Chapter 47
Chapter
Forty-Seven
PRESENT DAY
Wren’s clients at Shear Bliss had discussed Roy Callahan’s ill-timed fate twice before eleven.
Peg Alders started the conversation under the dryer. Then Carol Ann came in for a trim, and the whole story went around again from the top.
“Sixty-eight years old and diabetic,” Carol Ann said. “I assumed it was his heart.”
“It wasn’t his heart.” Peg didn’t look up from her phone. “My cousin heard it from the ambulance side. They’ve got investigators out there. That means something happened to him.”
Nobody said one word about a boy walking out of the woods.
Wren had feared that all morning. Every time the bell went off over the door, she waited for it. Christian had been in an emergency room half the night. Nurses had seen him.
Somebody at that hospital could tell someone else—though they weren’t supposed to—and the news would come back over the mountain and into this room.
Word hadn’t spread yet. But they couldn’t keep this hidden forever. It was only a matter of time.
“You’re quiet,” Deja said as she placed her client under a dryer.
Wren had come to the color bar to mix a toner and stayed there longer than mixing took. Deja’s chair sat two feet away.
Deja Whitfield had owned this building for nine years. She’d been a family friend and had hired Wren fresh out of beauty school.
The woman was a head taller than Wren, and her big blonde hair made her seem even taller.
Her personality was even larger than her looks.
She had three kids at home and a husband who ran a bread route out to Knoxville six days a week.
More so, she could read Wren in a mirror from clear across the room, and she did it more than Wren liked.
Deja stared at her, waiting for her response to “You’re quiet.”
Wren shrugged. “I’m working.”
“Peg’s been processing eleven minutes, and you’re still standing here stirring. And you didn’t laugh at her sister-in-law joke.” Deja kept her voice low. “You always laugh at that one. It’s not even funny.”
Wren set the bowl down.
Tell her.
Then she pictured how the conversation would go. Wren would say Christian came home. Deja would be shocked and ask where he’d been, what had happened. Wren would have to say she didn’t know. Then there would be more talking and theorizing and questions.
She couldn’t handle any of that right now.
“I’m fine,” Wren finally said. “I just didn’t sleep very well.”
“Is this about Roy?” Deja lowered her voice. “Y’all called him uncle. I know that much.”
Her theory made the most sense, and it was partly true. So Wren nodded. “Yeah, Roy’s death has been a lot.”
Deja exchanged a glance with her in the mirror. Something about her look indicated that Deja knew there was more to the story.
But Deja wouldn’t be hearing those details from Wren. Not now, at least.
Wren was elbow-deep in color when her cell lit up. Cody’s name stretched across the screen. She pulled one glove off and reached for it, but the ringing stopped before she got there.
He’d call back. He always called back.
Then the shop phone rang, and Deja held out the receiver. “It’s Cody. Says you didn’t pick up.”
Wren stripped the other glove, excused herself, and took the call into the back room. “Hey.”
“The sheriff is working Roy Callahan’s death as a homicide.” He jumped right into the conversation without so much as a hello.
“I know.”
“What’s going on, Wren? And don’t tell me nothing. I pulled up to your house last night and the back door was busted.” His voice had an edge she hadn’t heard in a while. “Then you told me not to let Mason out of my sight. None of that is normal.”
Wren pressed her free hand against the wall as her head began to spin. “I asked you that because I was scared. That’s all it was.”
“What happened?”
Her heart pulsed in her ears. “I can’t tell you yet.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Her gut twisted. “Cody . . . it’s complicated. And it’s not entirely mine to share. And—”
“I think Mason ought to stay with me, Wren. Until this is over—whatever this is.”
His words took a moment to settle in her mind. They were immediately followed by panic. “What? What are you talking about? Mason lives with me. That’s our deal.”
“I can take him to school and practice and whatever else he has. He’s got clothes here.” Cody spoke as if he was reading from a list he’d written down before he dialed. “I think it would be for the best.”
“We have an arrangement.” Wren’s voice climbed higher, and she forced herself to bring it down. “Every other weekend, Cody. That’s when you get Mason.”
He sighed. “I know what we agreed to.”
“Then you know you can’t just keep him with you all the time. You were absent from his life for five years while you got your act together. You don’t get to step in and dictate this now.”
He didn’t respond right away. Then he said, “I called Sondra Pike this morning.”
Wren froze.
Sondra Pike was a family law attorney in Fog Lake. She worked out of an office above the bank. Wren had sat in that office at nineteen with a two-year-old on her hip, asking a woman she couldn’t afford how to make Mason’s father pay two hundred dollars a month to help with bills.
Now Cody had called this very woman.
“You spoke with my lawyer?” Accusation dripped from her tone. “Without even talking to me first?”
“She’s not your lawyer. Hasn’t been for years. Besides, I knew how our talk would go, and I was right.” He paused. “You didn’t even listen because your mind is made up. I just wanted to ask Sondra what my options are.”
“Options?” She forced herself to keep her voice calm, though everything inside her wanted to panic.
“She said I might not need a judge for matters like this—not when Mason’s personal safety may be on the line. She said if you fight me, it will only make you look bad.”
More anger surged through her. Cody wasn’t just trying to take her son from her. He was playing dirty, and she didn’t appreciate it.
“I’m picking Mason up from school at three.” Her voice came out level, which surprised her. “That’s what we agreed to.”
“Wren—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. Instead, she slammed the phone onto a nearby table.
Cody had a lot of nerve. He wouldn’t take Mason from her. She’d make sure of that.