Chapter 18

Mac sat in Stephanie's family room, holding baby Jessica, staring at her little pink lips and tiny soft lashes. She'd never been one who felt the tug of maternal need, but Jessica was just so perfect. "It kills me how cute she is," Mac said with feeling.

Her stepsister smiled. "You haven't told me what happened to you. You look like you've been in a bar fight. What?" she added, when Mac started laughing.

She lifted a hand to her forehead. The knot was stubbornly persistent and though Mac had tried to cover up the worst of the bruising that ran down her temple with makeup, she'd clearly been only partially successful. "I was actually in a car accident," she explained, relating a truncated version of events.

"Oh, my God." Stephanie was horrified. "And they didn't stop? Did you go to the police? That's hit-and-run."

"I'm trying not to involve them. Maybe the driver didn't mean to hit me."

Stephanie narrowed her eyes. "You don't believe that. I can tell."

"Doesn't matter. I just want to figure it out on my own."

"You're scaring me a little. Is Jesse helping you?"

Stephanie felt that Mac and Taft should be together and to that end, she called him by his first name and felt Mac should, too. Maybe she should, but that would add an awkward intimacy between them after years of their current status quo that she didn't think she wanted.

Mac left Stephanie's and started to drive to her mother's, then thought better of it. She didn't want another go-round about her looks.

Am I that bad?

She chanced a peek in the rearview mirror. She looked okay . . . sort of . . . as long as you didn't count the somewhat swollen and purple lid above her right eye that she'd covered with brown eye shadow. Well, maybe there was a little purple peeking through. She carefully touched the knot on her forehead.

"Ouch." Tender.

Sighing, she set her jaw. No more fooling around. She wanted to know how Ethan, and especially Ingrid, had ingested the fentanyl that had killed them. She wanted to know if the person driving the blue Accord had targeted her because of her digging into their deaths. Could it possibly be because of her search for Mia Beckwith? She couldn't see why that would spark someone enough to try to kill her. Was it something else entirely? Were there toes she'd stepped on that she didn't even know about?

She was glad she was going to Kristl's tonight to meet with The Sorority. She had a lot of questions. Might as well get them all in one place, maybe even Mia, if she arrived in time. In any case, Mac was sick of being half laid up and lost in what-ifs. She wanted answers.

* * *

Taft sat at a table at a diner near Cooper Haynes's home. Haynes was leaving for a late lunch, though Taft had eaten and just wanted to exchange some information. Haynes was home today. Something about taking his wife for a doctor's visit after this upcoming meeting.

Before long Taft saw the detective striding up the street outside the restaurant's front windows. He entered, spied Taft seated at a booth, and slid in across from him. The look on his face was tense.

"Your wife okay?" Taft asked.

"Yep. That's not the problem." He eyed Taft's coffee in its thick white diner mug and swivelled in his seat, looking for the waitress.

"What is the problem?"

The waitress lifted her coffee carafe in recognition that she'd seen him and went to get an empty mug from the stack behind the counter.

"Art Stanhope has lodged an official complaint that we leaked the information about the actual cause of his son's and daughter's deaths. The chief's in the hot seat and I put him there." Taft grimaced, but Haynes shrugged and went on, "No one's fault but my own. I made the choice to act on Laughlin's request. The truth shouldn't be covered up."

"Mangella always accused me of being a boy scout. I pass that mantle to you."

Haynes's smile was tight. "Thanks to Art Stanhope, the fentanyl trail is a decade old."

Mac's warning not to get Cooper Haynes fired swept through Taft's mind. "Watch your back on Stanhope. Only know the man by reputation, which is that he's humorless and vindictive."

"That's what I've heard, too."

Taft thought of telling Haynes about the blue Accord. He'd promised Mackenzie he wouldn't say anything to Haynes but wondered if he was making the same mistake Art Stanhope had made ten years earlier.

"So, you've got something on the Tim Knowles shooting?" Haynes said and Taft launched into the Kristl Cuddahy/Dale Kingman/Tim Knowles connection and his and Mac's feeling that it was a set of unfortunate events that had snowballed into a huge tragedy. He finished with, "You'll hear how Karl Bradley and I got in a fight, if you haven't already."

