Hell Hath No Fury Read online

  I need to know she’s okay, to see her with my own eyes for once.

  When I find a parking spot along one of the side streets off Howe Street, I stay on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. If anyone catches on to me, they’ll end up looking into Doc and Sara Jane. Doc can handle himself, but Sara Jane is the one I’ve always worried more about.

  Which is why I kept tabs on her. Mostly in the beginning, shortly after I left.

  She’d been run through the wringer by the press and shunned by other local business owners after I’d disappeared. They’d accused her of “helping a murderer escape,” and she’d come under such heavy criticism that she’d begun receiving death threats. Her home and shop had been vandalized multiple times. It was horrific witnessing that from the other side of the world. So, I knew I needed to do something.

  I’d had someone facilitate the rental agreement of the shop in downtown Southport for Sara Jane for the new location for her gallery. In that small city, with tourism growing exponentially each year, no one would care enough about the rumors that had plagued her from up in Seaside Cove. The owner of a ritzy art gallery on the main street running through downtown Southport would be enough of a draw, let alone Sara Jane’s gift of finding and displaying the most eclectic and beautiful art.

  The rental payment for a year in advance had been the incentive for the property management company to put a rush on things. I’d had the paperwork couriered to her with the rental agreement information and keys to the gallery with a simple note.

  Your new gallery is at 8413 South Howe Street in Southport. The Rental agreement is enclosed.

  Then I couldn’t resist adding:

  P.S. Always be aware of your surroundings.

  I’d wanted her to know it was legitimate. That it was from me even if I couldn’t say it outright. Sara Jane had known my father well and had been on the receiving end of that particular reminder every time she’d left our house during our high school years.

  “Always be aware of your surroundings, Sara Jane,” he’d remind her.

  “Yes, sir,” she’d reply with a smile. She never once rolled her eyes or got exasperated hearing him say the same thing countless times. She knew, just as I did, that he said it because he cared. Even if she wasn’t blood relation, he was still concerned with her safety.

  As years passed and we got older, Sara Jane enjoyed saying it back to my father. Looking back, I think it was their way of expressing their affection for one another.

  My best friend, who’d never had a father of her own, had loved mine. A man who’d so discreetly and delicately slipped past her initial defenses to show her exactly what having a dad was all about.

  And she’d been devastated right alongside me when we lost him.

  Drawing in a deep breath of the brisk air, I smooth down my gray hair and enter the gallery, the little tinkling bell sounding as I do.

  “I’ll be right with you!”

  As soon as I hear her voice, I clench my fists at the overwhelming urge to rush toward her and wrap her in my arms. To hug her and tell her that I miss her.

  To tell her how much her friendship meant to me.

  The saying about how life is short, so be sure to spend as much time cherishing the ones you love and tell them how you feel is true. The sad part is, the majority of people will repost that quote or click on the like button on social media and never follow through with the actual message.

  Deep down, the logical part of me knows Sara Jane realized I appreciated her and loved her and was grateful for her friendship. But I sure as hell never said it enough or hugged her nearly enough times.

  And goddammit, I fucking regret that down to the marrow of my bones.

  “Can I help you find anything in particular?”

  With my pageboy hat tugged low over my gray hair, my prosthetic nose and chin in place, and blue-colored contacts, I toss her the quickest of glances before returning my attention to a beautiful oil painting that adorns the wall before us. It depicts the Caswell Beach lighthouse.

  Schooling my voice to be huskier sounding, I reply with, “This is gorgeous.” And it’s the truth, but it also gives me an excuse not to look at her. I’m afraid if I do, she’ll somehow be able to see right past my disguises.

  “It’s from a local artist who lives out on Caswell Beach.” She pauses. “Are you local or visiting from out of town?”

  “Just visiting.” I peruse the next few displays intently.

  “Well, if you need anything or have any questions, I’m Sara Jane, so just give a little holler.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her heels rap a sharp, rapid staccato as she walks away, and with every click, click, click they make against the sleek tile floor, I ache to call her back. To say, It’s me!

  But I don’t.

  I can’t.

  The gallery is quiet, aside from the subdued sound of music playing in the background, and I’m currently the only customer.

  “Are you the owner of this gallery?” I call out over my shoulder.

  “Yes, ma’am. For, oh…a little less than seven years now.”

  “It’s a lovely place.” I love what you’ve done with it. It’s exactly what you wanted.

  “Thank you.” Pride and appreciation lace her tone.

  The bell over the door signals the arrival of another customer, and when I glance over, I catch sight of Sara Jane’s face lighting up, her smile one of utter happiness. Turning to see who it’s directed at, I watch as an attractive man strides up to the counter and leans over it to kiss her as if he’s done it a million times before.

  “Missed you, gorgeous.” His low murmur is subtle, but I hear the note of affection in his tone and see the undeniable adoration etched on his features.

  “I missed you, too.” Her smile is intimate and solely for him, and I feel like I’m intruding on some private moment I’m not supposed to witness.

