Morning found me curled up on our battered leather couch under a light blanket. A Discovery Channel special on dinosaurs played on the flat screen television mounted on the opposite wall, providing me with ambient noise to drown out Dad’s muffled snoring. Piles of scrapbooks, spiral notebooks and medical records documenting my first remembered year of life fanned across the cushions to either side of me and spilled over onto the coffee table where my laptop slumbered. I had spent the last several hours thumbing through my personal archives in the hopes some clue might jump at out me that explained my connection to Jane, but all I got for my trouble was the pinch of a stress headache.
Four hours ago, Rixton had checked in to assure me she was stable but had yet to regain consciousness. Again he reiterated there was no reason for me to put in an appearance, not until she woke ready to answer questions. And again, I heeded his advice. I didn’t want to kick an anthill that left Jane to the swarm.
Heaving a groan at its weight, I hefted one of the fatter scrapbooks onto my lap and cracked the cover. A fifteen-yearold Luce stared up at me from the first page, her softball jersey smeared with red clay and her hair tucked under a cap. She balanced a trophy on her hip and wore three medals hung around her neck. Okay, so I might have been a tad competitive back in high school. I spared a wince for the boxes in the attic stuffed with plaques, medals, trophies and framed certificates. Fine, so maybe I had been a lot competitive back in the day. The high of victory had been slightly addictive to a kid without a past who was desperate to make her mark on the future.
I almost spit out my tea when the doorbell rang. None of the perimeter alarms had tripped to warn me company was coming. I leaned over the open book on my lap to peck at the keys on my laptop. Once the screen woke, I tapped into the live video feeds from various cross sections of the property and selected the front door camera. I half-expected the vultures to have landed earlier than expected, but the man dressed in a tight black T-shirt and tactical pants was no journalist. In fact, I was pretty sure a hunk of Woodall Mountain had chipped off during the night and rolled like a boulder onto my doorstep.
I pulled up the security app on my phone and pressed the intercom button, which activated a speaker mounted beside the front door. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to speak with Luce Boudreau,” he rumbled in a deep tenor befitting a half-man, half-mountain. A mantain?
Of course he was. “And you are?”
“Cole Heaton.” His muscular shoulders bunched when he reached into a pocket. “I own White Horse Security Firm.” He raised his ID to the hidden camera lens. He was good. Very good. Most people didn’t notice it snug in the weathered molding framing the door. “I’d like to talk to you about last night.”
Seeing as how I still felt a skosh guilty for not telling his guys upfront the woman in the water wasn’t the girl they had been searching for, I figured I owed him. “Give me a second.”
I slid the scrapbook off my lap and thunked it on the coffee table before stacking the rest of my mess on its bulging cover. My phone was the cherry on top. This way I wouldn’t miss an update, and its presence discouraged sticky fingers. Folks might not think twice about flipping through scrapbooks left out in the open, but our society had evolved stringent hands-off cellphone etiquette. With my living room tidied, I stood and straightened my pinstripe pajamas. Cole had invited himself to my home. He deserved my limp ponytail and the fuzz of my unbrushed teeth. I opened the door and had to tilt my head back to meet his piercing blue eyes. He was taller in person. Really tall. And built like a freaking tank.
Black stubble covered his head, and his square jaw bulged as he ground his teeth. I suppressed a grimace at the state of his nose, which had been broken and reset badly multiple times. His left ear was worse. The top of it was missing, the shell ragged as though someone had gnawed on the cartilage. His hand, when he offered it to me, engulfed mine up to the wrist. His scarred knuckles resembled a losing tic-tac-toe board, and I had brushed my thumb across one of the raised marks before the impulse even registered.
“Ms. Boudreau.” Glacier melt ran warmer than his voice, but a faint good ol’ boy drawl gave it the potential for sweetness. Iced tea. That’s what he reminded me of. Delicious but cold. And always satisfying, another supremely unhelpful part of my brain supplied. “Have I come at a bad time?”
Those frosty eyes slid over me from head to toe. I’d bought my pajamas in the tall department to get the longest sleeves possible, so the top was baggy but the bottoms fit. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off them. Was the contradiction of swaddling myself in yards of fabric while he sweated on the porch so odd? I kept our house subzero to compensate for my propensity toward wearing long-sleeved tops. Dad and I had long since acclimatized to the perpetual chill, but company often left early and with their teeth chattering.
