sure how you're going to take it, since things have obviously progressed with our neighbor." She lifts a shoulder. "Sorry about that. I shouldn't have encouraged you, but I only found out some of this shit today. It seemed like it would be better to discuss it in person."

I lift my fingers self-consciously to my hair again, feeling the mess of it. "What are you talking about?" But a part of me already knows. She poked into Declan's business, as surely as she's always poking into mine—and she found something.

"Well, his name isn't Declan James, big surprise. I'd already figured that part out. But he left his burner phone over here last weekend, and I duplicated it. It was a bitch to figure out the password, but I broke through eventually. Found out some interesting information about our buddy."

My heart feels like it's stalled in my chest. "You're certainly good at invading people's privacy."

"His real name is Declan O'Malley, and his uncle died about two years ago. Get this, Claire…" She taps the table. "Rory O'Malley took a header down a flight of stairs."

A chill runs down my back. "You're not saying…"

She waves a hand. "I'm not saying anything other than that it's a mighty coincidence, don't you think? And get this…Declan and his brother and sister moved away after their uncle died. All of them. And after they moved, they vanished." She kisses her fingers and then spreads them, lifting them into the air.

I think about everything Declan's said to me.

That he's hiding and can't get close to anyone.

That I'll judge him if I find out what he's done.

That he's bad and has done bad things.

I take a big slug of the bourbon.

"I haven't even gotten to the good part," she says, her eyes shining.

"There's a good part?" I mumble.

"The uncle was this big kingpin. Organized crime. Drugs. I mean, fuck, it fits, right? We already know Declan's been growing weed in his greenhouse. So what about this for a theory—our dad finds out that Declan offed his uncle and confronts him, so Declan says, hey, what worked for one guy will work for another and, kaput. Dick goes for a spin down the stairs."

"I don't believe he'd do something like that," I say, mostly certain of it. Because it doesn't fit the man I've come to know. Because despite what he's said to me, more than once, I see goodness in him. Still, my mouth's dry; my stomach's a drum.

"You never know what someone's capable of," Nicole says, punctuating the statement with a poke to the air. "But I can't make sense of why he'd stick around after offing Dick. Sure, everyone thinks it's an accident or suicide, but why take the risk? And don't even get me started on how messed up it would be for him to fuck around with you if he killed your father. So what I'm saying is that he's either innocent, or he's a real psychopath. Either way, you should probably stay away from him until we're sure. I would have told Damien not to let you spend time with him today, but I didn't realize you were planning to. And I didn't think it would be a good idea for me to go over there and extract you."

I take another slug of the bourbon, but it doesn't give me the usual wash of heat. I feel like I'm made of ice and wood. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I don't want any of this to be true, but Declan's made no secret of the fact that he's running from something, and he flinched from talk about organized crime earlier today…

In my head, I can hear him telling me that he's the kind of man my father has always warned me away from. He's right. My father was worried about me dating my high school boyfriend because he had a job at the bowling alley. Apparently, bowling alleys are dens of iniquity in my dad's imagination, so I can only imagine what he'd think about all of this…

"Nicole," I say, my voice choked. "I…I don't want it to be him. I really, really like him."

I'm falling in love with him.

I expect her to make some careless quip about my shitty taste in men, but instead she fills my glass to the brim. "I like him too," she says. "I thought he would be good for you. I still do…if he's not a murderer. But remember that we don't know shit yet. He's back on the suspect list, but he's not the only suspect."

"Should I talk to him? Should I ask—"

She's already shaking her head. "What's he going to do if you ask about his uncle and he did knock Dick down the stairs to keep him quiet? He'd run. Or if he's really a psycho, he'd send you down the steps too. No. Avoid him. Tell him you're busy with family shit, and you'll have the peace of mind of knowing it's mostly true. In the meantime, maybe I'll dig up enough to clear his name. Speaking of suspects, fill me in on Mrs. Rosings. Did you get into the old lady's box?"

"No," I say with a sigh, debating whether to tell her that Declan's going to be out of town for a couple of days. I decide not to. If I tell her, she'll want to dig into that, too, and it was obvious he wanted privacy. She might do it anyway, once she notices his car is missing, but I'm not going to offer up the information. Instead, I tell her about Mrs. Rosings and the black widow stuff.

