Chapter 28. Holly
Holly
It was nearly ten o’clock when Holly finally woke. When was the last time she had slept this late? Probably back in college when she and Shae were still partying.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee pulled her out of a black, dreamless void. Maybe there were perks to having a roommate. Someone gets me, she thought, calling Jade’s name as she padded down the stairs.
Holly had tossed and turned most of the night, images of her burned novel flashing through her mind.
What would come next? An armed intruder kidnapping her?
Ending up in the trunk of a car—or in a ditch, her corpse charred, just like her book?
The questions kept her awake long past midnight, when her body finally gave in to exhaustion.
She entered the kitchen, surprised to find Ethan—not Jade—filling two mugs.
“Hey there,” he said, flashing a combustible smile. “You didn’t have cream, so I picked some up from the store.”
Holly had forgotten she’d run out. She wasn’t used to shopping for two and would’ve kicked herself if she’d had to trudge to the Bean There Café.
“And you needed sugar, so I got that as well,” Ethan added, stirring some into her coffee.
He was heavy-handed with the sweetener. How did he know that was her early-morning indulgence?
She took a sip—it was divine. “So you like your coffee light and sweet as well,” she observed with a smile.
“To quote the Beastie Boys: I like my sugar with coffee and cream. I noticed you do, too.” He laughed, taking a hearty gulp.
“Oh, I love the Beastie Boys!”
“They were my first concert,” he said. “I still have the T-shirt I bought at the show. It’s ratty, but super comfortable and perfect for yard work.”
Something else was extremely comfortable: Ethan. His presence felt strangely natural, his awareness of her needs so precise, so prescient, it was as if he’d moved in while she was sleeping. Honestly, if he had brought over a suitcase, she wouldn’t have minded.
But just as the thought occurred to her, an unexpected pulse surged behind her eyes, almost like a strobe light flashing in her brain.
She recognized it as the sensation from before—an aura enveloping her, a warning of a painful headache coming on.
She felt spacey and slightly off-balance.
A shimmering light flickered in front of her, and her face felt tingly.
Maybe she needed a couple of Advil with her coffee, but why did she experience this strange, almost otherworldly warning signal whenever Ethan was near?
What was it trying to tell her?
Probably that it was stupid and childish to imagine being with him. What did she really know about this man, besides that he wasn’t single and had nice hands (which she admired as he drank his coffee)?
Or was it something more? A burnt book had appeared on her doorstep—the same one Ethan had mentioned a day earlier. Coincidence? Maybe. But good luck trying to find a copy of that novel within a twenty-mile radius, maybe even farther.
She didn’t know whether Ethan had lived in Beauport the summer Anna died. Could he know something? Was he involved in some way? He might be playing a game—getting close to her, working on her house to gauge what kind of threat she posed.
The old saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer came to mind.
Holly sipped her coffee. For a moment, she entertained the idea that he’d spiked her drink and that, in a few minutes, she’d pass out and wake up barricaded in a dingy basement with blacked-out windows. Hmm. Perhaps she was a thriller writer after all.
“Where’s Jade?” she asked.
“She wasn’t here when I showed up. Maybe she went off to work,” said Ethan. “And the door was unlocked. Sorry if I was presumptuous letting myself in. But I figured I could get a few things started.”
It was then Gail sauntered into the kitchen, her pearl necklace white as her teeth, her hair lacquered in place. She took one look at the morning coffee klatch and smiled.
“Oh, already?” She winked at Ethan, implying he had spent the night. “I warned you, Holly. This one’s a real charmer.”
“How charming can I be when I’m eating dinner alone most nights?” Ethan chirped back.
He eats alone? Had Mr. Handy (and potentially Mr. Dangerous) recently become Mr. Available? Her common sense kicked in. Mutilated book. Weird aura. Handsome stranger. Unsolved murder. Keep your hands to yourself, Hol.
“Ethan just got here, Gail,” Holly said. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she added under her breath.
“The front of the house looks great,” Gail said, on her own trajectory. She grabbed a mug from the cabinet (How did she know where they were kept?) and poured herself a cup. Make yourself at home; everyone else does.