I wasn’t easily intimidated, every Goliath had his David, but this guy . . . The weight of his stare as it lingered on the top button of my shirt, the pearly disc held on by a single ragged string, caused my stomach to flip like a stack of flapjacks and my nipples to harden against the soft fabric. I folded my arms across my chest, but he’d noticed my response to him. How could he not when I’d almost poked out his eyes?
“Now’s as good a time as any.” I nudged the door open wider in invitation, but I had to step back or risk him squashing my toes to fit in the entryway. I retreated until he was inside then bumped the door shut with my hip and flipped the locks. More than one person had invited themselves in when they’d met with no resistance. “Pardon the PJs. I’m off today.”
“Your house, your rules.” He prowled into the living room and planted his feet in front of what I jokingly referred to as my lifetime achievement wall. It was a collage of school portraits, team photos and some of my more impressive awards, including my state certification. “Your father must be very proud of you.”
“Dad has never met an order form he didn’t like.” I insinuated myself between him and a reminder of the year my braces required so many rubber bands that I drank meals to avoid removing them. “But you didn’t come here to talk about his Luce memorabilia collection.” I herded him toward Dad’s recliner. “What can I do for you?”
“What can you tell me about last night?” The springs groaned, and the wood base creaked while he settled. I hoped he didn’t break anything. Dad loved that ratty old chair. “I’ve read Miller’s report, but I’d like to hear your version of events.”
“Your men aren’t in trouble for lending a hand, are they?” I perched on the edge of my favorite couch cushion. “Our Jane Doe isn’t the Claremont girl, but we couldn’t have saved her without their help.”
“Jane could have just as easily been our clients’ daughter.” He rolled his massive shoulders, fidgeting with a wide, leather, watch band that encircled one wrist, and even that casual movement made his seat groan. I noticed he wore a matching band without the timepiece on the other wrist, but it was none of my business if the guy enjoyed accessorizing. “I won’t dock their pay for the supplies or the hours, and I won’t bill the department either.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Any lingering guilt at using them to further my own agenda evaporated. “So, about last night.” I clasped my hands together. “My partner called and told me a body had been reported in the water. We’re assigned to the Claremont case, so he got pinged.” I summarized the rest, a shiver coasting up my spine at the mention of what the news had dubbed Super Gator, but I could have been reciting the alphabet for all the interest he showed. “That’s about it. Jane was taken to the hospital, and I came home.”
“MDWFP sent in a team to relocate the gator.” A hint of amusement thawed his expression as his gaze touched on the television where the dinosaur documentary still played. “One of the witnesses claims it was a deinosuchus and wants the swamp declared a protected area.”
“I was too busy not getting my head bitten off to get a good look at it.” I rubbed the base of my throat. “From what I saw, I’d believe it was an actual dinosaur rather than the descendant of one before I agreed it was a standard American Alligator.”
“It attacked you?” A growl pumped from his chest. “Miller’s report didn’t mention that.”
“It happened before your men arrived.” I curled my legs under me and closed one hand over the can of pepper spray I kept tucked between the cushion and the arm of the couch for emergencies. Cole, it seemed, had a bit of a temper. “I got so worked up when I realized Jane was—” like me “—alive, that I leaned out over the water. I understand the aggression, and I should have respected it more. The creature was protecting a potential food source.”
“Call me if your investigation sends you back there.” He made it an order. “That creature is dangerous.”
“I appreciate your concern.” That he assumed he had the right to boss me around rankled, but I wasn’t about to snub a man willing to lend me his airboat. “I’ll consider your offer if the time comes.”
A chime filled the air, and I lunged at my phone. “This might be my partner.” The text was indeed from Rixton, the message two words: Call me. “I need a minute.”
“Take all the time you need.”