"Oh, shit," she says, sounding delighted. "I knew I liked her. She has this certain je ne sais fuck about her."

"Do you listen to half the things you say?"

"I don't make a habit of it, no. Well, obviously you need to check out her house and get more info. That's your assignment for the rest of this week."

"And you'll be looking into Declan?" I ask softly, feeling like a traitor for saying it, even though everything she's said about him makes sense. Even though a reasonable woman would doubt him, and herself. But I'm still reeling, and I know how much he'd hate for someone to go digging into his metaphorical backyard…

But is it because he knows they'd find a body there?

"I will be," she says, lifting her glass.

I try to lift mine and splash my hand.

"You and your murderous boyfriend really have a thing for wasting my bourbon."

"I kind of hate you right now."

"Drink up, you'll feel better."

So I drink it down. But I don't feel any better. My mind is full of worries now, spinning around each other and forming new worries.

"Who else are you looking into?" I say after a moment. "Who else did Dick piss off?"

She kicks back in her chair, leaning it on the two back legs. "I've talked to a couple of contractors he flaked on. Two women he was seeing at the same time. Another woman whose husband left her because she had an affair with Dick. But honestly, I'm guessing it's impossible for us to find everyone he ever pissed off." She angles her head and lifts her glass. "I might have resented the salty bastard, but he did know how to have a good time."

"Yeah, no kidding," I mumble.

These past two weeks, I've been having a good time. Like maybe that part of my bio father rubbed off on me just by being here in this place. But I don't know what I'm going to do if it turns out…

He didn't do it. He wouldn't have.

Nicole would probably tell me I'm being na?ve, a Pollyanna, but I refuse to believe Declan had anything to do with Dick's death. His uncle, though…

Maybe he did have something to do with that.

I try to shake off the thought and focus on my conversation with Nicole, but I feel Declan's hands ghosting over me, his whisper in my ear.

"What about the Treasure Club people?" I ask. "Do you think they could have done it to try to get the house?"

She laughs with feeling. "You think a bunch of strippers banded together, force-fed him drugs, and tripped him down the steps? You know, I'll bet that's how the bastard would have liked to go out."

"Probably," I agree, because it fits the Dick I've gotten to know. It's a strange thought, but in some ways I have gotten to know him.

"But I don't think so. No one's given us a hard time about being here or tried to get us to leave. I don't think they're after our shitty house. If someone did this, I'm guessing it was personal…or because Dick knew something he shouldn't."

"If?"

She shrugs. "There's still the chance it was an accident."

"I hope it was an accident," I say with feeling.

She shrugs again.

"Seriously? You want it to have been murder?"

"No," she says, laughing. "Dick might not have been much of a father, or a person, but he didn't deserve to be murdered. But if it was an accident, we'll have a harder time proving he wasn't responsible for his own death."

"Oh." I trace a finger around the rim of my glass. "Damien mentioned that the two of you don't really need the house…or the money."

"No," she agrees. "His grandmother died a few years back and left us a lot of money. But I want it for you. I'm going to give you my half of the house."

Here she is again, acting like I matter. A few weeks ago, she didn't know I existed, and I didn't know she existed. Dick might not have done much for us, but he did bring us together. It makes me think of that note…

"Thank you," I say, meaning it. "Thank you."

"Don't get all mushy on me." But she's smiling a little.

"Nicole, did Dick write a note to you? He wrote one to me."

She studies me for a second. "Where'd you find yours?"

It's not an answer, but I hear an answer buried within it. "In the back of that photo album."

"Oh shit," she says, straightening out her chair. "He really should have been more careful with his things. What'd it say?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

She shakes her head. "Not yet."

"It wasn't…"

"No, it wasn't a suicide note."

I'm disappointed that she won't let me see it, but I don't press her. "Okay. Can I…can I see your house sometime?"

"Why?" she asks, her expression amused. "This place not doing it for you?"

"No. I…I think I'd like to get to know you a little more."

She winks at me, her expression pleased. "I knew I'd grow on you."