“I’m starting on the kitchen today,” Ethan said.
“Well, you may want to put your toolbox away.” Gail’s eyes were alight. “We just got an offer on the house.”
Holly felt the floor shake, and that odd Ethan aura vanished in the aftershock. “What do you mean, you got an offer?” she asked. “Gail, the house isn’t for sale. It’s caught up in probate.”
““I know … I know…” Gail’s red manicured nails sliced the air, brushing away Holly’s concern.
“But that doesn’t stop people from making offers.
And this person wants to remain anonymous, even from me.
They sent a letter with a PO box for a return address, no name given, but I can smell the money.
They’re offering twenty-five percent over market value.
That’s crazy. Plus, they’ll cover all your relocation expenses. ”
Holly squinted, suspicion flickering. “What’s up with this town? I have a lawyer writing me personal checks without paperwork, and an offer on a house that isn’t even on the market.”
Gail gave a lopsided smile. “Allen does that sort of thing. Don’t overthink it. It’s the small-town way—people here actually like helping their friends and neighbors, and nobody betrays that trust.”
“If they’re so trusting, why doesn’t this mystery buyer tell us who they are?” Holly asked.
Gail shrugged. “Money makes people behave strangely. But they want the house right away, and they’re rich enough that you can hold on to the deed until probate clears—they’ll settle for a memo of understanding. Twenty-five percent over the market value! That’s a huge offer.”
“If they’re interested now, they’ll be interested later, when, and if, I decide to sell,” Holly said firmly.
Instead of tallying numbers, Holly’s thoughts reeled back to the threat she’d received, which had also been delivered anonymously.
Same person? Most likely. But why menace her with one hand and pay her off with the other?
The truth had no price tag, and she was here to stay.
One giant obstacle, however, stood in her way: a nasty cop named Tommy Boy. Holly had an idea.
“Gail, let’s have our coffee on the screened-in porch so Ethan can get started in the kitchen.” She shot the Realtor a look, and Gail followed her to the wicker chairs in the sunroom while Ethan went to retrieve his tools from his truck.
The old furniture creaked as they settled in. Holly cast a glance over her shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot. She assumed Gossipy Gail already knew about her family’s tragedy.
“To be honest, there are too many questions around my sister’s death for me to leave town.
I went to the police station to look at the evidence box from the investigation, and Tom Walker is guarding it like it’s the nuclear codes.
You know everyone in Beauport. Any suggestions on how I might get around him? ”
Gail snorted in disgust. “Tom Walker is a POS, pardon my French. But good news—I know his supervisor. Sold him the cutest three-bed townhouse.” Her eyes turned wistful. “Open-concept kitchen, beautiful quartz countertops, and it had this to-die-for walk-in pantry. Such a find.”
Holly realized she was dealing with a savant of sorts—someone who not only saw the world not in numbers, but in comps and sellable features. In order to close so many deals, Gail had to be adept at knowing which levers to push and pull to get results.
“I’d really appreciate it if you could help me with this,” said Holly.
Gail’s devious smile read as quid pro quo: I scratch your back, and you sell this place to that anonymous buyer.
“I’ll make a call, sweetie—or we could go to the station together,” said Gail. “If I can sell a house that’s not even on the market, I can certainly help you peek at an old case file.”
After Gail left, Holly set out to write at the beach.
She settled into her chair at a spot near the shoreline, away from the umbrellas and noisy children.
Though the sun hid behind clouds, Holly still lathered on plenty of sunscreen and wore a wide-brimmed hat made of dyed blue straw.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her you can still get sunburned on cloudy days.
The steady wind turned the sea frothy and rough. Holly put pen to paper and started to write.
Thirty minutes later, she had nothing but a stiff neck, achy butt, and plenty of scratch marks on the page. At least the ibuprofen was helping with her headache.
When her phone rang, Holly couldn’t have been more relieved. She’d take any distraction from her pitiful efforts. The sun’s glare made it impossible to see the caller.