I left him seated, then ducked into the kitchen, dialing Rixton as I paced. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Got some updates for you.” The rasp in his voice left me picturing him knuckling his eyes the way he did after long nights fueled by too much coffee. “Jane is stable, but her lids remain firmly in the down position. Buck relieved me at the hospital thirty minutes ago, and we’ve drafted Donaldson for third shift. They’ve both got your number, and they’ll call at the first sign of trouble. Or the first hint of good news.” His bleating yawn had me holding the phone away from my ear. “And lastly, though I’d hate for you to question my stamina, I’m not up for our birthday foursome today. Would you sew a voodoo doll in my likeness and stab it with needles if I wrote you a raincheck for tomorrow?”
“I can’t sew, and I hate needles.” They gave me the heebiejeebies. “Besides, I would never do that to a doll. Put your face on it? That would just be cruel.”
“Note to self.” He spoke in a loud, clear voice that mocked mine when I used the recorder. “Ask Momma Ethel to sew Luce a Rixton doll for Christmas. It’ll be the gift that keeps on giving. Anatomical correctness is a must. See previous statement about giving.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” The nightmare image of a normal-sized doll with a life-sized penis attached set my eyelid twitching. “Your grandmother-in-law would have a coronary.”
“She’s been married five times and has her eye on the German widower who moved in next door.” He chuckled. “Momma Ethel has seen more action than downtown Canton during a film shoot. Felt isn’t going to be the vehicle of her demise. I predict it will be a younger man, and by younger I mean nearer the half-century mark, and the fistful of blue pills she spiked his drink with at dinner.”
I turned my head against my shoulder to muffle my laughter before it escaped and encouraged him. Nothing stopped him once he got on a roll.
“Okay, I’ve got a warm bed and a hot woman waiting on me. See you tomorrow, Bou-Bou.”
“Rixton—”
The call ended mid-cackle as he hung up on me.
“One of these days . . . ” Shaking my head, I tossed my phone on the table and strolled back into the living room. “Sorry about the interruption. Did you need anything else, Mr. Heaton?”
“Just Cole, and no.” He rose in a fluid motion that should have been impossible for a man of his size, and Dad’s chair creaked with relief. “That’s all I needed.”
After ushering him out the door, I moseyed back to the table and dialed Maggie. She answered on the third ring. “Rixton can’t make it today.”
“Aww, shucks.” She sniffled. “You can’t see my face right now, but I’m tearing up at the idea of a girls’ day out with my bestie.”
I padded back into the living room, scissored my fingers through the blinds and watched Cole prowl to his vehicle, a massive SUV that would give other drivers on our backroads palpitations sharing the road with the gleaming beast.
“Unless . . . ” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Is Sherry okay?”
Cole whipped around, perhaps sensing my eyes on him, and our gazes clashed. The smile that slit his mouth was grim and expectant, as though he had known I would be unable to resist spying, and all he’d had to do was wait for my curiosity to get the better of me.
“Luce.”
The volume of Maggie’s shriek jarred me to attention, and I let the blinds snap back into place. “What?”
“Sherry,” she enunciated clearly. “Is she okay?”
“Oh. Yes. She’s fine.” I shook my head to free it from thoughts of Cole. “Rixton’s just tired. He put in sixteen last night.”
“Hmm.” Maggie drew out the sound into ominousness. “So, it’s just us chickens.”
“Cluck-cluck?”
“Excellent,” she squealed, rattling my eardrums. “I’ll be there to pick you up in thirty.”
“Maggie, wait. I can drive—
”Too late. The call had ended.
I had to work on my people skills.
While I was in the kitchen, I jotted down a note for Dad and pinned it with a magnet to the fridge so he wouldn’t worry. I tiptoed up the stairs and passed his bedroom door, not that anything short of a bomb going off would wake him, then changed into a long-sleeve T-shirt made from lightweight material, jeans and sneakers. I used an elastic to sweep my frizzy hair up into a bun, then grabbed my purse and headed for the front porch. Locking up and resetting the alarms took an extra minute, but I was used to the routine. With the house secured, I settled into a rocker to wait on Maggie.
The meep meep of a car horn snapped my eyelids open, and I leapt from the rocker, heart clogging my throat. “What the . . . ?” I reached for the gun at my hip on instinct and came up empty. “What’d I miss?”
“Looks like you partied too hard last night,” Maggie called through the driver-side window of her sunshine-yellow Prius. “You were sawing logs when I got here. I considered asking you to build me a cabin while you were at it.”
