Chapter 24
Amelia has been lying to me. I’m ninety percent sure that jewelry box is stolen. But I can’t place from where. Why didn’t I get a picture? And that old guy called her Darla. Is that an alias?
What else has she been lying about? Is that why she tracked me the other night?
This woman has been conning me from day one. I would never have thought it possible, but it all adds up. Her ridiculous antics, her ‘dates’ with Liam. She was so good at being clueless she had me eating out of the palm of her hand.
My shoulders have been permanently tense since I left her apartment last night and there’s nothing I can do to ease the ache in my chest. I feel like a kid again, falling for one of my dad’s lies.
I need to get back over there and get another look at the box. But what excuse will I use? That I want to follow up on the dog sweaters? That I’ve changed my mind, they might actually be a murder weapon?
That’s the other thing. I’ve talked to everyone trailing Liam, and no one saw him ship a package in the last four days. The return address was a P.O. box registered to Derek Winters. The same kid I met that night at the karaoke bar with Amelia. But when we visited him last night, he claimed he never sent a thing, nor does he know who Liam Hawthorne is. Plus, he’s barely eighteen. Liam was using him as a patsy.
We still haven’t been able to access Liam’s account for the dating app, but we did get into Amelia’s. There’s nothing between the two of them but cheesy flirting. Unless it was a code. It was an utterly indecipherable one if it is.
“We’ve got a problem,” Cruz says, eyes trained on her laptop.
I stop clicking my pen and glance across the minuscule distance from my desk to hers.
“The night crew lost Liam.”
“What?” I’m halfway out of my seat.
“They talked to the hotel manager and apparently he’s gone. They haven’t spotted him anywhere.”
I groan. “He knew we were following him.”
She nods. “The question is for how long?”
“A guy like that, probably knew the whole time.” It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s been hiring people to dress and act like him so he can escape unnoticed.
I scrub a hand down my face, feeling like this is all my fault. I should have been more discreet. I got caught up in Amelia and lost control of the situation. I let her wrap her tiny perfect fingers around my attention and drag it away from where it should have been.
Was that all part of her plan? Was the package thing last night a ploy to get me away from surveilling her partner in crime? A distraction, a decoy. I knew she was being too protective of that jewelry box.
She’s working with Liam.
That thought sits like acid in my lungs making me wish I could stop breathing. I trusted her. I’ve trusted so few people in my life, but she was one of them.
“Let’s follow Amelia,” I say, already grabbing my gear. If she’s innocent, she could be in danger. If she’s guilty, then I want to be the first to know so I can personally question her.
Cruz narrows her eyes at me. “You sure you’re not saying that because you want to flirt with her again?”
“Please,” I tsk. “Who would flirt with someone while on the job?”
She tosses a pen at me. “I hate you.”
Twenty minutes later we’re parked across the street from Amelia’s salon, Curl Up and Dye. There are skeletons in the window, which is perfectly acceptable during Halloween, but maybe a little odd for July. There are also hearts, from Valentine”s Day assumedly. Either someone is lazy and prefers to keep all decor up year-round, or they have a strange sense of humor. But none of that deters me from my prime target.
Amelia’s station is right in front of the largest window and for the next hour, I watch her talk, dye hair, and talk some more.
“Is talking her preferred form of torture?” Cruz yawns. “I don’t think her mouth has stopped moving all day.”
Amelia is good at talking me in circles until I can’t remember what I’m supposed to say, or how I should push her away.
Manipulative. That’s the word for it.
After that client leaves, another shows up, then another. Three hours later, I’ve lost my fire and my mind. Watching her entrances me. She’s a ray of sunshine in a world of shadows. She talks with everyone, gives suckers to kids waiting on their moms, and hugs to the women who seem to be having a bad day.
Am I jealous of the hugs? No comment.
At one point I swear she cringed when she chopped too much hair off a poor woman’s head. She might not be the best at this job, yet she has a steady stream of clients who seem to love her.
