Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Christi Daugherty 2019

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photographs © Mark Fearon/Arcangel

Christi Daugherty asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008238827

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008238841

Version: 2019-01-02

Dedication

For all the women whose murders end up on page six

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

One Week Later

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Christi Daugherty

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Eight ball in the corner pocket.’

Leaning over the edge of the pool table, Harper McClain stared across the long expanse of empty green felt. The cue in her hands was smooth and cool. She’d had four of Bonnie’s super-strength margaritas tonight, but her grip was steady.

There was a delicate, transient point somewhere between too much alcohol and too little where her pool skills absolutely peaked. This was it.

Exhaling slowly, she took the shot. The cue ball flew straight and true, slamming into the eight, sending it rolling to the pocket. There was never any question – it hit the polished wood edge of the table only lightly, and dropped like a stone.

‘Yes.’ Harper raised her fist. ‘Three in a row.’

But the cue ball was still rolling.

Lowering her hand, Harper leaned against the table.

‘No, no, no,’ she pleaded.

As she watched in dismay, the scuffed white cue ball headed after the eight like a faithful hound.

‘Come on, cue ball,’ Bonnie cajoled from the other side of the table. ‘Mama needs a new pair of shoes.’

Reaching the pocket lip, the ball trembled for an instant as if making up its mind and then, with a decisive clunk, disappeared into the table’s insides, taking the game with it.

‘At last.’ Bonnie raised her cue above her head. ‘Victory is mine.’

Harper glared. ‘Have you been waiting all night to say that?’

‘Oh my God, yes.’ Bonnie was unrepentant.

It was very late. Aside from the two of them, the Library Bar was empty. Naomi, who had worked the late shift with Bonnie, had finished wiping down the bar an hour ago and gone home.

All the lights were on in the rambling bar, illuminating the battered books on the shelves that still covered the old walls from the days when it had actually been a library. It could easily hold sixty people but, with just the two of them, the place was comfortable – even cozy, in its way, with Tom Waits growling from the jukebox about love gone wrong.

Despite the hour, Harper was in no hurry to leave. It wasn’t far to walk. But all she had at home was a cat, a bottle of whiskey and a lot of bad memories. And she’d spent enough time with them lately.

‘Rematch?’ She glanced at Bonnie, hopefully. ‘Winner takes all?’

Propping her cue against a sign that read: ‘Books + Beer = LIFE’, Bonnie walked around the table. The blue streaks in her long blond hair caught the light when she held out her hand.

‘Loser pays,’ she said, adding, ‘Also, I’m all out of change.’

‘I thought bartenders always had change,’ Harper complained, pulling the last coins from her pocket.

‘Bartenders are smart enough to put their money away before they start playing pool with you,’ Bonnie replied.

There was a break in the music as the jukebox switched songs. In the sudden silence, the shrill ring of Harper’s phone made them both jump.

Grabbing the device off the table next to her, Harper glanced at the screen.

‘Hang on,’ she said, hitting the answer button. ‘It’s Miles.’

Miles Jackson was the crime photographer at the Savannah Daily News. He wouldn’t call at this hour without a good reason.

‘What’s up?’ Harper said, by way of hello.

‘Get yourself downtown. We’ve got ourselves a murder on River Street,’ he announced.

‘You’re kidding me.’ Harper dropped her cue on the pool table. ‘Are you at the scene?’

‘I’m pulling up now. Looks like every cop in the city is here.’

Miles had her on speaker phone – in the background she could hear the rumble of his engine and the insistent crackle of his police scanners. The sound sent a charge through Harper.

‘On my way.’ She hung up without saying goodbye.

Bonnie looked at her enquiringly.

‘Got to go,’ Harper told her, grabbing her bag. ‘Someone just got murdered on River Street.’

Bonnie’s jaw dropped. ‘River Street? Holy crap.’

‘I know.’ Harper pulled out her notebook and police scanner and headed across the room, mentally calculating how long it would take her to get there. ‘If it’s a tourist, the mayor will absolutely lose her shit.’

River Street was the epicenter of the city’s tourism district – and the safest place in town. Until now.

Bonnie ran after her.

‘Give me a second to lock up,’ she said. ‘I’ll come with you.’

Harper turned to look at her. ‘You’re coming to a crime scene?’

The music had started up again.

‘You’ve had four margaritas,’ Bonnie reminded her. ‘I made them strong. You’ll be over the limit. I’ve only had two beers tonight.’

Behind the bar, she opened a concealed wall panel and flipped some switches – in an instant, the music fell silent. A second later, the lights went off one by one, until only the red glow of the exit sign remained.

Grabbing her keys, Bonnie ran to join Harper, the heels of her cowboy boots clicking against the concrete floor in the sudden quiet, short skirt swirling around her thighs.

Harper still wasn’t convinced this was a great idea.

‘You know there’ll be dead people there, right?’

Shrugging, Bonnie unlocked the front door and pulled it open. Steamy southern night air poured in.

‘I’m a grown-up. I can take it.’

She glanced over her shoulder with a look Harper had known better than to argue with since they were both six years old.

‘Let’s go.’

River Street was a narrow, cobblestone lane running between the old wharves and warehouses that had once serviced tall ships, sailing for Europe, and the wide, dark water of the Savannah River.

The most photographed street in the city, it would be packed in a few hours with workers, tourists, and tour buses, but it was virtually empty now.

Most bars had closed at two a.m. and the heatwave currently underway sent everyone who might ordinarily have lingered by the river scurrying for air-conditioning.

Bonnie swung her pink pickup, with ‘Mavis’ painted on the tailgate in bright yellow, into a parking spot and killed the engine.

They could see flashing blue lights a short distance away at the water’s edge.

The sight made Harper’s heart race. It was nearly three in the morning. At this hour, the local TV channels might not have anyone on call. This could be her story exclusively.

‘Come on,’ she told Bonnie, throwing the door open and jumping out.

When her feet hit the curb, the bullet wound in her shoulder throbbed a sharp warning. She winced, pressing her hand against the scar.

It had been over a year since she’d been shot. It was rare for the wound to twinge. It usually only acted up when the weather changed.

‘You’ll be a walking barometer now,’ her surgeon had remarked jovially at one of her checkups. ‘Always be able to tell when rain is coming.’

‘That’s not the superpower I was hoping for,’ she’d responded.

Secretly, she was glad the pain was still there. The wound – which she’d sustained while exposing her mentor, former Chief Detective Robert Smith, for murder – served as a reminder to be careful whom she trusted.

Bonnie missed her pained expression – her eyes were on the police cars.

‘Damn. It really is right in the middle of everything. That’s just a couple of blocks from Spanky’s.’

Spanky’s Bar was a popular tourist joint. If the murder had happened a few hours earlier, hundreds of people could have been caught up in it.

Harper had already noticed the proximity. She needed to get down there.

‘Let’s go.’

Half-running, they hurried down a steep cobbled lane toward the river. It had rained earlier, and Harper’s shoes struggled to find traction on the slick, rounded stones.

It was darker down by the water. The breeze off the river cut a cool path through the humidity.

Harper usually avoided River Street altogether. It was mostly tourist traps and, until now, she couldn’t think of one interesting crime that had ever happened here.

Ahead, crime tape had been strung from light pole to light pole, blocking the narrow street. Flashing emergency lights lit up the jaunty flags outside the locked bars and shuttered shops.

Harper scanned the scene – the road was packed with police cars but she could see no trucks bearing the hallmarks of the local TV news stations.

Bless Miles for staying up all night listening to his scanner.

About thirty yards beyond the tape, a cluster of uniformed cops and plain-clothed detectives had gathered. They were all looking down at something Harper couldn’t see from here.

‘Look, there’s Miles.’ Bonnie pointed across the street.

The photographer stood alone at the edge of the crime tape. Hearing her voice, he turned and beckoned them over.

As always, he looked dapper in slacks and a button-down shirt. It was as if he’d been waiting for this crime to happen.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said, as they walked up. ‘Is it two-for-one night? I didn’t bring my coupon.’

‘Hi, Miles.’ Bonnie beamed at him. ‘Fancy running into you at a murder scene.’

‘The night is full of surprises,’ he agreed.

‘What’d we miss?’ Harper gestured to the crowd of cops. ‘Any ID on the victim? Is it a tourist?’

‘Nobody’s saying anything,’ he said. ‘The tape was up when I got here. They’ve kept it quiet on the radio – there’s no chatter. I almost missed it myself. I heard some chit-chat about the coroner that let me know something was up, otherwise I’d still be home.’

‘You called Baxter yet?’ she asked.

He shook his head.

‘Don’t have enough to tell her.’

Bonnie listened to all of this, but said nothing. Her fine eyebrows were drawn together as she watched the police. They were shining flashlights on something lying on the cobblestones.

In the eight years Harper had worked at the newspaper, this was the first time she could remember Bonnie being at a crime scene. It felt strange. This wasn’t Bonnie’s world. She was an artist – bartending paid for the paint. Murder wasn’t her business.

It was Harper’s.

She’d been a crime reporter since she’d dropped out of college to take up an internship at the Savannah Daily News when she was twenty years old. Ever since then she’d spent her nights investigating the city’s worst crimes. Murder no longer turned her stomach as it had early on.

When she looked at a body now, all she saw was the words she’d need to describe it.

In the distance, the crowd of officers shifted. Squinting, Harper saw a small woman in a dark suit, crouching low.

‘Daltrey’s lead detective?’ She glanced over at Miles.

‘Looks like it.’ Raising his camera, he took a speculative shot, pausing to check the image on the screen.

It wasn’t terrible news. Daltrey wasn’t the easiest detective to work with, but she wasn’t the worst, either.

Anyway, none of them were very easy to work with anymore.

A rumble broke the stillness, and they all turned to see a white van with the word FORENSICS UNIT on the side rolling up to the crime tape, its tires stuttering on the cobbles.

Its cold, bright headlights swung across the cluster of investigators, lighting up the scene like a film set.

They all saw the body in the same instant. The young woman lay sprawled on her back on the uneven cobbles. She wore a dark T-shirt with a knee-length skirt.

Harper couldn’t make out her face from where she stood but one thing was certain – this was no gang-banger crime.

Lifting his camera, Miles fired off a rapid series of shots.

Harper stood on her toes to get a better look. Something about the woman was familiar.

Beside her, Bonnie made a stifled shocked sound.

‘Don’t look at the body,’ Harper said.

But Bonnie didn’t look away. Instead, she leaned against the crime tape, pushing hard enough to make it bow.

One of the uniforms pointed his flashlight at her disapprovingly.

‘Hey, you – get back.’

Harper turned to ask her what the hell she was doing. The last thing she needed was for Bonnie to piss off the cops. Things were bad enough with them already.

But the complaint died on her lips.

All the color had left Bonnie’s face.

‘Oh my God, Harper,’ she said, staring at the body in the street. ‘I think that’s Naomi.’

Chapter Two

Before Harper could tell her she was wrong – she had to be wrong, it didn’t make sense and they couldn’t see the body properly from here – the uniformed cop beat her to it.

‘Did you say you know the victim?’ He raised his flashlight, shining it on Bonnie’s face.

Her pupils shrank to pinpricks in the harsh light.

‘I think … maybe.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘Her shirt – does it look like mine?’

The cop shined the light on her black T-shirt. Across the front, it read: ‘THE LIBRARY: FROM BEER TO ETERNITY’.

He was young. They always put the young ones on the late shift. He hadn’t yet learned to hide his thoughts. Harper could see the truth in his face.

