Chapter 43
Are you okay? I glance at Garcia’s text, wince in embarrassment.
As I sit in Cara’s car, ready to head back to her place, I think about ignoring him, but know that would be stupid. I can only imagine what his family thinks of me now. Yeah, just embarrassed. Did you question any residents this morning?
There’s a long pause, then… Yes. Between us, my boss brought in outside help to move things along and the whole department is basically questioning anyone involved with the blackmail or robberies.
It’s a lot more than I could do and in a much shorter time frame, and I’m glad he jumped on it so quickly.
I want to ask specific questions but know he won’t answer me.
I’m grateful he answered me at all, and I’m guessing it’s a combo of guilt or weirdness about his family and his boss telling him to be cooperative with me.
Plus I was the one who gave him the list. I have no idea what to say so I simply text, Thank you.
Of course. There’s a pause, three dots play across the screen, then, My mom says you’re invited to Christmas dinner. No pressure, but she said I better ask you or else.
I stare at the message, have absolutely no idea how to respond so I just ignore it altogether.
This morning has been weird enough, thank you very much.
Though I do wonder about the “or else.” I wonder what that means for him?
That she stops dropping off delicious casseroles?
Because something tells me all the food in his fridge is from his family.
And yes, I realize I’m making sexist assumptions.
Maybe Garcia finds the time to cook but I’m playing the odds on this.
I’ve got to deal with my next step of the day anyway, not dream about amazing food. Or…speculate what Garcia looks like naked. Because I’ve been wondering.
Nope. Not wondering anymore. I’ve got something more important to focus on right now.
Or someone. One of Cara’s neighbors has a particularly embarrassing set of pictures that she won’t want getting out so I’m going to push there first, since they live right across the street. I know it’s risky to approach her out of the blue, but I also don’t care.
As I pull out of my condo’s parking lot, I receive a call from an unknown number. Normally I would ignore it, but I answer using the vehicle’s Bluetooth. “Yeah?”
“Ms. Gala.” I recognize Orson Hall’s gravelly voice.
My fingers clench around the wheel and I automatically look in the rearview to see if I’m being followed.
I just pulled out so it’s too soon to tell.
I curse my reaction as I come up to a stoplight.
“My lawyer and the police have recommended that I don’t talk to you.
” A bald-faced lie. But I want him to know that I called the cops on his employee.
There’s a slight pause, then he speaks again. “I recently let a certain employee go and it has come to my attention that he might have had an altercation with you. I would like to speak in person if you have time.”
Talk about formal. “No, thank you. I will never have time.”
He makes a sound of frustration. “We can meet in a public place.”
“Pretty sure that wouldn’t matter to someone like you.” I avoid the highway as long as I can, driving through side streets to see if anyone keeps tailing me.
He sighs again. “How about you name the place?”
It’s weird that he’s still pushing, but fine. I name a restaurant close enough to Cara’s house but also right across the street from the local police station.
To my surprise, he agrees.
So I call Alex and ask her to meet me as backup. I very intentionally do not tell her about what happened at Garcia’s house this morning. It’s embarrassing enough that I keep replaying everything. Telling her that I climbed out his window and ran will make it a thousand times worse.
***
Alex is in a booth at the back of the diner by the time I get there. Orson Hall is a couple booths in front of her. Alone.
Which surprises me. I don’t see anyone who stands out. AKA scary-looking guys with guns. I slide in across from him and smile as the server approaches. Her name is Roslyn and I’ve met her before since I used to come here with Cara.
She smiles at me and pats me on the shoulder. “Your usual?”
“Yes, and he’s paying.”
She grins even wider and winks before she heads off to refill the coffee of the booth behind us.
“Nice place,” he murmurs, glancing across the street where the small police station proudly sits.
I shrug, then wince, my shoulder pulling again. I hate to think of how much worse I would feel if Vincento had managed to full-on punch me. I’d probably be dead, so I wouldn’t be feeling anything. “What do you want?”