I wiped the crust from the corners of my mouth, ambled down the steps and climbed in on the passenger side. Slumping down in the seat, I let my head rest against the cool glass and savored the arctic rush from air vents she’d angled in my direction.
“Click it or ticket,” she chirped helpfully.
I grumbled under my breath but did my civic duty by obeying the laws I was sworn to uphold.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” She drummed her fingers on the gearshift. “We can scratch the hen party if you’d rather wait until that pervy rooster is free. You guys have the same off days, right? Is he free tomorrow?”
Walking back into the house meant one of two things would happen. Option one involved poring over all the dead ends I had collected until my head exploded, and no one wanted that. Brains were notoriously hard to scrub out of upholstery. Option two involved hatching a cockamamie scheme to get inside the hospital and putting Jane at risk. I chose option three.
“I need to get my mind off things.” I made a shooing gesture. “Let’s do this.”
“Things? What things? Things that maybe happened last night . . . ?” she prompted, cutting a U-turn, then bumping us back onto the road where her small car at last gained traction. “Work with me here. I need deets.”
I sat up straighter. “You haven’t seen the news today, have you?”
“I gave up watching the news.” Her lips flattened. “Too depressing.”
She muted the soft jazz music pouring through her speakers, and the reason for her calmness hit me. “You’ve been listening to satellite radio all morning.”
“I don’t pay a subscription fee for nothing.” She sneaked a quick glance my way. “Why? What’d I miss?”
I almost wished I’d kept my big mouth shut. Talking about last night would circle my thoughts around to Jane, and that was the last place my mind needed to go. But bottling up all my conflicted emotions had me feeling like a shaken two-liter soda ready to spew.
The best way to tell a story was to start at the beginning, so that’s what I did. “Last night a woman was found in the swamp.”
Maggie’s grip strangled the steering wheel. “And?”
“She has the same striations in her skin as I do.” The rest of the details burst out of me like Mentos mints dropping into Diet Coke, though I omitted references to the Claremont girl and our ongoing investigation. “I’ve wanted answers for so long. Now that it’s—she’s—finally here, I’m terrified.”
“Who wouldn’t be in your shoes?” Maggie reached over and squeezed my hand. “This woman might be able to tell you where you came from, what your birthmarks mean. Heck, she might be a relative. Did you think of that? What if it’s genetic?”
As in passed down through a family.
As in I might have actual, living blood relatives.
People who were different . . . like me.
The instant the thought took root, I plucked it from my subconscious. It felt too much like a betrayal to the man who had taken me in and raised me as his own. I wanted my answers, yes, but a relationship with my birth family? That possibility twisted my gut into pretzels. Thanks to all the press, and my unique markings, I would have been easy to find if they had bothered looking. So why hadn’t they?
Maggie coasted into a parking spot, and only then did I notice we had stopped in front of the wedding boutique where I had spent the better part of three weeks helping her choose between two fairy tale-worthy dresses that boiled down to “butt bow or no butt bow” to my untrained eye.
I suppressed a groan, but I’d asked for a distraction, and this definitely qualified as one.
“The plan was to trick you into cooperating with the seamstress for your final dress fitting and then rewarding you for good behavior with a birthday lunch.” Maggie killed the engine. “But it’s not every day you fish a maybe-relative out of the swamp. Let’s skip the fashion show and cut straight to the grease. We can hit Miss Pansy’s for burgers, fries and shakes, my treat.”
A riot of jewel-toned gowns competed for attention in the glass display window, and I had no trouble picturing the bridesmaids who would one day fill those dresses shoving one another through the plate glass in pursuit of a bouquet and its promise of romance everlasting.
As much as I wanted to take the out I had been given, Maggie was right. It wasn’t every day that I helped rescue a mysterious link to my past from the swamp. But it wasn’t every day that my best friend got married, either. “How long will it take?”
“Fifteen minutes tops.” She pressed the back of her hand against my forehead as though checking me for a fever. “Are you sure you feel okay? You’re being so chill about all this.”
I swatted her away. “Do you know what I want for my birthday?”
“Chocolate bars laced with fat-burning enzymes?”