She squinted at the body in the distance.

Was that really Naomi? It couldn’t be, could it?

She’d only been working at the bar a few months, but Harper knew enough about her to know she was an unlikely victim. Bookish and a bit shy, she eschewed the short skirts that Bonnie preferred. Amid the crowds of art students that favored the bar, with their brightly colored hair and eclectic clothing, she’d seemed quite conservative. In that way, she stood out. That, and the fact that she was gorgeous – high cheekbones, cat-shaped eyes, a perfect figure.

She never seemed to try to be noticed, but everyone noticed Naomi.

Who killed a girl like that?

‘Stay right here,’ the cop ordered, swinging his flashlight to take in all three of them. ‘None of you moves.’

Turning, he ran across to the official cluster.

A moment later, the detective Harper had noticed earlier broke loose from the group at the foot of the stairs and walked toward them with the uniformed cop.

She was dark-skinned, about forty years old, no taller than five foot four. She wore a simple navy suit with a white blouse. Her hair was short and no-nonsense straight. She ducked under the crime tape with the ease of an athlete.

‘Which one of you thinks you know the victim?’

Detective Julie Daltrey’s tone was crisp and official. Her eyes skated across Harper’s face without a flicker of acknowledgement that she’d known her for years. That they used to gossip and joke at crime scenes like this one.

Hesitantly, Bonnie raised her hand. ‘Me.’

Harper watched as Daltrey took in Bonnie’s blue-streaked ponytail, her miniskirt, and black work T-shirt.

‘Your name, please?’

‘Bonnie Larson,’ she said, after a fractional pause.

Daltrey wrote this down in a small notepad.

‘Who do you think that is?’ Daltrey gestured with the notepad to the body on the ground.

Bonnie’s throat worked. Her hands clenched at her sides.

‘I … I thought … I mean, I think it’s Naomi.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Naomi Scott.’

Daltrey had been a cop a long time. Her expression gave nothing away as she wrote something else and then raised her eyes to meet Bonnie’s again.

‘What can you tell me about Naomi Scott?’

Bonnie blinked. ‘I don’t …’

‘Anything you know,’ the detective encouraged her. ‘Who she is, where she works, how old she is.’

‘She works with me at The Library,’ Bonnie said, uncertainly. ‘We’re both bartenders. She’s at school during the day. Law school.’

Daltrey made a note.

‘Please,’ Bonnie said, her voice faltering, ‘tell me it isn’t her.’

The detective paused, as if deciding what to say. When she spoke, though, she delivered the news quick and she didn’t sugarcoat it.

‘I’m sorry to inform you that identification found on the victim indicates that it is Naomi Scott.’

‘Oh my God.’ Bonnie reeled back, taking the news like a blow. Her blue eyes filled with tears.

‘She can’t be dead,’ she pleaded, looking from the detective to Harper. ‘She was at work tonight. She was fine. She’s only twenty-four. What happened?’

Daltrey focused on Harper.

‘This is off the record, you got me?’

Harper nodded, although she was taking mental notes of everything that was said.

Daltrey turned back to Bonnie.

‘She was shot.’ Her tone was almost gentle. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about her that might explain who would do this? Did she tell you she was scared of anyone? Did she have any problems you can think of? Drugs?’

But Bonnie was numb now. In a kind of shock.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

Tears spilled over, running down her cheeks. ‘I have to tell her dad.’

‘We’ll take care of that,’ Daltrey said quickly.

She turned back to Harper. ‘Did you know the victim, too?’

‘Only a little. I saw her at the bar tonight. Her shift ended about an hour ago. She said she was going home.’

‘She live on River Street?’ Daltrey asked.

Harper shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

The detective snapped her notebook shut and checked her watch. ‘OK. I need both of you to come down to the station and give me a statement.’

Harper’s heart sank.

‘Could we come later?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to get my story in first. And there’s not much I can tell you …’

‘I don’t care about your story.’ Daltrey cut her off. ‘This is homicide, McClain. Either you get to the station under your own power immediately or I will have you both taken there under mine. Am I clear?’

There was no point in arguing.

‘We’ll go straight to the station,’ Harper agreed glumly.

‘I’ll meet you there,’ Daltrey said.

She ducked under the crime tape and headed back to the body.

When she was gone, Harper turned to Miles.

‘You heard all that?’

He nodded, concern in his eyes. ‘You want me to call Baxter?’

Harper let out a long breath. The last thing she wanted was for him to call the city editor and wake her up to tell her Harper wasn’t at the scene of a murder in the center of the tourist zone because it turned out she’d been talking to the victim an hour ago.

But that was exactly what he had to do.

‘Yeah.’ She rubbed her forehead. The tequila she’d drunk earlier was transforming into a nice little headache.

‘She’s not going to like this,’ he warned her. ‘She finds out you left, she’s going to be pissed.’

But Harper was already leading Bonnie away. She threw her answer back to him over her shoulder.

‘What’s new?’

When they walked into the lobby of the Savannah police station ten minutes later, the air-conditioning streamed an arctic breeze across Harper’s skin, sending a chill down her back.

The night desk officer, Dwayne Josephs, glanced from Bonnie to Harper and back again.

‘Something wrong, Harper?’ As he took in Bonnie’s red face and swollen eyes, he rose from his chair. ‘Is Bonnie hurt?’

Harper had known Dwayne since she was twelve. He’d been one of the cops who took her under his wing after her mother was murdered.

These days, he was one of only a handful of cops she still considered her friends.

The rest had shut her out. They believed she’d betrayed the force by exposing Smith’s crime.

She’d had a solid year of shrugs and turned backs. Of phone calls that began with her giving her name and ended a second later with the click of a phone being put down. Of getting pulled over for minor traffic offenses she knew she hadn’t committed.

So she was grateful every time Dwayne greeted her kindly.

‘She’s not hurt,’ Harper assured him. ‘You heard what happened on River Street?’

‘The shooting?’

She nodded. ‘She knows the victim. Daltrey asked us to come give statements.’

His expression grew somber. ‘I’m truly sorry to hear that.’

While Harper led Bonnie to a hard plastic chair, Dwayne disappeared behind his desk, reappearing a second later with a paper cup.

‘Here’s some water,’ he told Bonnie. ‘I’m sure you could use it.’

She accepted it numbly. ‘Thank you, Dwayne.’

‘Detective Daltrey won’t be too long,’ he said, squeezing her arm.

He was wrong about that, though.

Harper and Bonnie waited for more than half an hour in the arctic lobby.

Periodically, the buzz of Harper’s phone broke the silence as Miles sent her cryptic messages from the scene.

Cop source tells me purse untouched but phone missing.

Reading this, Harper’s brow furrowed. Surely no one had murdered Naomi over a phone?

She texted a quick reply:

What about wallet/money?

She stared at her phone, waiting impatiently for his response.

It killed her not to be out there with him. There was so much she could be doing right now, instead of sitting here.

When her phone buzzed again, though, it wasn’t with the answer she expected.

Told Baxter you knew the vic – she’s thrilled. Wants you in the office by nine.

Harper shoved her phone back in her pocket with more force than necessary.

When a police car pulled up out front, she craned her neck to see if it was Daltrey. Instead, a pair of uniformed officers got out, leading a handcuffed suspect to the back for processing.

By the time Daltrey finally walked through the bulletproof glass door, they were half-asleep. Bonnie had curled up in the plastic chair, her head resting on Harper’s shoulder.

It was nearly four in the morning. The night had begun to feel endless.

‘Sorry you had to wait,’ the detective told them crisply. ‘Come with me.’

They stood up slowly, muscles aching from the hard seats.

Bonnie’s eyes were puffy; her skin blotchy from crying. She was so out of place in this official world, with her turquoise hair and cowboy boots, it made Harper’s heart hurt.

At his desk, Dwayne pressed a button, unlocking the security door with a jarring buzz.

The long back corridor was lined with offices – this was where the real work of the police department got done. During the day it would be teeming with detectives, 911 operators and uniformed cops. At this hour, it was shadowy and still.

‘This way.’

Daltrey’s voice echoed as she guided them to the right. They walked past several doors before reaching the room she wanted.

Flipping on the light, she set her bag down next to a metal folding chair.

‘Have a seat, ladies,’ she told them with a brief twist of a smile.

The room was small and windowless, holding only a scarred wooden table and four chairs. A narrow sliver of mirror glittered coldly on one wall.

Daltrey waited as they settled into place across from her. In the harsh fluorescent light, Harper could see the long night was showing on her as well. There were shadows under her eyes, and the humidity had left a sheen on her skin.

‘This won’t take long,’ she said, pulling a notebook and a ballpoint from her bag. ‘I’d like you each to tell me in your own words about tonight. Your impressions of the victim.’

Harper knew she wouldn’t have much to say. All she knew was that three hours ago, Naomi had been alive – small and absorbed in her work, her heart-shaped face serious as she scrubbed The Library’s bar with a towel, her motions fast and angry. She’d barely looked at Harper when she sat down, and Harper hadn’t paid any attention to her. She was focused on her own problems. And on the margarita on the rocks Bonnie was setting in front of her.

Daltrey motioned at Bonnie. ‘You first, Miss Larson. I understand you knew her best.’

Bonnie glanced uncertainly at her.

‘I don’t know what to say …’

‘Anything you noticed could be helpful,’ Daltrey coaxed. ‘Start with the basics. How did she seem tonight? Happy? Unhappy? Frightened? Or did anything strange happen on her shift?’

Knotting her fingers on the tabletop, Bonnie thought it over.

‘Well,’ she said cautiously, ‘she seemed fine most of the night. Like, normal.’

Daltrey cocked her head.

‘You said “Most of the night”. What did you mean by that?’

‘She got a call on her cell just before one o’clock,’ Bonnie explained. ‘After that she seemed … I don’t know. Anxious, maybe? Upset. She asked if she could go early. We weren’t busy, so I told her she could. She cleaned her station and headed out right after Harper arrived.’

Daltrey made quick notes. ‘She didn’t say why?’

Bonnie shook her head. ‘I assumed it was something to do with her boyfriend or her dad.’ She paused before explaining, ‘She and her dad are really close. Sometimes he picks her up after work.’

Daltrey’s eyes sharpened. ‘Do you know her father’s name?’

‘Jerrod Scott.’

‘He pick her up tonight?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bonnie admitted. ‘I was working the bar alone by then. If he did, he didn’t come inside.’

‘But you say she seemed anxious,’ Daltrey said. ‘What made you think that?’

Bonnie paused.

‘Earlier in the night she’d been joking about things, kind of chilled. But after that call … It’s hard to explain. She seemed tense. Distracted. Like she’d gotten bad news.’

Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. ‘If I’d known she was in trouble, I’d have done something. Tried to help.’

Daltrey made notes while Bonnie pulled herself together.

She had a good technique, Harper thought, approvingly. Brisk but not unfeeling.

When Bonnie had recovered, the detective resumed the interview.

‘I’m sorry to ask so many questions. I know it’s been a long night. But I am grateful for your help, Miss Larson.’

Bonnie gave a tremulous nod.

‘Now …’ The detective referred to her notes. ‘You mentioned a boyfriend. Did you see him tonight?’

Bonnie shook her head. ‘I don’t think he was at the bar. If he came to get her, he’d usually come in for a drink and wait for her to finish.’ She paused. ‘I think they’ve been taking a break lately, anyway.’

Harper noticed the interest flare in Daltrey’s eyes.

‘What’s the boyfriend’s name?’