She answered and was surprised to hear the voice of her lawyer, Allen Spellman.
“Glad I caught you,” he said after exchanging pleasantries. “I’ve got some news on our local cop.”
Holly moved to the edge of her beach chair, pushing it deeper into the sand.
“There are some disturbing allegations against him,” Allen continued.
She wrote on her pad: Dirty cop. “What kind of allegations?”
Allen cleared his throat. “Tom Walker was briefly suspended after a woman he’d arrested accused him of offering her a free pass in exchange for a little something in return if you know what I mean.
The claim went nowhere—he said/she said kind of thing.
But where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. ”
Holly cringed. “So there might be other women out there who were let go after being coerced into giving him sexual favors? That’s horrifying.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, but they were probably afraid to come forward. And remember how his wife left him? I wonder if she found out what he was up to.”
The idea of a corrupt cop abusing his power was hardly new. A cold shiver ran through Holly as she remembered Walker blocking her attempt to access Anna’s case file.
“I hate to tell you this,” Allen continued, “but, did you know Anna was nearly arrested?”
Holly’s throat closed. “Arrested? No … I know Maeve Carmichael accused her of stealing when she worked at Miramar—earrings or something, but she didn’t do it.”
“Well, Maeve did more than accuse. She called the cops and filed charges. The police investigated and spoke to Anna, but those charges were dropped. And the attending officer was none other than…”
“Tom Walker,” Holly guessed.
“You got it.”
“What if…” Holly had trouble getting the words out. “What if he made the same deal with my sister, and that’s why the charges were dropped?”
She remembered the jewelry incident and was sure someone had framed Anna, probably Elizabeth Ward, Conrad’s jealous fiancée. But the thought that it had turned into something so depraved made her stomach roil.
“My source at the PD told me there’s an incident report on file,” Allen continued.
“Can you send me the report?”
Allen’s sigh came through loud and clear. “My source can’t release it—it’s against department protocol. But I’ll see if I can get more details for you.”
The ocean waves grew larger and more menacing, mirroring Holly’s darkening mood. A new revelation took hold: Tom Walker wasn’t just a menace; he might also be a killer. Had Anna threatened to expose his predatory behavior, and that’s how she ended up in a house fire on the Carmichaels’ property?
It made sense to Holly why Anna had kept her in the dark about her near arrest, especially if Walker had done something to her.
Shame was a powerful silencer. Or maybe Anna had tried to be brave, not wanting to burden her younger sister with her suffering.
That was just like Anna, always there to protect her.
Holly thanked Allen for the insights—and for his generous check. “Really, it couldn’t have come at a better time. I was getting desperate.”
“It’s no problem. You can repay me after the funds clear. And if you need a little more, let me know.”
Holly resisted the urge to tell him she might be knocking on his door again soon.
Back at the cottage, Holly prepared lunch, if an apple and peanut butter counted as such. Ethan was gone for the day, so the house was quiet.
She went back to work, sitting on the couch, staring at her legal pad, full of self-loathing. Chester lay curled atop her copy of Meow Mindfulness, mocking her as if he and King Fluff were blood brothers.
Holly ended her pity party, reminding herself that her job was somebody’s dream—which only made her feel worse. So she did what most writers in her situation did: scrolled through social media. Such a mistake.
Two seconds in, Holly was writing a condolence tribute for a lost pet and another for a grandparent who had passed.
Then she felt guilty about not donating to a GoFundMe for a boy she didn’t know who’d lost his parents in a car accident, a post from a total stranger that somehow wormed its way into her feed.
Of course, morbid curiosity made her read the details.
As Holly read, molten heat crept up her neck, spreading to her cheeks until her entire face burned hot. She gripped her phone, knuckles turning white.
There would be no more writing today. Instead, she would spend the rest of the afternoon contemplating exactly what to say to her new roommate, who couldn’t return from work fast enough.
The boy on the GoFundMe had a story remarkably similar to the one Jade told Holly when she found her in the attic.
Holly fumed. She’d been lied to before, but never like this.