Haynes looked down at his swollen left hand. "Fifth metacarpal?"

"You know it."

"Bradley is not well liked."

"No one jumped in to help him although Laughlin hit him with a beer bottle."

"Laughlin?" For the first time since they'd sat down Taft felt like he'd gotten Haynes's full attention.

"He launched at me and we went down and she grabbed the bottle and cracked him over the head. Gave me a chance to get the upper hand. It was all over pretty fast."

"Not a word's hit the department yet." There was a smile on his face.

"Maybe it won't. Like you said, he's not well liked."

"Tell Laughlin to take care."

They wrapped up and left the diner together. Taft checked the time. He had a meeting with a potential client in North Portland and should have just enough time to make it back to see Prudence by four p.m. when they'd scheduled their meeting.

His cell buzzed and he saw it was his neighbor, Tommy Carnahan, and he suddenly remembered Tommy had asked him to walk and feed the pugs because he was already on another trip to Vegas.

* * *

Mac's cell rang as she was pulling into her apartment parking lot. By habit now she checked the area for the blue Accord or really any vehicle that seemed to be occupied by someone who was just waiting around. She'd kept an eye on her rearview on her trip to Stephanie's and then to the sandwich shop not far from Steph's house where she picked up a BLT.

"Hi," she said to Taft.

"I have a request," he said. "I've got some appointments, but Tommy is heading to Vegas today and I said I'd take out the pugs this afternoon. Can I ask you to—"

"Yes."

"—take over for me? Okay. Great. You're feeling okay?"

"I'm on it."

"The key to Tommy's place is in the kitchen junk drawer on the dog key chain."

"I know. I've got this."

"The ankle's okay?"

"Yep. Lots better."

Like Taft, Mac almost felt like she was a part-time owner of Blackie and Plaid. More than a few times she'd hugged the dogs close in a need to express pent-up emotion she didn't feel like sharing with anyone else.

"Tommy fed them before he left so don't let them fool you into giving them more than they deserve."

"I won't." She smiled. The pugs were literal chowhounds. Discriminating, they were not. "You going to Prudence's?"

"After my appointment. I won't let her kill me."

"Good plan."

She clicked off a few moments later and headed into her apartment. It was a complete waste of energy and time to spend even one more minute with Prudence Mangella, no matter how amenable the woman had suddenly decided to be, in Mac's biased opinion. Maybe it was jealousy, but she didn't trust the woman at all. Prudence's husband was dead under questionable circumstances, and though Taft suspected there was more to Mitch Mangella's fall from the roof than had been reported, he seemed way too cavalier about his own safety.

Checking the time, she saw she had a couple hours before she needed to take out the pugs. She thought over Mia's tortured comments about the fentanyl and Leigh's pique over Mac's delay in revealing when she'd gotten Mia's number. Mac had second-guessed herself over discussing the fentanyl with Leigh and now wondered if she should have brought it up. Mia had tacitly explained the reason she'd dropped out of sight was because she couldn't face the possibility that Ethan and Ingrid had died of a drug overdose and that her brother could have some responsibility for their death.

Did Leigh know? Did The Sorority know?

Mac picked up her cell and called Leigh. She expected to get her voice mail again. It was hell not being able to get through to her, but then Leigh answered in a soft hiss, "What?"

"Did you know Mia suspected fentanyl killed Ethan and Ingrid?"

"Uh . . . y . . . yeah. I'm at work. I can't talk."

"You did know."

"She told me and Erin a while ago. I gotta go." She abruptly clicked off.

Huh.

"Woulda been nice to know," Mac muttered. At least Leigh had answered. Still, she could have been a little more forthcoming rather than force Mac to pull the information out of her. But then, of course, Leigh had only wanted her to find Mia, not honor Gavin's request to look into Ethan's accident.

She told me and Erin a while ago . . .

So, Erin knew, too?

Mac scrolled through the contacts on her phone. She'd tried calling Erin a few times, had left several messages, but like Natalie, Erin hadn't responded. Now, she clicked on Erin's number and waited, but once again, the message went to voice mail.

"Hi, it's Mackenzie Laughlin. Just talked to Leigh and she said you and she learned the real cause of Ethan and Ingrid Stanhopes' deaths from Mia."

