Blackthorn

Chapter Twenty-One

TWENTY-ONE

MAVEN

By Friday, we’re still no closer to discovering what happened to Granny’s body, so I call in to work again and tell them I need another week off. Bea’s fall break at school is now over, so I arrange for her teacher to send me the lesson plan for the coming week, citing a family emergency.

I’m not sure what I’ll do if we can’t find Granny by then, but I am sure I don’t want to leave Solstice just yet.

There are too many unanswered questions nagging me. Too many odd occurrences that don’t sit right.

Plus, I realized in the middle of one sleepless night that there could be a very simple explanation for all the strange accidents my ancestors suffered.

Maybe our family has been targeted.

Maybe the townsfolk have taken it upon themselves to get rid of us in more subtle, creative ways than hanging us by the neck.

And maybe the Crofts are in on it.

The problem is proving it. Since we don’t do autopsies, there’s no physical evidence of foul play. That sure would help anyone who wanted to make a murder look like an accident.

On Saturday morning when I get up, I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. There’s a quarter inch of red regrowth next to my scalp. I’ll have to stop by the drugstore for dye.

As I’m getting dressed, my cell phone rings. It’s Ezra. I stop in the middle of pulling on a sock, looking at the screen and debating if I should answer it.

Deciding I’m not in the right headspace for a thesis on all my faults as a partner, I let it go to voicemail, finish dressing, and go down to the kitchen, where I find Bea and the aunts having breakfast.

“Bea, do you want to come into town with me today?”

“Okay.”

“How about you?”

Both aunts shake their heads. Esme says, “We have a handyman coming by to take a look at the furnace. But there are a few things I’ll have you pick up while you’re out if you don’t mind.”

After breakfast, Q drives Bea and me into town. He drops us off at the drugstore so I can buy a box of hair color, then drives us over to the grocer’s, where Bea and I shop for the items on the list Davina gave me before we left.

We’re in the produce aisle when I spot Ronan picking through a display of tomatoes. My stomach drops. Trying not to panic, I grab Bea’s hand and turn around.

“Come on, honey. Let’s go.”

“Are we done? Don’t we still need some other stuff?”

“I don’t feel well.”

Hurrying to the checkout, I unload the basket as fast as I can onto the conveyor belt. My shaking hands aren’t helpful. Bea picks up the bag of celery that fell to the floor, then turns to chase a wayward onion rolling backward into the main aisle.

Someone else gets to it first.

Ronan grabs the onion and straightens. He looks at me. He looks at Bea. Then he tosses the onion into the air and catches it before holding it out.

“Hello. I think you dropped this.”

“Thank you.” Bea accepts the onion but doesn’t turn back to me.

I can’t see her face, but I know she’s staring up at Ronan. I can tell by the way her head is cocked that she’s curious about him.

“Come on, now, honey. We’re in a hurry.”

When Bea asks Ronan, “Do I know you?” I nearly faint.

“No, but I know your mom. We’re old friends. I’m Ronan.” He holds out his hand.

Bea shakes it like a politician would, heartily pumping it up and down. “Hi, Ronan. Nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Bea.” His gaze lifts to mine, and it’s burning. “Very nice.”

I force a confident smile. “Sweetie, why don’t you pay the cashier? Here’s my wallet.”

She turns and waits patiently for me to dig around in my purse. Then she takes the wallet and walks in front of me to the register where the cashier is nearly finished ringing us up.

Eyes blazing and lips thinned, Ronan steps closer.

I hold up a hand and mouth No.

His burning gaze slashes to Bea. I step sideways to block her from his view.

That low rumbling sound emanating from his chest raises all the hairs on my arms, but I refuse to move. After an excruciating moment of stalemate where we glare at each other, he leans close to me and speaks softly so only I can hear.

“Unblock my number right now.”

“Or what?”

“Or everyone within shouting distance will know that I’m her father.”

Shocked by how cruel that would be to Bea if he actually did it, I inhale a sharp breath. “Don’t you dare. You’re not her father.”

“The next time you lie to me, you won’t like the consequences. Take out your phone and unblock me.”

He steps back and stares at me, unmoved by the livid expression on my face.

Seething, I navigate to his phone number and tap the screen a few times. “Satisfied?”

“Let me see.”

I turn the screen to him, clenching my jaw.

“Good. I’m going to call you in two minutes. You better pick up.”

“I can’t talk to you right now!”

“Figure it out, because it wasn’t a request.” He spins on his heel and walks off.

Angry and frustrated, I turn back to the cashier. Bea’s happily telling her all about the case of the Night Stalker, the serial killer who hunted and tortured his victims in Los Angeles in the eighties.

I take her hand, grab the bag of groceries, and hustle out of the store with her in tow.

We walk over to where the Caddy is parked in the lot.

Opening the rear door, I let her climb inside, put the bag and my purse on the seat next to her, and tell Q to take her back to the house because I need to get some air.

I avoid his gaze in the rearview mirror, then shut the door and watch as they pull away.