‘Wilson,’ Bonnie said. ‘Wilson Shepherd.’

She offered it willingly, thinking she was helping. Harper had a feeling she wouldn’t have been so eager if she knew why the detective wanted it.

Daltrey made her spell it. When she’d finished, she said, ‘Remind me again – what time did Naomi leave last night?’

‘Just after one,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m not sure of the exact time …’

‘I can answer that,’ Harper cut in.

Daltrey shot her a steely glance.

‘Oh yes?’ she said. ‘And why is that?’

‘I happened to look at the clock above the bar when she walked out,’ Harper said. ‘I noticed it was one thirty, and I thought that was early for her to go. It isn’t normal for Bonnie to be left alone to close up.’

‘There are always supposed to be two workers in the bar,’ Bonnie explained, before Daltrey could ask. ‘For security. But since Harper was there, I figured it was fine.’

After noting this down, Daltrey said, ‘If you’re right, she left the bar on College Row at one thirty, and was shot to death thirty minutes later on River Street. Do either of you have any idea what she might have been doing down there?’

Her eyes welling, Bonnie shook her head, mutely.

‘No idea,’ Harper said.

‘Meeting the boyfriend?’ Daltrey suggested.

‘Her boyfriend lives in Garden City.’ Bonnie wiped a tear away with the side of her hand. ‘Naomi lives on 32nd Street. Those are both miles from downtown.’

Daltrey’s phone buzzed. She picked it up to look at the screen.

‘All right. That’s it for now, ladies.’ Pushing back her chair, she stood abruptly. ‘Leave your numbers with Dwayne, he’ll give you mine. Let me know if you think of anything you haven’t mentioned tonight. I’ll be in touch if I have more questions.’

She directed them toward the lobby. Dazed, Bonnie headed down the hall, but Harper hung back with Daltrey, who was turning out the lights in the interview room.

‘Was Naomi robbed? If she wasn’t, what happened to her phone? We know she had it before she left the bar.’

Daltrey fixed her with a cool look. ‘I don’t know why you’re still talking, McClain. I don’t give tips to turncoats.’

Harper flinched.

No matter how many times it happened, she never got used to it. The detectives who’d invited her to their parties, drunk beer with her, showed her pictures of their kids, now treated her like a criminal.

‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said, stiffly, and left the room.

She didn’t wait to hear Daltrey’s response. It was always the same with all of them these days.

Traitor.

Chapter Three

Five hours later, Harper walked into the newspaper’s offices, clutching a large black coffee and blinking in the sunlight flooding through the tall windows.

After leaving the police station, she’d grabbed a few hours’ rest in Bonnie’s insanely pink spare room. She’d crept out early to go home for a shower and change of clothes before heading to work, and she felt like she hadn’t slept at all.

The newsroom was busy and loud, with twelve writers and editors all typing and talking at once.

With its rabbit warren of corridors and narrow staircases, the sprawling, century-old building was designed to be a boarding house rather than a newspaper but, despite its worn edges, there was something undeniably grand about the place. This was most true of the newsroom, with its sturdy white columns and tall windows overlooking the river.

The reporters’ desks were set in rows, overlooked by three editors’ desks at the far end of the room and, beyond them, the glassed-in office of the paper’s managing editor, Paul Dells.

Harper’s desk was midway down the row closest to the windows. She’d had this prime position since the last round of layoffs removed many of the paper’s senior writers two years ago, and left the newsroom half empty.

As soon as she set her coffee down, DJ Gonzales spun his chair around to face her. His wavy dark hair was even more unruly than usual.

‘What are you doing here this early?’ he asked accusingly. ‘I thought you burned in daylight.’

‘I’m not a vampire, DJ,’ she told him, dropping into her seat. ‘I work nights. We’ve had this conversation.’

She switched on her computer with a move so automatic she couldn’t remember doing it two seconds later and took a sip of coffee.

‘Christ, I’m tired,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.

DJ rolled closer. ‘Were you up all night on this murder everyone’s talking about?’

Harper waved her coffee in affirmation.

He didn’t try to disguise his envy. DJ worked the education beat. He found Harper’s work endlessly glamorous.

‘Sounds like a juicy one. It was all over the TV this morning. You’re going to own tomorrow’s front page.’ His tone was wistful. ‘I can’t believe some chick got capped right in the middle of River Street.’

‘I can’t believe people still say “capped”,’ she replied.

‘Is it out of fashion?’ DJ sounded surprised. ‘I thought it was cutting edge.’

‘Harper.’

At the sound of Emma Baxter’s sharp bark from the front of the room, DJ spun his chair back toward his desk with pinpoint precision, and ducked behind his computer screen as if it were a shield.

The city editor strode across the room, her blunt-cut dark hair swinging against the shoulders of her navy blazer. Dells was right behind her.

‘Crap,’ Harper whispered.

The managing editor usually didn’t get involved in the crime beat. But this one must be big enough to attract his attention.

‘What’ve you got on River Street?’ Baxter asked as she neared Harper’s desk. ‘Why does Miles say you know the victim?’

Out of the corner of her eye, Harper saw DJ’s head bob up.

‘I don’t really know her. I just happened to be in the bar where she works last night,’ Harper explained, glancing at Dells.

‘Perfect,’ Baxter snapped. ‘Do me a first-person, emotional account – “A Brush With Death”. It can run alongside your main piece on the shooting.’

Dells stepped forward. As always, he was impeccably dressed, in a dark-blue suit with a crisp white shirt that looked like it cost more than her car, and a pale blue silk tie. His dark hair was neatly styled.

‘What do we know so far?’ he asked. ‘The TV stations haven’t got much.’

‘The dead woman is Naomi Scott – a second-year law student.’ Harper flipped open her notebook. ‘Seemed to be your basic all-American girl. Left work at one thirty, died of two gunshot wounds. Found with her purse but not her phone. Cops aren’t saying if it was robbery. Nobody knows what the hell she was doing down by the river.’

‘Do we know who her family is?’ Dells asked. ‘Are they locals?’

‘I think so,’ Harper said. ‘Her father’s Jerrod Scott, I’m trying to track him down now.’

Baxter peered at the half-empty notebook. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

‘Come on.’ A defensive note entered Harper’s voice: ‘I was in the police station half the night.’

‘We’re holding most of the front page for this,’ Dells told her. ‘The TV stations are going to be all over it.’

‘I’ll start making calls,’ Harper said.

‘Good.’ Baxter’s tone was brisk. ‘I want to know who this girl was. If she was so perfect, how’d she end up dead in the street at two in the morning? Call the mayor’s office. Ask her what she’s going to do about people getting shot in the middle of the damned tourist district.’

Dells headed back to his office. Baxter followed, turning so fast her jacket flew off one bony shoulder.

Her last words floated behind her like a cluster bomb: ‘Do it fast. We need something for the website, now.’

When they were gone, DJ swung around to look at Harper, brown eyes wide behind smudged, wire-framed glasses.

‘Dude. You drank in her bar and then she died?’

Harper nodded.

He looked impressed. ‘Tell me something – do you ever think you might be cursed?’

Shooting him a withering glance, Harper logged in to her computer.

‘I’m busy, DJ.’

‘I’m only saying it’s worth a thought,’ he said, spinning back toward his own desk.

It was a bad joke but, as Harper hurriedly checked out the stories about the shooting on the local TV station websites, she found herself thinking about it, nonetheless. After all, Naomi wasn’t the first murder victim in her life.

The first murder victim had been her mother.

Harper had discovered her body on the kitchen floor when she was twelve years old. That still unsolved homicide set off a chain of events that led to her close relationship with the police.

It had also led to everything that happened last year, when Lieutenant Smith was convicted of a murder that had mirrored her mother’s killing in every way.

Breaking that story – and becoming part of it when she was shot by Smith – had raised Harper’s profile; ensuring her position at the newspaper, even in these shaky financial times.

Still, Baxter wasn’t one to stand on history. She needed a steady stream of juicy crime stories to anchor the front page. Even without police cooperation, Harper could provide that. She had her ways. She knew the system better than anyone.

As long as she could keep the headlines coming, her job was safe. She hoped.

Picking up the phone, Harper dialed the mayor’s office number. It rang five times before an assistant answered.

‘Thank you for calling Mayor Cantrelle’s office, how can I help you?’

‘This is Harper McClain at the Daily News. I’d like to ask the mayor some questions about the shooting on River Street last night.’

‘She’s in a meeting.’ The assistant’s tone indicated she wasn’t the first to call. ‘I’ll ask her to get back to you.’

‘Make it quick, would you? We’re in a rush.’

‘As I said,’ the assistant sounded unmoved, ‘she’s in a meeting.’

While she waited for the mayor to call her back, Harper opened an internet search engine and typed: ‘Naomi Scott’.

A flood of false returns filled her screen. A blogger with 40,000 Twitter followers dominated, along with a Chicago attorney.

When she added ‘Savannah’ to the search, though, she found what she was looking for.

It was a social networking site for students at the Savannah State College. The picture on Naomi’s page was arresting. Her shoulder-length black hair hung loose in waves. Her unblemished skin, high cheekbones and huge, cinnamon eyes gave her an ethereal beauty.

Harper stared at the familiar face for a moment.

‘What did you get yourself into?’ she murmured.

The short bio beneath the image said: ‘Young, free, and ambitious. Ready to change the world.’

It listed her area of study as criminal law. The only other information was a phone number and a student email address.

Leaving the landline open for the mayor’s call, Harper picked up her cell and dialed Naomi’s number.

It went straight to voicemail.

‘Hi. This is Naomi. Leave a message.’

Hearing the dead woman’s familiar voice was chilling.

Harper hung up and then immediately dialed another number. This one she knew by heart. As it rang, she stared at the picture of the vibrant young woman with her challenging eyes.

The ringing stopped abruptly. ‘Savannah Police Public Information.’

The voice was male and breathless – as if he’d snatched up the phone while running in search of a fire extinguisher. She could hear other voices in the background and people typing – the sounds of a busy office.

‘This is Harper McClain,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for whatever you’ve got on the Naomi Scott murder from last night.’

‘You and everybody else,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘The basics. Got any suspects?’

‘Nothing I can tell you on that.’

‘You looking for the boyfriend?’ she tried, already knowing the answer but also suspecting he wouldn’t verify it on the record.

He snorted a laugh. ‘Is this some sort of hoax? Or do you have any real questions?’

Harper tried a new angle. ‘Could you verify that her wallet was found in her bag?’

She heard him typing something.

‘That’s affirmative,’ he said.

‘Money in the wallet?’ she asked, propping the phone under her chin as she made notes.

‘Affirmative.’

In that case, it definitely wasn’t a robbery. Miles’s source had been right.

‘But her phone was MIA?’ she pushed it.

‘That is what it says on my screen,’ he said, adding, ‘Right now we don’t know if she lost it, left it at home, or got shot for it.’

Harper knew she hadn’t left it at home. Bonnie had seen Naomi take a call less than an hour before she left work.

‘Any witnesses?’

There was a pause, and she heard him clicking keys on his computer.

‘Negative,’ he said, after a second. ‘No witnesses have come forward. The body was found by two members of the public, walking home from a party at the Hyatt hotel.’

‘Can you give me their names?’ she asked.

‘Oh sure,’ his tone was sarcastic. ‘And would you like perfume on your birthday, or do you prefer flowers?’

‘Please?’ Harper begged. ‘Just one name?’

He made an exasperated sound. ‘You know I can’t tell you that, McClain.’