“To offer an olive branch.” He’s wearing a thick coat over his button-down shirt and I imagine it’s to hide a weapon. Or three.
“Oh yeah?” I murmur thanks to Rosyln who drops off my latte.
“The rest is coming. You good?” she asks Hall.
His smile is charming as he nods and Roslyn actually blushes. I don’t see what she sees.
The bell on the door rings, drawing my attention, and to my surprise I see Marcus walk in. He looks at me, his gaze narrowing slightly on Hall before he takes a seat on one of the high-top chairs along the diner’s extended counter. He lives nearby so I guess it’s not strange that he’s here.
I focus on Hall now. “So tell me about this olive branch.”
He pauses for a long moment, then pulls out his wallet, drops a fifty on the table. “My former employee was not acting on orders from me and will not be a problem for you anymore.”
Oh. Oooh. Is he saying what I think he is? It’s not like I can actually ask. “Do you know why he…allegedly attacked me?” Because I can’t figure it out.
“Some men have more ego than sense.”
Yeah and then some. Is he saying that Vincento attacked me because his ego was bruised? That’s so dumb. Beyond dumb. But…humans are dumb. And men (in my experience) did tend to get their egos bruised easily. Apparently he wanted to tell me this in person for reasons I can only guess at. “Okay.”
“So you and I have no problems?” he asks.
“The man who shot at me the day of my sister’s funeral.” I keep my voice low for this. “Why?”
He’s quiet for a moment, then sighs. “Hypothetically, that moron was just supposed to leave a message for your brother-in-law reminding him of his…responsibilities. He hypothetically got trigger-happy.”
Okay, then. That’s probably the only answer I’ll ever get about that. I nod.
“So…are we good?” he asks again.
I just shrug, acting braver than I feel, especially after last night. I’ve got to stop shrugging because oh my god, my shoulder aches. “Thanks for breakfast.”
He gets up, nods at the bill. “This should cover everything.” And then he’s gone.
I’m aware of Marcus watching him leave, but then Alex slides in across from me right as Roslyn drops off my two English muffins smothered in cheese, avocado, salmon and poached eggs.
After having to leave Garcia’s without eating the rest of my breakfast, or maybe lunch at this point, I’m still starving.
“Ooh, yum. So what did he want?”
“To tell me that he didn’t order Vincento to attack me, only not in so many words.
” And I think he may have been telling me that the guy is dead.
Not a problem anymore usually only means one thing in certain circles.
“Hey, order your own food!” I whack one of her hands as she tries to cut into one of my muffins.
Then my phone rings and I answer immediately when I see Fiona’s name on-screen. “Morning.”
“Aunt Sloane.” She’s crying, sobbing really, and my chest seizes.
“What’s wrong? Where are you?”
Alex stiffens across from me, but I ignore her.
“I need…to tell you…something,” she manages to get out through her sobs.
“I’m on my way to your grandparents’.” I scoot the plate over to Alex who makes as if she’ll get up, but I shake my head. Someone should enjoy the food at least.
“I’m at home. I told…” She hiccups. “… told Dad I needed…”
“Okay, I’m on my way now. Are you physically okay?”
“Yes.” Another watery sob.
I can breathe at that. If she’s physically fine, we can deal with anything else. “I’ll be there in ten. Sit tight.”
As I pull down the street to Cara’s house, I flash back on a little under a week ago. Just like then, I don’t even remember the actual drive. Just the need to get here.
I find Fiona in the living room, curled up on the couch, her eyes red and a little puffy. She’s wearing one of Cara’s oversized sweaters and looks absolutely miserable.
I sit next to her, scoot in close and take her hands. “Want to talk about it?” Whatever it is. She called me for a reason but I don’t want to push. Not with a teenager.
“Yes. No.” More tears spill down her cheeks and she covers her face with both hands. “I can’t look at you when I tell you.”