When my cell rings, I answer bluntly, “What do you want, Ronan?”

“Come to the back of the store.”

I turn and look at the grocer’s. “Why?”

“We need to talk. Go through the plastic curtain next to the deli counter.”

He disconnects before I can argue. Filled with dread, I reenter the store, find the plastic curtain, and push through it into a back room stacked to the ceiling with cases of soda, water, and packaged food.

Lying in wait, Ronan leans against the wall to my right.

Without a word, he curls his hand around my arm and leads me down a corridor to a door marked EMPLOYEE LOUNGE. He pushes it open and pulls me through, then slams the door and locks it.

He looks absolutely feral with anger.

Pushing the sleeves of his black cashmere sweater up his muscular forearms, he slowly walks around me, a predator circling its prey. I refuse to be intimidated and stand with my arms crossed over my chest until he’s back in front of me, trying his best to reduce me to a pile of ashes with his eyes.

Though his energy is ferocious, he controls his voice. “You walked out on me the other night.”

“You were asleep.”

“Yes. And when I woke up, you were gone.”

“Sleepovers were never our thing.”

Our gazes clash. Electricity crackles between us. I can almost feel the oxygen atoms vibrating in the air, supercharged with animosity.

“How did you know I blocked your number?”

“Same way I know how to make you come.”

Ignoring the faint heat rising in my cheeks, I lift my chin and pretend indifference. “Because you think you know me.”

“Exactly.”

“Except you don’t. Why are we doing this in the back of this grocery store?”

“I own it.”

Surprised by that, I look around the lounge. “I should’ve guessed by the lack of color or comfortable furniture. Did your interior decorator spend a lot of time in a Scandinavian prison?”

“I called Dr. Lattman.”

Horrified, I glance back at Ronan. “You … what?”

Smiling grimly, he nods. “You know, the man you claim is Bea’s father? That guy. We had a nice long chat.”

My mouth is the Sahara desert. He could be lying, but I don’t think so. He looks much too smug.

“Nothing to say, hmm? No smart comeback?”

I answer with a calm I don’t feel. “If you have a question, I’ll answer it. Otherwise, I have no interest in playing games.”

Ronan walks closer, lowering his voice. “Oh, this isn’t a game, baby. This is the furthest thing from it.”

I step back, then keep going because he keeps advancing. My butt hits the edge of a desk, and I stumble.

Ronan reaches out and steadies me, gripping both my arms. I raise my hands and flatten them over his chest, trying to push him away. It’s totally ineffective. I might as well try to move a boulder.

He growls, “She’s my daughter, Maven. I want to know her. I want to be in her life. I know she’s mine.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“Your Dr. Lattman doesn’t know anything about having a daughter, either.”

“As if he’d disclose something so personal to a total stranger over the phone.”

He scoffs. “So he’s a liar, too?”

“If someone rang you up out of the blue and said, ‘Hi, this is Joe Blow, and I was just wondering if you could tell me a bunch of intimate details about your family,’ how would you react?”

“Not very well.”

“Exactly.”

“Except if Joe Blow pretended to be the principal at my daughter’s school calling to let me know she’d been involved in a terrible accident, I might be more forthcoming.”

My heartbeat stutters, then stops. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, I did. And do you know what good Dr. Lattman told me? He told me there was a mistake. He doesn’t have a daughter.”

Drawing on every ounce of my resolve, I keep my voice level and my expression calm, though inside, I’m panicking. “I never told him I was pregnant. We only dated for two months before we broke up. And you know Blackthorns don’t keep fathers around. That’s the end of the story.”

His searching gaze darts all over my face. Then he exhales a short, astonished breath.

“I should wash that lying mouth out with soap.”

“Try it, and you’ll end up missing a few important appendages.”

“You really hate me that much that you’d keep my own blood from me?”

“The blood you denied you wanted in the first place?”

“I was seventeen!”

“So was I. Just a girl in love with a selfish, heartless boy who didn’t want to be seen in public with her.”

“I never said I didn’t want to be—”

He cuts off abruptly, staring down at me with furrowed brows and a strange expression taking over his face. At first I think it’s confusion, but then I realize it’s worse. Much worse.

It’s understanding.

He grasps my jaw, gripping it firmly so that I can’t turn away.

“You were in love with me.”

It would’ve been bad enough if it was a question, but it wasn’t. It was a statement. I can see it in his eyes, the way his brain is working furiously, going back over every interaction we ever had and casting them into a whole new light.

“You were in love with me.”

The lump in my throat is too big to talk around, so I bite my tongue and stay silent.

“I thought you hated me. I thought you were ashamed to be seen with me. But you were in love with me. You loved me. You loved me.”

“Stop saying that! It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s the only thing that matters.”

I stare at him defiantly. “Why?”

“Because if you loved me once, you can love me again.”

“I’ll never love you again. I don’t feel anything for you except disgust.”

His eyes burn. His jaw clenches. He grits out, “You really are the worst liar in history.”

I can’t respond to that because he covers my mouth with his.