“Ah, no. That would be what you want for your birthday. Me? I want to feel normal.” Maybe for the last time now that Jane was in the picture. “Let’s go be normal, okay?”
While Maggie gnawed on her bottom lip in consideration, I threw open my door. The second my sneaker touched down on the pavement, the hairs on my nape lifted. I scanned the courthouse square behind us and spotted a hulking black SUV idling at the curb across from a junktique store. The driver dipped his chin then flicked his meltwater gaze to Maggie when she appeared at my elbow before resettling his full attention on me. I rolled my shoulders as though I could shrug him off, but the man didn’t blink.
Maggie wiggled her fingers at him then huffed when he ignored her. “Friend of yours?”
“That’s Cole Heaton. He owns a security firm out of Tupelo.” Hating to be the one who broke our stare-off first, I wanted Maggie out of his crosshairs, and that meant conceding victory to him. For now. “The family of a victim hired him to ‘help’ solve one of our cases.”
“Ah. So he’s an enemy.” She winked. “Gotcha.”
“Not an enemy.” His team had helped me out of a tight spot last night. “More of a potential annoyance.”
“Maggie,” Mrs. Tacoma trilled behind us. “I thought that was you.” Her lip curled so high over her gums she was forced to twist the expression into a smile at the sight of me. “Oh, and Luce too.”
Long story short, the star quarterback, one Joey Tacoma, put his hands up my cheerleading skirt after a ballgame my sophomore year, so I brought my knee up and racked him so hard his eyes crossed and stuck that way. Or at least that’s how Maggie retells the story.
No means no. Full stop. And when your dad’s an overprotective cop who insists his daughter master basic self-defense, my no was more of an oh hell no with talking points that included using my kneecap as punctuation.
“Come on in, girls.” Mrs. Tacoma managed to include me in the invitation without choking. “I have iced lemon water if you’re thirsty.”
“Last chance to escape,” Maggie whispered when she caught me checking out the SUV again and stuck out her fist in an offer to play me for it.
“And miss out on this?” Turning my back on Cole, easier said than done, I figured if Mrs. Tacoma could fake cheer then so could I. I grabbed Maggie by the shoulders and shoved her into the relative privacy of the shop. “I’m so excited to see how my dress fits after those alterations.”
Maggie turned her strangled laugh at my obvious lie into a coughing fit that sent the proprietress bounding after a glass of the proffered lemon water and gave us a moment alone.
“You are the worst liar.” She swiped her fingers under her eyes. “Seriously, I would believe a scam email over you. Not even one of those intricate advance-fee scams. I’m talking penis-enlargement pills here. That’s the level of your game.”
I growled at her, showing teeth. She countered by sticking her tongue out at me.
Maturity was overrated.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Tacoma returned on a breeze smelling of mothballs and fruitcake and pressed a cool glass into Maggie’s hand while shoving a voluminous dress bag at me. “You can use fitting room one.”
I bit my tongue on a comment about us being her only customers. Why did the room number matter when there was no one else here? But I thanked Mrs. Tacoma, which sent Maggie into another fit of coughed laughter, and entered the room earmarked for me. I gagged when I opened the door, understanding why this torture chamber had been selected. The cubicle was as spotless as the rest of the shop, but the reek of spoiled milk set my eyes watering. The metallic undertone convinced me a shopper must have tipped over a bottle of formula on the carpet, and the spill went rancid before its discovery.
Pride is a burden, and I carry mine around like those women who stuff tiny dogs in their purses.
After filling my lungs to capacity, I rushed through changing and met Maggie near a trio of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She wrinkled her nose but took one look at my flushed cheeks and didn’t ask. I stepped up on the raised dais and took my place centerstage while the bride looked her fill.
Maggie beamed at me with such joy, I had to find somewhere else to look. “You’re gorgeous, Luce.”
“You have to say that.” I peeked at my reflection, her tennis shoes sticking out from under the dress and the sunlight warming the red highlights in her messy bun. “You picked out the dress. Of course you think she looks nice in it.”
“Not she, not her.” Maggie came to stand behind me and rested her chin on my shoulder. “You.”
Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds, and I grimaced at the slip. She stepped back, and I cut my gaze toward the figure in the mirror like this was all somehow her fault. No. Not hers. Mine.