Through the line, she could hear another phone ringing.

‘Is that everything?’ His voice was impatient. ‘I’m a popular man today.’

‘I guess that’s it –’

Before she’d even finished the sentence, the phone went dead in her hand.

Well, at least, thanks to Bonnie, she had the father’s name. And the internet had given her his phone number.

She dialed the number and waited as it rang and rang. After eight rings, she hung up.

If she couldn’t reach family, she’d need to find someone else. But she had enough for the website now.

Turning to her computer, she quickly wrote up a short, sparse news story about the shooting.

Murder on River Street

By Harper McClain

The city was shaken in the early hours of this morning by news of a murder at the very heart of the city’s tourism district.

The victim was Naomi Scott, 24, a law student who also worked as a bartender at the Library Bar on College Row. Police say she was shot twice, at around two o’clock Wednesday morning.

No motive has been determined at this time, although robbery is unlikely.

As this story was being written, detectives were still looking into the details of the crime.

The body was discovered minutes after the murder by two members of the public. Police say no witnesses to the crime have come forward.

Calls for comment to Mayor Melinda Cantrelle’s office were not immediately returned.

She’d just sent the story across to Baxter when her phone rang.

‘McClain,’ she said, throwing her empty coffee cup in the bin.

‘Now look, Harper, my office will be issuing a statement at ten thirty. Don’t you dare write that I’m not replying, or that I’m trying to dodge this murder case.’

Mayor Melinda Cantrelle had a distinctive voice – rich and resonant, made for television. In fact, twenty years ago, she’d started her career anchoring the morning news on a local station. That experience gave her an air of cultivated calm most of the time, and she had a made-for-TV smile. But today she was talking fast, her words short and clipped.

Harper fired a quick message to Baxter: ‘Hold the story. Mayor on phone.’ And then leaned back in her chair, propping a notebook on her knee.

‘Of course not, Mayor Cantrelle,’ she said sweetly. ‘But the first story will go up on the website any minute now and I can’t have our readers think I didn’t try to reach you.’

‘Oh come on, Harper …’ The mayor did not sound happy.

‘Can’t you give me something small?’ Harper cajoled. ‘What does this murder mean for tourism? And will you be sending more police downtown? Anything like that would be enough to get that “no comment” out of my story.’

There was a long pause, during which Harper suspected the mayor was fighting to control her temper. She’d taken over the city leadership a year earlier, and Harper almost liked her – she had a blunt approach that, if nothing else, gave the appearance of honesty. At forty-five, she was younger than the gray-haired men who normally served as mayor, and she was still new enough at her job to pick up the phone at times like these.

‘The police have informed me they are searching for a suspect,’ the mayor said smoothly. ‘We believe this to be a family incident. It would be inappropriate for me to comment further while the investigation is underway. But we intend to get to the bottom of this, I can promise you that. I consider it my number one job to keep visitors and residents here safe.’

Harper wrote as she talked, pen skidding across her notepad.

‘A family incident? Can you be more specific?’ she asked, not looking up from the page. ‘You’re not saying her father had something to do with it, are you?’

‘This is off the record.’ The mayor lowered her voice. ‘But I’m told the detectives are looking for her boyfriend. They think this was a personal thing.’

Someone spoke in the background, and the sound suddenly became muffled. When Cantrelle returned she sounded rushed.

‘Look, I’m afraid I have to go. We’ll be issuing a full statement in an hour. Cathy will email it over. Call her if you need anything else.’

When she’d hung up, Harper read over her notes.

As she’d suspected when Daltrey questioned them last night, they thought it was the boyfriend.

She flipped through her notepad until she found his name: Wilson Shepherd.

It wasn’t a surprise. The vast majority of murdered women are killed by someone close to them – husband, boyfriend, friend. No more than one in ten murdered women are killed by someone they don’t know.

Harper had long thought women were afraid of the wrong thing. Women are scared of the hooded teen at a gas station, or the unknown man walking down the dark street late at night.

They should be afraid of their husbands.

When you get right down to it, if you’re a woman, being killed by someone you love is the most ordinary murder of all.

This was bad news. The paper hardly covered domestic violence.

‘There’s nothing there,’ Baxter had said, more than once. ‘No one wants to read about that stuff.’

She wasn’t wrong.

A random murder is a threat to everyone. It’s lawlessness in the streets.

But if a woman’s ex-boyfriend shoots her? Well. She should have made better choices.

If Naomi Scott was killed by Wilson Shepherd it would move the story to page six within a couple of days.

Harper kept trying to remember if she’d met Naomi’s boyfriend. Her mind summoned an image of a serious, chubby-cheeked guy, neatly dressed, sitting quietly at one end of the bar.

Otherwise, she knew nothing about him.

Before she’d gone to sleep last night, she’d asked Bonnie what she knew about him. All she’d said was that they met at school. She’d been so worn out Harper hadn’t wanted to push it.

She’d still be asleep now. But later today, she could see if she remembered more.

For now, she searched his name in the newspaper database and came up empty.

Staring at the empty screen, she tapped her fingers against the desk. She’d done all she could in the office. It was time to go hunting.

After typing up a quick update with the mayor’s statement and sending it through to the editor, she grabbed her scanner and stood up.

DJ glanced at her enquiringly.

‘I’m heading out,’ she said, stuffing a fresh notebook in her pocket. ‘If Baxter comes looking for me, tell her I’m off to find a killer.’

Chapter Four

When she stepped out of the newspaper office, the sun was fierce. Humidity hung so thick it left a white haze in the air, giving the gold dome of the City Hall an oddly electric shimmer in the distance.

August was always brutal, but this year it seemed even worse than usual. It had been over a hundred degrees every day for two weeks. The heat was relentless.

Harper shoved her auburn hair back, twisting it into a knot at the base of her neck as she surveyed the traffic backed up on Bay Street. She’d planned to get in her car and drive straight to The Library to try to find out more about Naomi and Wilson Shepherd, but it would take half an hour to get anywhere right now.

Instead, she walked toward the scene of the crime.

Already sweating, she threaded her way through stalled traffic, breathing in the acrid scent of exhaust and hot pavement. Whatever the mayor’s worries, news of the murder clearly hadn’t reached the city’s visitors yet. Tourists circulated in brightly colored crowds of T-shirts, baggy shorts and baseball caps, guidebooks shoved under arms.

As she headed down an uneven cobblestone ramp towards River Street, Harper was struck by the audacity of the murderer. All around her were people. Walking, strolling, driving. A Savannah Police car was stuck in traffic twenty feet away.

Even at two in the morning, this area would not have been empty. The Hyatt hotel stood nearby, overlooking the river. Hotels, restaurants, and apartment buildings surrounded her on all sides.

People were close the whole time.

Most murders take place in the shadows. They’re shameful acts hidden from prying eyes.

This hadn’t been a normal murder. This location made it a kind of public execution.

Down by the river, a breeze cooled her skin. The exhaust faded away, to be replaced by the smell of muddy water, and the cloying scent of burned sugar from the praline shops.

It was already busy. Kids ran through the riverfront plaza, oblivious to what had happened here a few hours ago. In the distance, a paddle-wheel riverboat, painted candy-cane red and white, sat waiting for passengers. A busker played the banjo, a battered top hat shading him from the sun as he jangled out a version of ‘Summertime’.

This was why the mayor was panicking. Why Harper and Baxter had both come to work seven hours early today.

The death of Naomi Scott threatened all of this.

Savannah lived or died by its tourist trade. A murder on this street put poison in the well.

Hurrying her pace, Harper walked down the narrow street, searching for the spot. It was hard to square the dark street from the night before with this bright, busy scene. It took a few minutes to find what she was searching for.

In the end, it was the ragged white remnants of crime tape that guided her, fluttering from the base of the lampposts.

From there, the crime scene was easy to find. Discarded latex gloves lay at the curb, along with other medical detritus, overlooked in the hasty clean-up in the dark.

The cobbles were damp – someone had hosed them down, trying to wash the evidence away. But blood stains everything it touches.

The darker stones showed clearly where the body had fallen.

She turned a full circle, oblivious to the tourists jostling her as they passed.

It didn’t make sense. Why had Naomi left The Library in the middle of the night and come here? Was she meeting her boyfriend, as the police suspected, only to be shot dead? And if so, why here of all places?

This was a crazy place for a murder.

Half an hour later, Harper parked the Camaro in a shady spot on a narrow lane on the other side of downtown.

Tucked away not far from the Savannah College of Art and Design, College Row was quiet and dingy during the day, littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts. The short alley served no purpose except to hold two bars and a small clothes shop, known for its quirky T-shirts.

The lights were off in the Library Bar when she walked up. Its sign – an open book with a martini glass perched on it – was unlit.

When she tried the door, Harper found it locked.

‘Hello?’ she called, knocking on the door. ‘Is anyone in there?’

No response. She knocked again, raising her voice.

‘Hello?’

This time, something inside stirred. She heard footsteps shuffling across the room.

After a minute, the door opened a crack.

A rumpled, lived-in face peered out at her.

Harper barely recognized Jim ‘Fitz’ Fitzgerald, the bar’s jovial owner. Normally, he was a natty dresser, with a penchant for tweed jackets, turned-up cuffs and crisp, white shirts. Today, he wore a flannel shirt and wrinkled slacks, his thick, graying hair waved wildly.

‘We’re closed right now,’ he told her, and began to shut the door.

Harper moved quickly, angling her body so it would have been rude – if not impossible – to close the door on her.

‘Hi, Fitz,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but I’m a friend of Bonnie’s. Harper McClain, from the newspaper?’

For a moment he didn’t react, but then recognition dawned.

‘You’re that police reporter,’ he said. ‘The one who got shot.’

Even from here, she could smell the medicinal tang of vodka on his breath.

‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘Look, I hate to bother you at a time like this, but I need to ask you a few questions about Naomi Scott.’

‘Oh, lord. I don’t know.’ He peered at her blearily. ‘Would you want to print this?’

‘I need someone who knows her to talk to me about the kind of person she was,’ she said, avoiding his question. ‘I only met her a few times, but I know she was a smart, kind person. I need someone to tell me who she was so people who never met her can understand.’

He studied her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I don’t know if her family would want me to talk.’

‘You’d be doing them a favor,’ she told him. And this, at least, was the truth. ‘They know how wonderful their daughter was but talking to me will be hard for them right now.’

He hesitated, leaning hard against the door, one hand still poised to push it shut.

‘I’d really appreciate your help.’ Harper held his gaze steadily.

Finally, he took a step back.

‘I guess you better come in. We’re letting the air out.’

Harper followed, closing the door behind her.

Inside it was dim and cool. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and beer.

Fitz shuffled to the bar and climbed unsteadily onto a stool in front of a tall glass filled with ice and clear liquid.

Harper perched on the stool next to his.

‘I can’t understand it.’ He turned to her, his face haunted beneath that tangle of hair. ‘She was right here last night.’ He pointed across the bar to the empty space in front of the bottles. ‘She was fine. Now, they say she’s dead.’

Ice rattled as he lifted the glass and took a long, shaky drink.

It was ten thirty in the morning. If he was already drunk, Harper couldn’t imagine what he’d be like a few hours later.

She needed him to talk quickly before he passed out.

‘What can you tell me about Naomi?’ she asked. ‘What was she really like?’

‘Oh, everyone who knew her will tell you she was a great kid.’ He stared into his glass. ‘And it’s true. Hard worker. Smart as hell. Always smiling. People came in here just to see her smile, I swear. And ambitious as hell. I thought she’d be president someday.’ He looked at her helplessly. ‘Who would do this to her? Can you tell me that much at least?’