That oughta get an answer.

Grabbing the keys to the rental car, she then headed outside and down the stairs. Once again she eyed the parking lot closely. She didn't really expect to see a blue Accord with maybe a broken headlight cruising the lot, but she couldn't afford not to be vigilant.

She drove to Taft's condo, still getting used to the Focus, flipping on the lights as it was dark and threatening more rain.

Pulling into his lot, she was planning to park in her usual spot, but movement caught her eye outside Taft's condo, so instead she chose a visitor's slot in front of the manager's unit at the far end of the row from Taft's. Was it Tommy? Had he not left yet?

She'd pulled in between two vehicles, so it was hard to see. She wondered if she was overreacting, but she pushed the button to lay her seat back, her nape against the headrest, and slid her eyes to the left, looking through the windows of the vehicle next to her while trying to appear like she was just waiting in the car for someone.

The figure she'd seen was suddenly hurrying across the lot, tugging her black coat around her and belting it tight.

"Holy shit," she whispered.

Anna DeMarcos.

What was she doing here? Where was she going?

Carefully, Mac backed the Focus out of the spot and turned it around. Her headlights just caught Anna crossing a brief swath of field grass that had sprouted between Taft's condominium lot and the apartment complex on the other side.

So, not parked in Taft's lot.

What the hell was she up to?

Mac turned the car around, nosing carefully to the entrance of Taft's parking lot and pausing at the main road. There was a short row of emerald arborvitae that bordered the entrance and gave her some cover. It took a few minutes but then a black Mercedes flashed out of the apartment complex and turned right, and Mac edged out behind it. The Mercedes moved smoothly forward, its sleek body washed by a streetlight.

The pugs would have to wait, Mac thought with a jolt of conscience. She'd get back to them as soon as possible, but she wanted to know where Anna was going. She was glad to be in an unrecognizable rental just in case Anna knew what she drove.

It didn't take long before she realized Anna was heading toward the Mangella house. Did she know Prudence was meeting with Taft?

What were you doing at his place, Anna?

"Oh . . . hell." Taft's Rubicon was parked right in front.

She watched Anna drive around the thick, laurel hedge on the side of the house that accessed the four-car garage. As Mac drove by, she watched in her rearview as one of the garage doors slid upward and the light turned on to admit her. It appeared Anna had her own garage door opener.

Mac picked up her cell and called Taft's . . . and it went straight to voice mail.

She swore a blue streak. He always turned off the ringer when he was in a meeting.

Should she burst in, guns blazing, so to speak? Was she being crazy? She texted him: Anna was just at your place.

Should she wait outside Mangella's?

What. The. Hell.

She pulled over to the side and hung around for ten minutes, her fingernails forming half moons in her palms.

Then Taft texted her: She didn't know I was meeting Prudence.

What did that mean? She was looking for you? Mac asked.

After a while: Yes.

Okay . . . he clearly wasn't alarmed by Anna's appearance at his complex so maybe she shouldn't be, either. Still . . . it felt . . .

"Evil."

She heard herself and shook her head. She wasn't known for flights of fancy, but geez Louise.

She circled back to Taft's condo and this time took her usual parking spot. It was just starting to get dark, a deeper gray than the cloud cover, the rain a fine mist. She had a key to Taft's condo and let herself inside, turning on the overhead light and inhaling deeply. She was used to his scent, the familiar musky spiciness that was uniquely him, but there was something else in the air. Perfume. Shit. Anna DeMarcos had been inside!

How?

Did she have a key? Taft had certainly handed over his key to Mac without much fanfare, but then they worked together. Could he have done the same with Mitch Mangella? And Prudence had it, and then gave it to Anna? That made no sense at all. She was just making up stories, trying to explain the unexplainable.

She checked the front door. It was solid core with a Mortise lock, automatically clicking into place after the last person who left. Either she had a key or she didn't enter that way.

Mac prowled around the apartment, checking the windows in the kitchen, the bathroom, and both bedrooms, her eyes cataloguing Taft's rooms and possessions. She examined his wall safe, which she did not have the combination to, but it appeared untouched as well.