“Fine,” I grumbled. “I look nice in it. Better?”
Phrases like dissociative amnesia and depersonalization disorder had been murmured in soft voices across my hospital bed once the doctors realized my memory stretched back minutes instead of years. They postulated that my lack of an identity cornerstone might explain why I had trouble connecting with the person who looked back at me in the mirror.
The former was public knowledge. The latter, I usually hid better than this. But Maggie would have recognized my internal struggle with or without the verbal cue. She had known there was more to me avoiding this gauntlet than simple vanity or old grudges.
“Better,” she allowed. “Now if only I could get you to believe it.”
“Ah. Here we are. Any of these laces would make a lovely veil.” Mrs. Tacoma drifted out of the back with a binder straining to contain its samples and shoved it in Maggie’s hands before she deigned to notice me. “The cut flatters your figure. Are you sure you don’t want the sleeves adjusted?”
“Nope.” The fabric hit just below my wrists, right where I liked it. “I’m good.”
“Maggie—” Mrs. Tacoma began in a huff.
“The maid of honor is meant to stand out,” Maggie steam-rolled her. “The sleeves make a statement, and since Luce is the one wearing the dress, her comfort is the most important factor, right?”
“Well . . . ” Mrs. Tacoma waffled, losing ground quickly. “Of course you’re right, dear.”
With the inspection done, I left them conferring over complementary bridesmaids’ gowns while I changed back into my street clothes. The last soundbite I heard came from Mrs. Tacoma as she urged Maggie not to stress over the cost of the dresses she chose since her taste was so exquisite the girls were sure to reuse them.
Mmm-hmm. ’Cause that’s ever happened in the history of sateen.
Eyes watering from the offensive smell, which hadn’t improved upon airing the changing room, I raced through swapping out my clothes then left my gown hung on the interior of the door so Mrs. Tacoma had to fetch it in person or risk an awkward explanation to Maggie about why that one gown of the half dozen destined for her bridal party stank to high heaven.
Fifteen minutes later, we stepped out onto the sidewalk and into the sunshine. Maggie charted a course for Miss Pansy’s that required us to cross the street and pass the spot where Cole had parked earlier. A quick scan of the area turned up no SUVs or broody security-firm owners. Not that I’d hoped to see either. I was just being cautious.
“Are you going to explain that funky smell?” Maggie plucked at my shirtsleeve, which, along with the rest of my outfit, smelled more like baby vomit than fabric softener thanks to their short stay in the changing room. “Or do I have to supply my own explanation?”
“We’re about to eat,” I deflected. “Trust me. You don’t want to hear this before that happens.”
“I wouldn’t have used her shop if I’d gotten a choice.” She thrust out the book of lace samples and mimed throttling the cover to illustrate her point. “You know that, right?”
“Your mom has been tight with Mrs. Tacoma for a long time.” The Tacoma and Stevens families had both attended the same church for generations. “It was natural for her to want to toss business at her friend.”
“The thirty-five percent discount didn’t hurt,” Maggie snarked. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful my dress is one less expense checked off the list, and that my folks believe in supporting local businesses, but the way she treats you is unforgiveable.”
“I can deal. It’s only a few more months.” I shrugged. “Besides, I kind of admire the death grip she’s got on her grudge. I hurt her son back when I was a kid and therefore off limits. Now I’m an adult, and she’s enacting all the petty revenges she’s dreamed up over the last nine years.”
“Money isn’t everything, and her son was an asshole. There’s no way you were the first girl he lured under the bleachers with those big, brown eyes. You were just the first who fought him off.”
I was about to agree with her when my cell chimed with a text message. I whipped it out and swiped the screen so fast Maggie stepped back on reflex. Catching herself, she inched closer and checked to make sure no one else on the sidewalk had spotted my lapse.
“Careful,” she warned softly. “What if that guy was still hanging around?”
Fingers trembling, I jabbed in a quick response then grabbed Maggie by the elbow. “Can you drop me at Madison Memorial?”
“The hospital?” Understanding dawned, and she clutched the book to her chest. “That was Buck?”
“Yes.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Jane Doe is awake.”