He seemed genuinely grief-stricken.

To an extent, this fit with what Harper knew of him. She didn’t encounter Fitz often – he didn’t tend to hang around on the late shift, and she rarely arrived at the bar before one in the morning. But Bonnie always described him affectionately.

‘Fitz is everyone’s dad,’ she’d told Harper once. ‘He worries about me more than my own father does.’

Still, Naomi had only worked at the bar a few months. Harper was a little surprised at the intensity of his reaction.

‘Were you close to Naomi?’ she asked. ‘Did you know her family well?’

‘I met her dad a few times when he came to pick her up.’ He reached for his glass. ‘Can’t say I know him particularly well. But he’s a good man.’ He took a long drink, the ice rattling in his glass, before adding, morosely, ‘This’ll kill him.’

‘I know the police are on this,’ she told him. ‘They want to get this guy.’

‘They better get him.’

Reaching across the counter he swiped up a bottle from the other side and poured himself an unhealthy measure.

‘Can you tell me anything else about her?’ she asked.

He waved his glass.

‘Her mom passed a few years ago. Her dad’s a cab driver.’ He’d begun to slur his words. ‘She was an only child – she and her father were very close.’

He slapped his hand hard on the bar. ‘Dammit. This doesn’t make sense. I keep thinking someone will come in here and tell me it was a mistake. For a minute, that’s what I thought you were here for.’

‘What about her boyfriend?’ Harper asked. ‘Wilson Shepherd, isn’t that his name?’

‘Wilson?’ His gaze sharpened. ‘What about him?’

‘How long had they been together?’

‘A year maybe?’ He rubbed his face, his hand rasping across his unshaven jaw. ‘Poor old Wilson.’

‘The police think he did it,’ she told him, watching for his reaction.

‘What?’ His head jerked up, eyes wide in a drunken pantomime of shock. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘They’re looking for him now.’

‘Then they’re nuts.’ He was angry. ‘No way. They were crazy in love. He wouldn’t hurt Naomi.’

But the first hint of uncertainty had entered his voice. They both knew crazy in love people hurt each other all the time.

‘Did they ever fight?’ Harper asked. ‘Fall out over anything?’

‘Hell, I don’t know.’ He held up his hands. ‘I’m not the one she’d talk to about that. But she seemed happy with him. Except –’

He paused, thinking.

‘Except what?’ Harper pressed him.

But he wouldn’t be hurried. He gripped the glass tight, and rattled it, lost in his thoughts.

‘It’s probably nothing, but I’ve been going over it all in my head – trying to think of anything – something I should have noticed,’ he said, peering at her. ‘Only thing I can think of was something that happened a couple weeks ago. Struck me as strange. Seemed like nothing at the time, but now …’

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘It was a busy night. A Saturday. Naomi was helping Bonnie at the bar. Everything was fine, and then out of nowhere she came over to me and said she had to go right now. I wouldn’t have noticed, but she seemed real upset.’

Harper’s brow creased. ‘Did she tell you what happened?’

‘Sort of. We were packed. It was midnight. I mean, where could she have to go at midnight? I asked if she could at least stay half an hour. And she begged me – literally begged me. “Let me go, Fitz. I have to.” In the end, I gave in. Couldn’t stand to see her so upset. She was shaking. It was like she was scared or something. She ran out the door like the devil was on her tail. Didn’t even stop to take her apron off.’

‘Did you ever find out what she was scared of?’ she asked.

The lines in his craggy face deepened.

‘She was off the next three days. By the time she came back to work, I had other things on my mind.’ He looked at her. ‘You know how it is. You lose track.’

‘But after that she was fine?’

He made a vague gesture. ‘She seemed fine. Maybe a little more distracted than usual. But I figured it was school keeping her busy.’

Harper thought it over. ‘Are you saying that you think she was scared of Wilson?’

He glowered at her.

‘I’m saying I don’t know what happened but she was scared.’ He reached for his glass again. ‘Ah, hell. Why’m I yelling at you? It’s my own damn fault. If I’d thought to ask what was going on – why she was so scared that night – what was going on in her life … If I’d paid more attention …

‘She might still be alive.’

Chapter Five

After talking with Fitz, Harper went back to the newsroom to update her article and work the phones. The story moved quickly. At noon, the police formally identified Wilson Shepherd as a suspect on the run.

At a hastily convened press conference that afternoon, the police chief described him as ‘armed and dangerous’. In a message delivered directly to the news cameras, the chief asked Wilson to turn himself in.

‘Do it for your family,’ the chief said seriously. ‘Nobody else needs to get hurt.’

With the TV stations all in overdrive, several false reports came in of sightings around the city, but by eight o’clock that night, when things finally quieted down, his location remained unknown.

It was still four hours until the paper’s final deadline, but Harper had done all she could for now. She’d worked eleven hours straight on precious little sleep, and the exhaustion was taking its toll.

She stretched the tight knots in her shoulders and looked around blearily. The newsroom had emptied without her even noticing. Through the tall windows, the last rays of the sun were fading to rose and gold as she glanced at her watch, her brow creasing.

She’d been so busy there’d been no time even to check in on Bonnie.

She grabbed her phone.

Bonnie answered on the first ring.

‘Harper! You sneaked out while I was asleep, like a bad date.’

‘Hey.’ Harper fought a yawn. ‘You needed your sleep.’

‘If I’d been conscious I would have thanked you for looking out for me,’ Bonnie said. ‘I’m sorry I lost it when you were working.’

‘Don’t apologize. It was a shock seeing her there.’

‘I still can’t believe it.’ Bonnie sounded somber.

Harper hated to give her more bad news – but she had to know.

‘Have you been following the case? Do you know what’s happening?’

‘I heard about Wilson, if that’s what you mean.’ Bonnie let out a long breath. ‘It doesn’t make sense, Harper. He’s such a nice guy.’

Harper made a dismissive gesture. ‘Nice guys kill, too.’

That came out more sharply than she’d intended.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, instantly contrite. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘I’ll bet it has,’ Bonnie said. ‘Listen, Fitz has closed the bar for a couple of days. So, I’m around if you need me.’

‘I spoke to him today,’ Harper told her. ‘He was incredibly drunk.’

‘Yeah …’ Bonnie sighed. ‘He sounded sloshed when he called. I don’t blame him. Wouldn’t mind being drunk myself right now. I just wish I understood what the hell Naomi was doing down on River Street. When she left the bar, she said she was going home. I’ve been thinking about it all day. The way she left in a big hurry. Like she was late for something. What could she be late for in the middle of the night?’

This sounded strikingly similar to the story Fitz had told her about another night when Naomi left early, in a rush.

Harper straightened. ‘Did she say anything to you when she left? Was she meeting Wilson Shepherd?’

‘All she said was she needed to go right away; something had come up. She was really urgent about it.’ She paused. ‘The only thing was, thinking back, it seems to me that … I don’t know. Something didn’t feel right.’

‘What do you mean?’ Harper picked up a pen.

‘Maybe I’m adding this to my memories because I know what happened later,’ Bonnie cautioned, ‘but she seemed jittery. Like, she was trying to be normal but she was nervous. Almost like she was scared of something.’

Her words mirrored Fitz’s, precisely.

‘You know, Fitz told me a similar story earlier today. The same thing – Naomi leaving on a busy night, without warning. Being scared. He said it happened a few weeks ago. Do you remember that?’

‘No.’ Bonnie sounded surprised. ‘I must not have worked that night. He didn’t mention it to me.’

‘He said he more or less forgot about it after that night. But something was going on in Naomi’s life. Someone scared her. And they scared her enough that she kept it to herself.’

Harper paused, the pen hovering above a blank sheet of paper.

‘Did she ever tell you she was afraid of Wilson? Did they fight?’

‘She never said anything like that,’ Bonnie said. ‘I always thought they were happy. But, like I said last night to that detective, Wilson hasn’t been around much lately. I thought they were taking a break because school and work were so busy.’

Harper considered this. ‘Maybe Wilson didn’t want to take a break.’

‘You think he was mad enough about a break to kill the girl he loved?’ Bonnie was skeptical.

‘Wouldn’t be the first time it happened.’

‘I just don’t see it,’ Bonnie said. ‘He’s not the type.’

‘They’re all the type.’

‘God, Harper. You’re so cynical,’ Bonnie chided. ‘This is why you don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘This is why I’m still alive,’ Harper replied without missing a beat.

As she spoke, she wrote one word in her notebook and underlined it: Motive.

‘The thing is, if it wasn’t Wilson, who was it?’ she asked. ‘There’s no way she was caught up in drugs or gangs, is there?’

Bonnie gave a husky laugh. ‘Oh, hell no, Harper. Naomi was a Girl Scout. I could hardly get a beer down her.’

Dropping the pen, Harper rubbed her forehead.

It just didn’t make sense. Girl Scouts did not go to River Street at two in the morning to get themselves shot.

It was becoming clearer that Naomi had secrets. She’d kept them well. And somehow it had gotten her killed.

‘Look,’ Harper said, ‘if you think of anything else, let me know.’

‘I will,’ Bonnie promised, adding as an afterthought, ‘Oh, God, I almost forgot to mention. I went to see Naomi’s dad. He wants to talk to you.’

Harper nearly dropped the phone.

‘You met her father? I’ve been trying to reach him all day.’

‘Yeah, I went to his house to give him my condolences. I couldn’t reach him on the phone,’ Bonnie said. ‘His address was in our records at the bar – Naomi still had her pay slips sent there. He told me he turned his phone off because it won’t stop ringing.’

Harper didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’d called Jerrod Scott at least five times today without success. And Bonnie had just walked right in.

‘What’d he say?’ She couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice.

‘Yeah. He’s real upset about Wilson,’ Bonnie said. ‘Says there’s no way it was him, but the cops won’t listen. I told him he should talk to you. I gave him your number. I hope that was okay.’

Harper could have kissed her.

She’d dropped the hottest interview in town right in her lap.

When she hung up the phone, Harper climbed to her feet.

It had been twelve hours since the last time she ate anything more substantial than a candy bar. Her stomach felt hollow.

Shoving her scanner and phone into her bag, she headed across the empty newsroom.

Baxter was at her desk, typing furiously, her face creased with concentration. Dells had finally gone home a couple of hours ago.

‘I’m going to grab some food,’ Harper announced. ‘It’s gone quiet.’

‘Could you keep your phone on, for a change?’ Baxter’s tone was peevish. ‘I will personally fire you if I can’t reach you.’

‘You sweet talker,’ Harper said, heading out the door.

There was no point in arguing. They both knew Harper would keep everything turned on tonight.

The guard glanced at her without interest as she pushed the button that unlocked the double glass doors and stepped into the dark street.

Outside, the muggy evening air hit her like a warm, soft fist. Even this late, it wasn’t cool. Night merely took the edge off the heat.

The streets were quiet at last. The air carried the faint syncopation of music from one of the River Street bars, which were filled at this hour with people whose nights involved something other than murder.

Harper had parked her ageing red Camaro in front of the newspaper building, and the engine started with a pleasing rumble. The car had nearly a hundred and thirty thousand miles on the meter but Harper kept it in mint condition.

She loved only a few things in this world and her car was one of them.

As she drove, she kept the window down, hoping the fresh air would revive her. The scanner propped in a holder on the dash buzzed and crackled with a constant stream of information. Her mind sorted through the noise for anything about Wilson Shepherd.