She strode back into the living room. The large living-room window that looked onto the parking lot had smaller panes on either side that could slide open. She examined both of the screenless windows, which appeared shut, though the one closest to the door gave a little. She pulled with her fingernails against the metal frame and the window slid back, leaving a space wide enough for a small woman to enter.

And was that a smudged palm print on the pane?

"You sneaky . . ." Mac ground her teeth together.

She would bet money Anna DeMarcos let herself in that window and walked out the front door.

Quickly she went into Taft's kitchen, throwing open his junk drawer where she not only found the key to Tommy's condo but a flashlight as well. She grabbed it up and let herself back outside. The ragged bushes beneath his front window spilled over onto the sidewalk. No mud. No footprints. But was that a tiny bit of black thread caught in one of the twigs?

Oh, man. Mac left the thread in place and texted Taft again: She was inside your unit.

She waited tensely for an answer.

Finally it came: She says she left me a note in my bedroom.

So, he called her on it? And she had an answer?

And there was a note?

She stalked back into his bedroom and glanced around. She'd been in here looking at the windows, but hadn't looked closely at his belongings. Though she'd stayed at Taft's place during her earlier physical recovery, it felt way too intimate to wander around and seriously examine his belongings when he wasn't here.

Wait . . . was his pillow disturbed?

Heart in her throat, she yanked back the pillow and saw the white, hand-printed card beneath.

Anytime, anyplace. A.

Mackenzie saw red. Was that a threat, an invitation, or both ?

She couldn't tell whether she was feeling rage or jealousy or even if there was a clear and definite threat. In any case, she forced her emotions into a box. It was hell not knowing.

Pushing it all aside with an effort, she left his apartment, stalked next door, collected the pugs, and took them out for a brisk walk.

* * *

Mia stood at the Budget Car Rental counter on the ground floor of the parking garage at Portland Airport. She kept feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise and had whipped around numerous times but only saw other people standing in line, waiting for cars.

She had her go-bag over her arm, a rucksack with a strap that she held in a death grip. She hesitated on putting down the credit card for her car, but they wouldn't rent her the vehicle without it. Ben will find me. But he would know she would likely go home first anyway. She needed to get right with her parents, so she was taking the chance.

She knew he was going to be following her. He was probably furious, so she needed to be quick . . . and then she wasn't sure where she would go next, but she wasn't going back to him. She recognized she might need help and she'd called members of The Sorority, who had mentioned the meeting tonight. She yearned to go, but she had to keep moving, had to put things right.

Her phone rang almost as soon as she got behind the wheel of the gray Nissan Sentra, pulling out of the lot and aiming south toward River Glen. She glanced at the screen with trepidation, expecting another call from Ben, but then frowned when she saw the caller.

"Hi, I'm in River Glen, but I'm heading straight to my parents," she said by way of answering." She listened for a moment, then said, "I really wish I could stop for coffee, but I just can't. I—" She paused again. Truthfully, she half wanted to be talked out of facing Mom and Dad . . . maybe just a few minutes' reprieve before she had to face the music. A wave of emotion swept over her. She'd been so messed up and unfair and wrapped up in herself and if she could just rewind the past . . . take those pills and flush them down the toilet, throw them into the East Glen River, crush them under her heel, then Ethan and Ingrid . . .

"Okay, fine. But I don't have a lot of time. Where do you want to go?"

* * *

An hour later, Mia drove slowly along once familiar roads. She felt weird and sluggish. Confused. The tarmac was like black ribbon candy, buckling and folding in on itself, up and down, up and down, only she knew this road was straight. It was her . . . her perception was off . . .

Oh . . . no . . . oh . . . fuck . . . no . . .

What am I on?

She could hear her heart pounding. How fast was she going? The speedometer was a big, bright 17 blasting her eyeballs. Seventeen? Seventeen miles per hour? She needed help. Had to pull over. Her parents' house was right up the street, but she needed help now. She turned the wheel and rammed her tires into the curb, half jumping it. She reached into her purse for her phone, couldn't feel it.

The coffee . . . in the coffee . . . something . . .

Why? Why?

Because of the pills.

Mia's head whirled and her hand stilled. She stopped searching through her purse.

NARCAN , she thought. I need NARCAN.

And then her breathing slowed . . . and stopped.