“Okay, you don’t have to look at me.” I shift on the couch even though she’s covering her face and I turn around. “Does this make it easier?”
Her voice is normal, not muffled now as she says, “Yes. I don’t know how to say this so I’m just going to get it out. You’re going to hate me but I have to tell you.”
“I could never hate you.” It’s just not possible.
“We’ll see.” Her tone is disbelieving. “Just let me get this all out at once.” Her words come out in a rush so I’m quiet as she keeps going.
“I figured out a way to add a fake user to the security system. Like Mom, Dad and me have the app on our phones as individual users. But I, well, a friend of mine, but that doesn’t matter, I guess, did the same thing at her house.
To, like, sneak out. So she did it for me.
Her older brother used to work at some big-box store and stole a bunch of prepaid phones.
She showed me how to set up an account and then basically created a ghost account in the app so I could turn off the alarm whenever I wanted.
Same with the cameras. I turned them off the night before…
before everything. And I forgot to turn the cameras back on.
It’s my fault the cops don’t know who killed Mom. Everything is my fault!”
She’s full-on sobbing again as I turn to hug her. She wraps her arms around me, her entire body trembling.
“Nothing is your fault,” I rasp out.
“We would know…who…did it.” She’s barely getting out words as I rub her back. Part of me wonders why she’s telling me now, but I’m guessing all the quiet time at her grandparents’ has given her anxiety and guilt the time to build and fester. Not that she should feel guilty, but I’m the same.
“We don’t know that.” I keep my voice soft, gentle.
“I can’t…tell Dad…he’ll hate me.” She’s still crying, though it’s a little softer now.
I keep rubbing her back in gentle circles, the way Cara used to do with me when I was upset. “He’s your father. He could never hate you.” I know that’s not true of some parents, but Ethan loves his girls. He will never stop for anything.
Unlike some parents, or people in general, I guess, his love isn’t conditional.
Neither was Cara’s. And in this moment it hits me why Cara loved him so much, warts and all.
Our own mother’s love was conditional (or maybe it was never real at all) but Ethan never flinched, even when his wife’s sister (me) had made a giant ass of herself at their two-year-old’s birthday party.
He never made me feel like I didn’t belong or that his love was conditional on my behavior, so I know it’s a hundredfold with his wife and girls.
I realize I’m crying too as Fiona pulls back, her eyes even puffier now. I wipe away her tears.
“You don’t hate me?” she rasps out.
“Never.”
“Dad will.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“He’ll be angry.” Her voice is still a raspy whisper.
“I don’t think so. But you don’t have to tell him if you don’t want.”
“I don’t?”
“You didn’t have to tell me. Why did you?” I ask.
“I…couldn’t keep it inside anymore,” she whispers.
Guilt is a powerful thing. She’ll tell her father eventually, that much I know. “Can I ask you something else?”
She nods miserably and I hate that I’m asking but I need to know.
“That guy you were dating. Your ‘not-boyfriend.’ Pete Harper?” After she gave me his name at the funeral, I had Foxe run him and the kid had no connection to Hannah that we’d found, despite Fiona saying he was flirty.
Though he was texting a couple other girls in Fiona’s class with a lot of frequency.
She rolls her eyes at my question. “Definitely not my boyfriend. He’s a pig.”
I nod, but still ask, “Did you ever give him…access to your code or the house?”
“Ew, no.” Another roll of her eyes. “I just used to sneak out to see him. We’d hang out at another friend’s house and drink or whatever.”
I could imagine what whatever meant.
“But I never gave him access to our home when I wasn’t there,” she continues.
I believe her, and it ties up that little worry I’d had about the random not-boyfriend. “We might need to tell Garc—the detective on the case so he knows what happened. It’ll clear up some questions I know he has about the security system.”
She just nods, her expression miserable, so I pull her into another hug and hold her until she eventually falls asleep on the couch.