After years of listening to it non-stop, the codes used by the police were second nature to her.

‘Unit 498.’ A voice said.

The dispatcher replied after a second. ‘Unit 498, go ahead.’

‘Unit 498, I’m at the Code 5 on Veterans.’

Code 5 – car accident, Harper translated to herself.

‘Everybody’s pretty shook up,’ the cop said, in a deep southern drawl. ‘Better send a Code 10 to check them out.’

Code 10 was an ambulance, and Harper honed in on his voice for a minute. But he never came back to ask for backup.

She was hungry and tired, and she wasn’t about to go out to a wreck where everyone was shaken up. She needed more than that.

‘Death and destruction,’ she murmured to herself, as she pulled the car into the parking lot at Eddie’s 24-Hour Diner. ‘I don’t get out of bed for less.’

When she walked in the door, a bell jangled merrily but nobody could hear it above the Everly Brothers blasting from the stereo.

Eddie’s was a retro diner, with vinyl and chrome booths, and waitresses with perky ponytails wearing high-collared blouses and tight jeans.

Harper signaled to one, who bounded up to her, dark hair swishing.

‘Can I get you a table?’

Her bright eyes skimmed Harper’s face, and took on a sympathetic glint. It occurred to Harper that she must look like hell. Her hair hadn’t been brushed since she left the house this morning.

The waitress was young – her scarlet lipstick annoyingly perfect.

She had no idea yet how hard a day could be.

‘I need food to go,’ Harper told her. ‘A turkey sandwich, no mayo, and fries. And the biggest coffee you’ve got, as black as you can make it.’

‘You got it.’ Pulling a pen from behind her ear, the girl scribbled the order down.

‘Take a seat,’ she chirped. ‘I’ll get it out to you in a jiffy.’

When she’d disappeared into the kitchen, Harper sat on a padded bench by the door.

The restaurant was mostly empty. The music played loudly for no one.

The bench wasn’t that comfortable but, at this stage, she could have slept in the middle of the highway in rush hour. She leaned back against the wall, her eyelids drooping. Even her hands seemed to have weight.

Feeling herself drifting, she jerked upright.

Busy. She needed to stay busy.

Pulling her scanner out of her bag, she plugged her earbuds in, turning it loud enough to hear it over the music.

The usual chatter filled her head and she forced herself to listen. She was half-asleep when a female voice said, ‘Unit 364.’

‘Unit 364 go ahead,’ came the crisp voice of the dispatcher.

‘Signal 25 in the 34000 block of Abercorn Street. I’ve got a white Ford pickup, stand by for the license.’

Signal 25, Harper thought, distantly, her eyes drifting shut. Traffic stop.

Other voices came and went. Then, without warning, the female officer’s voice returned, breathless and high-pitched, words pouring out.

‘I need backup on Abercorn Street. Send them fast. I’ve got the River Street shooting suspect in a white Toyota pickup truck. He’s got a gun.’

Chapter Six

Harper jumped to her feet.

‘Copy, Unit 364,’ the dispatcher replied, in the same flat tone she’d used earlier to acknowledge another officer’s refueling break.

The waitress was walking back now, a bag in her hand, that perfect, symmetrical smile already in place.

The dispatcher put out the call. ‘All available units to the 34000 block of Abercorn to assist Unit 364 with a fugitive arrest. Be aware: Suspect is wanted for homicide. Suspect is armed and dangerous. All units Code 30.’

Code 30: blue lights and sirens.

The dispatcher was so calm, only someone who listened to this radio every day of her life could hear the tension in her voice.

Pulling her keys from her pocket, Harper turned for the door.

The waitress stepped smoothly in her path, blocking her.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ Harper said, trying to push past.

‘It’s already made.’ The waitress – her smile disappearing – pressed her back against the door handle so Harper couldn’t reach it. ‘You have to pay or I’ve got to call the cops. Eddie’s got rules.’

Harper had underestimated her. There was more to the perky girl than a smile.

She didn’t have time to argue. Frantically, she dug in her pocket, pulling out a disordered pile of bills. She shoved them in the woman’s neatly manicured hands without counting them.

‘If it isn’t enough, call the Daily News, ask for Harper,’ she told her. ‘But not for another hour. I’ve got to go.’

‘What do you want me to do with the food?’ The waitress still clutched the bag.

‘Keep it,’ Harper said.

As an afterthought, though, she grabbed the cup.

‘I’ll take the coffee.’

The waitress stepped aside. Harper ran through the door and jumped into the car, pulling out her phone.

Miles answered on the first ring.

‘I’m on my way to Abercorn,’ he said. She could hear his police scanners in the background. ‘You?’

‘Leaving now.’ She started the car. ‘I’ll call Baxter. See you there.’

As the phone speed-dialed Baxter’s direct line, she backed out into the road.

‘Emma Baxter,’ the editor answered.

Harper hated to admit it but there was something comforting about the way Baxter could always be reached when the shit hit the fan.

‘Traffic cops just pulled over Wilson Shepherd on Abercorn.’ Harper raised her voice to be heard above the scanner and the engine. ‘Sounds like he’s putting up a fight. Miles and I are en route.’

‘I’ll tell the copy desk,’ Baxter told her. ‘We’ll hold the front page. Don’t do anything stupid, McClain.’

‘Never,’ Harper said, hanging up.

Dropping the phone, she pulled out onto the parkway so fast her tires squealed.

She wasn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline raced into her system faster than caffeine possibly could.

A story like this was as good as eight hours’ sleep. Better even. No drug ever invented could match it.

Every cop in the city was going to the same place she was. There was no one to pull her over. The speed limit was forty-five but she hit a hundred and stayed there until she saw flashing blue lights ahead. Then she tagged along behind them.

Abercorn carved a curving path across the edge of the city before pouring into the flat, coastal countryside. At the speed she was going it only took minutes before the crowded city streets outside the Camaro’s windows dissolved into lush green suburbs, scarred by strip malls and big box stores.

The police standoff was easy to locate. A dozen patrol cars blocked the road, lights flashing.

Harper slammed the car into park and jumped out, running through the haphazardly parked vehicles.

Miles had positioned himself behind an empty squad car.

‘Have they got him?’ Harper asked, breathless.

‘They do.’ Miles squinted through the viewfinder. ‘He just doesn’t know it yet.’

With his Canon balanced on the roof, he was focused on a crowd gathered around a pickup truck in the distance. The patrol car that had pulled it over earlier was parked behind it, blue lights still swirling.

The doors of both vehicles gaped open.

In the flickering blue lights, Wilson Shepherd stood facing a line of police officers. He was sweating and panicked.

A silver, semi-automatic handgun glittered as he aimed it at the cops, all of whom were pointing their guns at him.

Everyone was yelling.

‘Drop your weapon! Put down the gun! Drop it! Drop it now!’

Wilson ignored their commands.

‘I didn’t do it!’ he screamed back. ‘I didn’t kill Naomi – do you hear me? Does anyone hear me?’

‘Drop your goddamn weapon! No one will hear you until you drop that weapon!’

Miles tilted the camera to look at the images on the display, a frown creasing his forehead.

‘I need to get closer.’

He looked around, his face tense. They both knew time was everything right now.

‘There.’ Harper pointed to an empty space to the left of the pickup – protected by two trees, but with what looked like a clear view.

Miles nodded, tucking his camera under his arm. ‘Let’s go.’

Ducking low, the two of them threaded between the parked patrol cars. None of the police noticed them. Everyone was too focused on the scene unfolding.

Leaning against the tree to steady himself, Miles raised the Canon.

‘That’s better,’ he breathed.

They were so close, Harper could see the panic in Shepherd’s wide, frightened eyes as he swung the gun wildly.

It was impossible to square this Wilson Shepherd with the one she’d seen sitting at The Library, waiting for Naomi and nursing a beer.

He looked ten years older. His clothes were stained and disheveled. He appeared deranged, waving that gun at the police, tears and sweat streaming down his round cheeks; snot running from his nose.

‘No, no, no,’ he kept screaming hoarsely. ‘It wasn’t me. Why won’t you listen?’

The cops weren’t in any mood to do what he wanted. They were concentrating on that gun. Shouting constant commands in a kind of hyperactive, almost hypnotic wall of sound.

Harper wondered how long their patience would last.

Not long, as it turned out.

A shadow moved, low and slow, in the darkness to the left of the pickup’s front tire.

She touched Miles lightly on the arm, pointing.

Turning the camera, he zoomed in.

Glancing up at her, he whispered, ‘SWAT team.’

They both crouched low.

It happened quickly.

Two shadowy figures leaped onto Shepherd’s back with machine-perfect timing, knocking the gun loose, and sending him sprawling.

Harper was close enough to hear the sickening slap of his face hitting the pavement.

A uniformed officer kicked the gun away. Then the others descended on him.

With four adrenaline-fueled cops on top of him twisting his hands behind his back, Shepherd was done.

Through it all, though, he repeated the same words over and over like a mantra. Sobbing them into the ground.

‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.’

Miles jumped to his feet. ‘Let’s get closer.’

But the two of them had taken only a few steps from the sheltering trees when a cop, large and sweaty, wired from the excitement of the arrest, moved in on them.

‘Get back,’ he ordered.

Harper didn’t like the look of him. Cops get itchy whenever they’ve had to pull their weapons.

This one’s hand was dangerously close to his holster.

She and Miles took an automatic step back into the glow of the headlights.

To her surprise, the cop’s demeanor changed abruptly.

‘Oh, hey, Miles,’ he said. ‘I didn’t recognize you in the dark. How’s it going?’

‘I’m great, Bob,’ Miles said, keeping his hands clearly in view nonetheless. ‘Trying to get the front-page picture for tomorrow’s paper.’

‘You go ahead.’ Bob waved him on. ‘Try to stay out of their way.’

‘I’ll keep my distance,’ Miles promised.

‘Be sure and get my good side,’ Bob joked, turning sideways.

Laughing politely, Miles moved past him toward the crowd of cops who were now lifting Shepherd to his feet.

When Harper started to follow, though, Bob’s pleasant demeanor evaporated.

‘I didn’t say you could get closer.’ The warmth left his voice. ‘Traitors stay at the edge. In fact …’ He pointed behind the row of parked patrol cars. ‘Why don’t you go over there?’

‘Come on,’ Harper pleaded. ‘I won’t get in the way. Can’t you give me a break?’

Bob’s face hardened.

‘I don’t have to do a thing for you,’ he said. ‘And right now, you’re trespassing on a crime scene and failing to obey an officer. Actually, you got some ID? I’m writing you up for disorderly conduct.’

‘What?’ Harper couldn’t believe it. The cops always harassed her these days, but they didn’t go this far.

She squared up to him. ‘You can’t do that. I’m a member of the press. I have a right to be here. This is a public highway.’

His face reddened. He reached behind him to where his handcuffs hung from his utility belt.

‘That’s it. Turn around.’

Before she realized what he was planning, he grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her around and shoving her roughly against the nearest car.

Harper struggled, but he was twice her size. She never had a chance. Her face was pressed hard against the glass.

‘Goddamn it,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘Let me go, you dickhead.’

Suddenly, another voice spoke over her.

‘What’s going on, Bob? Caught yourself another suspect?’

This voice was cool and steady. It was saying all the right things, but with an underlay of threat that indicated the speaker didn’t like Bob very much.

With her face still pressed against the car, Harper couldn’t see anything.

But she knew that voice.