Is it all part of a cover, or is it real? I hate that I can’t trust myself to determine the difference. Each time my dad came home I thought he’d changed; each time he left he proved he hadn’t. I haven’t seen him since my mother’s funeral. He wasn’t invited, but he showed up anyway. He said he was sorry, and then asked about the will. I wanted to punch him right there. Mom didn’t have a cent to her name. Both he and the cancer made sure of that.
I yawn. I could hardly sleep last night. Too much “past trauma” came out to play and Amelia’s fresh betrayal made the darkness agonizingly long.
I glance down the street, keeping my eyes peeled for Liam, hoping he’ll show up and prove the worst, while at the same time praying he doesn’t.
If she’s not his partner, maybe I can get her to contact him again, and set up another date...
The door to the salon opens and Amelia walks out heading north down the street. She stops at a bakery first, emerging a few minutes later with a chocolate croissant. She continues to a taco truck and gets two tacos. But she doesn’t turn around, she keeps walking.
Quietly, I get out of the car, looking back at Cruz to see if she’s coming, but she waves me on. I follow Amelia from the opposite side of the street, careful to keep my distance. But I could stomp my feet ten paces behind her and she still wouldn’t notice me, not with the way she greets every human and pet she passes. She bounces down the sidewalk like she’s a princess from a fairytale.
Halfway down the block Amelia stops and pets an intimidating-looking husky. The giant of a dog licks her back.
I’ve heard dogs are good judges of character.
Is this what I’ve resorted to? Trusting the instincts of canines over my own?
The husky leaves her with a gracious lick up her leg and Amelia laughs before going into a froyo place. Good to see she eats a variety of food groups for each meal. Dessert, lunch, dessert. After she gets the froyo, she heads back toward the salon. I wander down the street, surveying my options. There are only two benches in the shade and both are out of view of the salon. I finally find one in the sun. It’s kitty-corner from the salon with a perfect view of her station in between the hip bones of two skeletons. The hot bench burns through every layer of clothing on contact, but I pretend it doesn’t affect me and pull a newspaper in front of my face.
I’m sweating profusely and skimming the same page five minutes later when a familiar man enters the salon.
Her ex.
I register the moment Amelia sees him because her smile freezes in place and the blood seems to drain from her face.
I’m already off the bench and pounding down the pavement in her direction. Is her ex stalking her? What is he doing here? I can’t get too close to the door without being seen so I park myself at a small coffee stand outside, peeking through the gaps in the Styrofoam cups.
“Can I help you?” the woman running the cart asks.
“Still deciding,” I grumble.
My cell rings and I pull it out.
“We have to go,” Cruz says. “A local museum’s been robbed.”
I tug at the end of my hair. “Hawthorne?”
“That’s what they think.”
Does that prove or disprove Amelia’s innocence? She hasn’t had contact with him, that we know of. And I’ve been inside her apartment, the woman doesn’t care about art in any form. Except for her taste in clothing. She’s a walking masterpiece.
This is all Liam.
“What was taken?”
“A single painting,” Cruz says.
“Security?”
“Didn’t see a thing. And all footage was erased.”
“I’m coming.”
This doesn’t make any sense. Liam Hawthorne isn’t one to rob small-scale museums. What’s going on here?
There’s no way Amelia is in on this.
Standing here now, my accusations against her feel ridiculous. Maybe Darla was the neighbor who lived in Amelia’s apartment before she moved and the old man can’t keep track. Maybe the jewelry box was her grandmother’s. Maybe her meeting Liam was a coincidence. In the harsh light of day, I thought I would see through the cracks in her manipulations, but all I see is her good soul. What was I thinking? This woman doesn’t work for thieves and killers, she’s kind and sweet.
But I’ve been fooled before.
I cast another glance back at Amelia and the man who appear to be having a heated conversation. Maybe I’ll wait a few more minutes, just to make sure she’s okay.