‘Well, Detective.’ Bob sounded defensive. ‘This reporter’s trespassing on the crime scene and refusing to obey orders. I’m arresting her for disorderly conduct.’

‘You are fully within your rights to do that, Bob,’ the other voice said. ‘She’s a handful, all right. But I gotta say the chief won’t like it. Her publisher will give him a hard time. They could sue the force for illegal arrest.’

‘She ignored an order.’ Bob sounded less confident now.

‘I hear you, but if you ask me, it’s not worth the hassle,’ the voice said. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you let her go. I’ll keep an eye on her. If she causes any trouble, I’ll take her in myself. Save you the paperwork. We got a deal?’

Harper twisted her neck, trying to see what was happening, but Bob’s meaty hand still held her head against the patrol car.

‘I guess so.’ Bob gave in reluctantly. ‘You want me to cuff her?’

‘No,’ the detective said, a hint of ice in his voice now. ‘I think I can handle her.’

‘If you say so.’

Slowly, Bob relinquished his hold on Harper’s head and hands.

Freed, she spun around, and looked straight into the calm blue eyes of Detective Luke Walker.

Chapter Seven

‘Thanks, Bob,’ Luke said, his eyes still on Harper. ‘You can get back to work now.’

Seeing that his game was over, Bob trundled away with slow reluctance.

Pinioned in Luke’s gaze, Harper was so flustered she couldn’t think of anything to say.

It had been nearly a year since the two of them last spoke. And more than a year since the last time they slept together.

‘What an idiot,’ she managed to sputter, finally.

‘I think it’s fair to say nobody’s ever accused Bob Kowalski of being smart,’ Luke agreed.

He looked annoyingly good.

His hair was cropped short, and his chiseled jaw clean-shaven. Only the suit was wrong. She’d rarely seen him in anything but jeans before.

And he’d just seen her nearly arrested.

All she could think of to do, was to fume.

‘Well, he’s gone too far,’ she said. ‘He had no right to do that. I’m filing a complaint this time. This has got to stop.’

Luke didn’t reply. Instead, he studied her, a faint smile on his face.

‘What?’ she asked, touching her face self-consciously.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Seeing you like this – so pissed off. I just thought … Some things never change.’

Harper didn’t know how to reply to that.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to meet when her makeup and hair were perfect, and she was wearing a carefully chosen outfit. They’d go out for coffee and he’d be sorry he dumped her.

That was how she’d imagined this moment for the last year.

In Harper’s dream meeting, they talked easily. Forgave each other for the sins of the past. And agreed to try again.

But then, nothing about their relationship had ever been dreamlike.

Their brief, passionate affair had started when she was investigating a murder and ended when she broke into the records room at police headquarters. Luke only found out about it after she got caught.

Tainted by his connection to her, he’d felt betrayed.

He’d walked away and, as far as she could tell, never looked back.

It had been easy not to run into each other, even by accident. He worked the late shift. She was going home when he clocked on. So, what was he doing here now?

‘I thought you were still on the graveyard shift,’ she said.

‘I’m moving to evenings,’ he said. ‘Bit of a promotion.’

Their eyes met and held. The moment felt weighted down with all their history. Harper wondered if he regretted it all as much as she did.

But there was no way she’d ever ask.

Luke cleared his throat.

‘This case is something else,’ he said, turning to look at where Shepherd was now being bundled into the back of a police car. ‘Did someone tell me you knew the victim?’

‘Only a little,’ she said. ‘The dead girl worked with my friend Bonnie at the Library Bar.’

‘Oh yeah. I’d forgotten you had a friend who worked there,’ he said. ‘You ever meet this guy?’

He pointed at Wilson, who was now in the car and still pleading his innocence through the glass.

Harper shrugged. ‘A couple of times. I sure didn’t know he had any of this in him. He always seemed like a nice guy.’

‘He doesn’t seem so nice now.’ Luke’s tone was dry.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I better get a move on. My part in this little drama’s about to kick off.’

Harper’s eyebrows winged up. ‘You’re interviewing Shepherd? Isn’t this Daltrey’s case?’

‘I’m partnering with her on it,’ he told her, pulling his keys from his pocket.

Harper kept her expression neutral but her mind was racing. If Luke took on this case, they’d see each other all the time.

‘Well, for what it’s worth, Bonnie swears he doesn’t have it in him,’ she said.

‘We’ll see.’ He gave her that slow, serious smile she remembered so well. ‘It was good running into you, Harper.’

‘Right back at you,’ she said, like it was no big deal. ‘Good luck with the new shift.’

He hesitated for a second, as if there was something else he wanted to tell her.

But then, lifting one hand in silent farewell, he turned and walked away with that easy, long-legged stride she knew she would always be able to pick out of a crowd of thousands.

It was one in the morning before Harper finally finished work and headed home.

Almost twenty-four hours had passed since she first heard about the body on River Street. Her head felt light from exhaustion. She gripped the wheel hard, eyes fixed on the blurring road.

All the way, she kept going over that meeting with Luke. Thinking of the things she should have said.

When she parked in her normal spot on East Jones Street, the raised, two-story Victorian house looked still and safe.

A young lawyer had moved in to the upstairs apartment a few months ago, replacing the group of art students who had previously occupied it. The lawyer worked a lot and kept reasonable hours. No more late-night parties that left the entire house smelling of pot smoke and incense. No more strange music permeating the ceiling at all hours.

To her own surprise, Harper missed the kids. The house was almost too quiet these days.

Her keys jangled as she fitted one after another into the three, high-security locks on the solid front door.

As the door opened, the burglar alarm gave a series of shrill, warning beeps, and she punched in the four-digit code that silenced it.

She’d had the alarm fitted after her apartment was broken into last year.

There hadn’t been another incident but she was hyper-aware that the person who’d done it hadn’t been identified. And she didn’t know what he wanted or why he’d targeted her.

She crossed the entrance hall to the living room and flipped on the lights.

Hardwood floors gleamed. There wasn’t much furniture – two dark gray sofas facing each other across a low coffee table. All of it hospital clean.

The place looked a bit like a furniture showroom, in part because everything still had a sheen of newness.

Almost all her previous furniture had been damaged in the break-in. After her insurance paid out, she’d replaced the lot. Doing it that way made sense but it gave her the occasional disconcerting sense that someone else lived here. And that this was their stuff.

From the kitchen, a small shadow darted toward her.

A sleek, gray tabby rubbed itself against her ankle.

‘Hey, Zuzu,’ Harper said, bending down to stroke her soft fur. ‘Did you chase away any burglars today?’

Purring, the cat led her to the kitchen.

She pulled a can from the half-empty cupboard, found a spoon in the dish drainer from that morning and put some tuna into her dish.

As the cat ate, she pulled a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey from the cupboard and poured a double shot into a water glass.

It had been a long time since she let herself think about Luke.

She’d underestimated how much it would hurt to see him, and not be anything special to him. Just a woman he used to know.

Their conversation had been so normal. They used to have conversations like that all the time. Until they ruined it.

She swallowed the whiskey neat and poured herself another.

One drink wouldn’t be enough. Not if she was going to think about this stuff. There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world.

The night Lieutenant Smith was arrested, Luke had been the one to come to her aid. After Smith shot her, it had been Luke who’d knelt over her body, trying to stop the bleeding.

She could remember every detail of that night. The fear in his voice. His hands trying to hold back the fountain of blood.

After that, though, he’d avoided her for weeks.

Finally, one day, he’d called her.

‘I’m sorry for disappearing on you,’ he’d said, far too casually. ‘We need to talk.’

He’d chosen a neutral spot – a bar neither of them frequented regularly. When she walked in and saw him sitting there, a bottle of beer untouched on the table in front of him she’d felt helpless with longing.

She could tell from the moment she sat down next to him that it was over. There were things she had to say though.

‘I wanted to thank you,’ she’d said, ‘for saving my life.’

He’d looked uncomfortable. ‘You don’t need to thank me. I was doing my job.’

‘Like hell you were,’ she’d said. ‘You risked your life for me. At least let me say thank you.’

Their eyes met and she felt the connection between them like a blast of furnace heat.

A muscle in his jaw fluttered – the only sign that he felt it, too.

‘I would have been there sooner, but I couldn’t get to my phone,’ he’d said, after a long silence. ‘I got your message too late.’

She wouldn’t let him downplay his role. ‘You were there when it mattered. I’m only sorry I had to drag you into it. I know it was the last thing you wanted.’

At that, his face hardened. ‘You getting hurt was the last thing I wanted. It didn’t have to happen. You’re just so damned stubborn …’

Stopping himself, he’d reached for his beer, taking a quick swig.

‘Luke, I hope you can understand why I did what I did,’ Harper pleaded, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘I truly believed I could solve my mother’s murder if I solved that case. I only wish there was some way I could make it up to you for everything I did that hurt you.’

She leaned forward, begging him to understand. Surely anyone who knew her history would see why it meant so much to her. Who wouldn’t push the limits to solve their own mother’s murder?

He’d looked up from his beer then, studying her with those enigmatic eyes – dark blue, like a midnight sky.

‘I know you do.’ His flat tone shattered her hopes. ‘But that’s not how things work. Trust doesn’t come back because you want it to. Some things you break can’t be fixed.’

They’d talked for a while after that, and then parted, knowing it was over.

They’d barely spoken again. Until tonight.

Raising the glass to her lips in a swift, economical movement, she downed the second whiskey, waiting as it traced a line of fire down her throat to her heart.

Some of the tension in her body released. She let out a long, shuddering breath.

He’d be working her shift from now on.

Maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Maybe they’d find a way to forgive each other.

But in her heart she knew that was only another dream.

Chapter Eight

The next day, Harper arrived at the newspaper at noon with no story to write.

There’d been a time when she could have called Detective Daltrey and teased a few snippets of information out of her, but those days were over.

After her conversation with Bonnie, she’d hoped Naomi Scott’s father might get in touch but, so far, her phone hadn’t rung. She’d tried his home number several times, but her calls went straight to voicemail.

She couldn’t blame him – his only daughter had died the day before. But still.

Dropping her bag next to her desk, she switched on her computer and turned her scanner on low, right as DJ walked into the room from the back hallway.

‘Not you again,’ he said cheerily.

Harper ignored this.

‘Is Baxter around? Please say no.’

‘OK. No,’ he replied, before adding with an apologetic wince, ‘But she is. She’s in Dells’s office right now. Why? What did you do?’

‘Nothing, and that’s the problem.’ Harper reached for her coffee. ‘I haven’t got anything new on River Street. My source didn’t come through.’

‘Oh, you’re screwed then,’ DJ assured her. ‘Because she’s been telling everyone the update will be live at one o’clock. Says you’ve got an exclusive with the dad.’

This was worse than she’d thought.

‘She’s going to kill me,’ Harper said. ‘The dad stood me up.’

‘Ah, bummer.’ Giving her a sympathetic glance, DJ turned back to his desk. ‘RIP, Harper. It was a great career while it lasted.’

Harper logged into the system and began searching local websites to see if any other news outlets had something she’d missed. Anything she could substitute instead of the father. But nobody seemed to have anything new. All news on the Scott case had stopped when Wilson Shepherd was arrested last night.

One article on a television website said Shepherd had a history of drug dealing, back in Atlanta. Harper made a note to look into that. It didn’t seem to fit the clean-cut, law student he’d always appeared to be.

But that was it. Just a line, buried in the middle of the article about his arrest.

The desk phone began ringing insistently but, absorbed in her research, Harper took her time before finally snatching it from its cradle.

‘McClain,’ she snapped.

‘Miss McClain, this is Gary at the front desk. There’s a man down here who says he needs to talk to you.’ He sounded irritated. Gary hated visitors. ‘His name’s not on the visitors’ list. Now, you know the rules about updating the list with any expected guests. It’s a security issue, Miss McClain. I keep telling you –’

Harper let her head drop back hard against her chair.

‘I’m not expecting a visitor, Gary,’ she said, cutting him off impatiently. ‘Who is it?’

‘Says his name’s Jerrod Scott. Should I send him away?’

Harper stood up so abruptly she knocked over her coffee, sending dark liquid flowing across her desk toward her scanner.

‘Don’t send him away for God’s sake.’ Her voice rose. ‘Send him right up.’

‘Fine,’ Gary sniffed. ‘But he should be on the list.’

Swearing under her breath, Harper set the phone down and threw a copy of yesterday’s paper on the spill.

Grabbing a clean notepad and pen from a drawer, she ran across the room, reaching the newsroom door just as a tall, thin man with dark skin and neatly cropped, graying hair walked in.

‘Mr Scott?’ Harper said.

He nodded, looking around the newsroom warily.

‘I’m here to see Harper McClain.’ His voice was deep, with a strong Savannah accent that gave her last name three syllables.

‘I’m Harper.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Scott.’

His fingers were long and sturdy, and his grip on her hand was so powerful it almost hurt. Up close she could see that his brown eyes were rimmed with red – from exhaustion and grief, she guessed.

‘Miss McClain. Your friend Bonnie told me I could trust you.’ His eyes searched her face with unexpected intensity. ‘Can I trust you?’

‘You can,’ she promised him, hoping it was true.

Conscious of the reporters watching this exchange curiously, she gestured for him to follow.

‘Come over here. Let’s talk.’

She led him to a quiet back corner of the newsroom.

Something about Scott – a kind of exhausted energy in his manner – told her she should get straight to the point.

‘I suppose you know about Wilson Shepherd’s arrest?’ Harper said.

His eyes rose to meet hers. ‘It was all over the front of the newspaper today. If I wanted to miss it I’d have to go blind.’

‘Bonnie told me you don’t think he killed your daughter,’ she said. ‘You still feel that way?’

He didn’t hesitate.

‘I am one hundred percent positive Wilson didn’t lay a finger on Naomi.’ His voice was firm. ‘That’s why I’m here. You have to do something about this situation.’

Harper thought of the Wilson she’d seen last night – waving a gun and screaming at the police.

‘I watched him get arrested last night,’ she told him. ‘He didn’t look very innocent to me.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ Scott fixed her with a stern look. ‘I know how he was when we got the news about Naomi. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. Grief …’ He paused – his eyes reddening. ‘Grief can break your mind as well as your heart.’

Harper knew this better than anyone. But what she’d seen last night had seemed beyond grief. Still, she didn’t want to argue with a man who’d just lost his daughter.

She studied his tired face. Deep lines were scored into his forehead. More radiated out from the corners of his mouth.

‘I hear you,’ she said.

Scott must have seen her doubt.

‘I know what you think, Miss McClain,’ he told her. ‘You think I’m a sad old man, who doesn’t know what’s going on right in front of him. But I’m telling you, the police arrested the wrong person. And while they’re so focused on Wilson, the real killer is walking free.’

‘Tell me why you believe he couldn’t do it.’ She reached for her notebook. ‘Do you know where he was that night? If you know someone who can vouch for where he was at the time of the shooting that would really help.’

He shook his head.

‘I don’t know where Wilson was when my girl was shot. What I know is, that boy would let a spider crawl across him before he’d hurt it. He’s got no killer in him, Miss McClain. And he loved my daughter.’

His voice broke and he pressed his fingers against his forehead.

‘Mr Scott.’ Harper softened her voice. ‘He had a gun when the police pulled him over. If it’s the weapon used in the murder, they’re going to charge him.’

He shook his head stubbornly.

‘You have to believe me. It was someone else. I know my Naomi was scared of someone. A man from school. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, or why she didn’t like him, but something about him made her afraid.’ He jutted his finger at her. ‘Find him. Find that man. Ask him your questions.’

Harper had hoped he’d have something concrete for her about Shepherd or Naomi – but random theories about unknown men the dead woman might have been anxious about … That wasn’t what she was looking for.

She tried to guide him back to what she needed.

‘First, tell me about Naomi and Wilson,’ she urged. ‘How did they meet? What brought them together?’ Seeing a rebellious look in his eyes she added quickly, ‘This will help me understand why you think Wilson couldn’t hurt her. I need to know more about them.’

‘Well.’ He rested his hands on his legs. ‘They met at college. And Naomi knew right away that he was special. She made her mind up fast about things, even when she was little. She decided she wanted to become a lawyer when she was ten. Watched some TV show and said, “That’s what I want to do, Daddy. I want to help people.”’

He smiled at the memory.

‘Being a lawyer – that was a big dream in our family. Maybe you know, but I drive a cab. My father, he lived outside Vidalia. Worked the land. Our family has always been working people. People who use their hands. Naomi wanted something different.’

He drew a breath, hands clenching convulsively.

‘She made straight As all her life, always top of her class. When the time came, she wanted to go away to college. Got a scholarship to UGA, over in Athens. But we couldn’t afford to send her. Housing’s too much over there. So she went to Savannah State, instead.’

His voice trailed off.

‘And that was where she met Wilson?’

He nodded slowly.

‘She worked part-time as a tutor for kids who were the first in their family to go to college. Some of them had a hard time fitting in, so the school had people like Naomi to guide them.’

He glanced at her.

‘Wilson – he got in trouble when he was a teenager. Got messed up with a gang back in Atlanta. Got caught dealing drugs. For a while, he was on the wrong path. By the time she met him, he’d cleaned himself up. Made up his mind to walk a true road. Came to Savannah to get away from that life. Wasn’t going to look back.’

His brow lowered as he tried to explain. ‘Kids like Wilson, they usually don’t find their way. He did, though. When Naomi met him, she knew he was intelligent. His grades were good – she helped him stay focused. In the end, she talked him into applying to law school at the same time she did.’

He gave a faint, wistful smile. ‘Tell you one thing, once that girl set her mind to something, nobody had a chance. Wilson knew better than to argue. They both got in, like she knew they would. Around then, that’s when they decided they were in love. After that, you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between them. They were always together.’

‘Did they fight?’ Harper suggested. ‘Get mad at each other about things?’

‘Every couple argues,’ he said. ‘But they never had a fight like you’re talking about. He never raised a hand against her. She’d never put up with that. Neither would I.’

‘Are you sure?’ Harper’s tone was skeptical. ‘We don’t tell our dads everything about our relationships.’

His held her gaze steadily.

‘Miss McClain, my wife died of breast cancer when Naomi was ten years old. She and me, we’ve always been close. We had to be. Closer than most fathers and daughters. The first time she got her period? She came to me. I took her to the drug store, got the things she needed. She got her first boyfriend? She talked to me about him. I made sure she knew the facts of life. When she met Wilson, she told me, “Daddy, I think I’m going to marry this man. His heart’s big enough for me.”’

His voice trembled, and he paused for a moment. When he looked up again, his face was shadowed.

‘If he ever hurt her, she’d have told me.’

So much about Naomi’s story sounded familiar. Harper knew what it was like to grow up without a mother. Only in her case, it hadn’t made her closer to her father. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Her father had been a suspect in her mother’s murder in the early days of the investigation. He was cleared of suspicion by the young paralegal in whose bed he’d been lingering while someone stabbed his wife to death in their kitchen.

Harper had never forgiven him.

She wondered what it was like to be so close to your father that you would confide everything to him. And she simply wasn’t convinced Naomi had been so open with her dad. It was clear that she had secrets.

‘Wilson often went to The Library to meet Naomi when she worked late,’ she said. ‘But in the last few weeks he hadn’t been there. Were they having some trouble?’

Scott’s brow lowered. ‘Who told you he wasn’t there?’

‘Bonnie,’ Harper said.

‘I don’t know about that.’ He rubbed a hand on his jaw. ‘She was so busy. Working and studying. But I’m sure they were fine.’

‘She didn’t say anything to you?’

He shook his head. ‘No. And if it was bad, I think she would have told me something.’

But, for the first time, he sounded uncertain.

There it was. Naomi’s secrets. Kept even from him.

‘Mr Scott,’ Harper leaned forward, ‘isn’t it possible they had a fight and Naomi didn’t tell you because she didn’t want to upset you? And someone like Wilson, with his background, maybe his temper snapped –’

He didn’t let her finish. ‘Ms McClain, I know what you’re thinking but if you keep looking at Wilson you’ll be looking at the wrong man, just like the police are.’ His voice trembled with frustration. ‘You need to find the other man. The one who scared her.’

Harper sighed.

‘Fine. Tell me about the man.’

He hesitated. ‘Now, you’re going to think I’m a liar because I told you she told me everything. But with this man, all she said was she wanted him out of her life. Told me he wasn’t a good person and that if I ever saw him I should walk away without even talking to him.’

This was exactly what Harper had feared. He wanted the murderer not to be Shepherd, so he was looking for anyone else to blame. Even some random guy his daughter didn’t like.

‘Do you have a name?’ she asked, trying not to sound as doubtful as she felt. ‘If you give it to me, I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘His name is Peyton Anderson,’ Scott told her. ‘His family’s big in this town. Maybe you heard of them …’

But Harper was no longer listening – she stared at him in stunned disbelief.

‘Do you mean Peyton Anderson as in the son of the district attorney?’ she asked, cutting him off.

‘That’s him.’ Scott nodded. ‘He’s the one Naomi was scared of.’

Harper couldn’t think of anything to say.

Randall Anderson had been District Attorney for twelve years before stepping down a year ago to join a private practice.

His family was part of the city’s old guard – with a patrician legacy and a palatial mansion near Forsyth Park. The Andersons were everywhere in Savannah – they were part of every major organization that ran the city.

The idea that his son could have somehow threatened Naomi Scott seemed bizarre.

‘You don’t know what happened between them?’ she asked, after a long pause.

He shook his head. ‘All I know is they were in law school together, they sometimes studied together in her first year. Then, something happened – he did something, I think – and after that she tried to avoid him. I know she complained to the school.’

Harper kept nodding politely but she could see exactly what was happening here. Scott was grasping at straws. He wanted the facts to change. He wanted Wilson to be the good boyfriend who loved his daughter. And he wanted a man he’d never met to be the killer.

Neither she, nor the police, could give him that.

‘Well,’ she said, closing her notebook, ‘I think I’ve got all I need. There’s plenty here for me to work with.’ She stood up. ‘I can’t thank you enough for coming in to talk to me about all this.’

He unfolded his long legs, and stood, a disappointed look in his eyes.

‘You think Wilson did it,’ he said sadly. ‘You’re going to tell people they have the right man.’

She opened her mouth to argue, but he shook his head.

‘It’s fine. The police didn’t believe me either.’ He pushed the chair carefully back into place. ‘I guess no one wants to believe.’

Not without evidence they don’t, Harper thought. But she couldn’t say that to him. He looked so defeated.

‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘I’ll dig around a little. See what I can find out. Just in case there’s anything there.’

Scott accepted this with quiet dignity.

‘Thing is, Miss McClain, whether you believe me or not, I know Wilson didn’t do this. And I intend to fight to see justice done. For my daughter’s sake.’

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