  She has someone in her life, and she’s in love. As happy as it makes me, it simultaneously makes me so utterly heartbroken and sad because I’m not in on this. I wasn’t the one she confided in when she first met him or after their first date. She didn’t divulge the details of their first kiss.

  As selfish as it may be, I resent that I’m no longer a part of her life. That I’m not the best friend she vents to or dishes the details on “the sweetest things he does.”

  It hits me, right here in the gorgeous gallery that my best friend has created and flourished, that I need to let go. It’s long overdue.

  I can’t be her best friend while putting her in danger. I can’t continue to hold on to the past. She’s moved on and found happiness.

  It’s time.

  As I make my way to the exit, my eyes burn as I fight back the tears threatening to overflow and my heart seizes in pain. We used to fit, but now our pieces belong to different puzzles. Mine still belong to an unfinished puzzle that lacks life and color. It doesn’t depict a sunset or a tropical paradise. There’s nothing cheery about it.

  But hers… Hers is a true work of art, worthy of being displayed along these walls. Worthy of being purchased to adorn someone’s home.

  “Goodbye, Sara Jane,” I whisper as I lay my hand on the door and push it open.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” she calls out.

  I wave without looking back because I’m afraid if I do, I’ll end up rushing up to her and revealing my identity. I’ll upset the wonderful life that she’s made for herself. It’ll be tarnished all over again by me and my baggage just as it was seven years ago.

  So, I force myself to walk away.

  19

  The Hunter

  The second visit

  A sign with the name Art in Bloom etched in pastel colors hangs beneath the awning of the quaint shop in downtown Southport. From what I read earlier, Sara Jane Tillman owns this art gallery that “presents local artists’ work in a wide variety of mediums.”

  It looked like a swanky place from th
e website alone, and it doesn’t disappoint in person one bit.

  When I step inside the gallery, a little bell rings to alert my presence, and a woman gives a little wave from the counter in the back, offering me a warm smile before returning to her conversation, phone cradled between her cheek and shoulder as she writes something on a notepad.

  I busy myself by looking around. This storefront is on Howe Street, and because it’s on the main street bisecting the small downtown area, in a prime spot for shoppers, rent is around two grand.

  The Tillman woman didn’t have that kind of money nearly seven years ago. But now… I survey the gallery, and its impressive pieces confirm my theory. This woman had potential but needed an investor to get things off the ground.

  I couldn’t trace the money back to anyone, but I have a hunch—a gut feeling, of sorts—that it came from her “deceased” best friend.

  A tall man with jet-black hair approaches me. “Can I help you find anything while Sara Jane’s on the phone?” He offers his hand with an easy smile. “I’m Logan.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand before nodding to the one particular painting on the wall that caught my eye. “You guys only feature local artists?”

  “Yes, well… It’s actually not my gallery.” A sheepish smile spreads across his face. “Sara Jane’s my girlfriend, so I end up helping out a lot.”

  “Ah.” I give him a commiserating I know how that goes look. “Say no more.”

  He chuckles, and I continue scanning the artwork on display. Aside from the paintings, there are sculptures, some stained-glass mosaics, and ceramics. “Does she also display her work here?”

  I glance at Logan, and he grimaces. “She hates doing that. Thinks it’s a weird sort of nepotism since it’s her shop. But there is one…”

  When I hear Tillman ending the call, I turn with the intent to approach the counter, but something stops me dead in my tracks.

  One painting hangs below eye level as if the person who placed it there didn’t want it to garner any attention. Wisps of colored brushstrokes create an intriguing and compelling image. It’s likely the average person, with no knowledge of Tillman’s connection to Seaside Cove and Caitlin Ashford, wouldn’t recognize any resemblance.

  “But there is one…” Logan had said this only a moment earlier.

  This is the one. She’s immortalized her best friend in a way that has the viewer practically feeling the helplessness and sadness.

  Caitlin Ashford stares into the darkness, dark hair fanning across her shoulders. With deep creases between her brows and her top teeth faintly sinking into her bottom lip with worry, her brown eyes are filled with tears. What’s hidden and so subtle that it has me leaning closer are the finely detailed shadowed figures in her pupils: two are tall, and one is much shorter.

  Her father, husband, and daughter.

  “That’s, uh, not for sale.” The soft, feminine voice draws me from my intent study of the painting. When I turn, Tillman’s eyes are haunted, and she tears them from her work adorning the gallery wall. Her smile is forced and appears almost brittle. “Sorry, but that one’s special, so it’s a display for the store and not available for purchase.”

  “I understand.” Briefly offering another glance at the painting, I casually ask, “Is this woman a relative of yours? A friend?”

  Her expression grows wary. “She was my best friend.”

  Was. Past tense. I wince before offering a sympathetic, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She swallows hard before giving a curt nod. “Thank you.” Her tone is muted, and she clears her throat. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “No, I’m just browsing right now.”

  “Well”—she forces a brighter smile—“let us know if you have any questions or need anything.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  She and Logan quietly step away, leaving me to stare at the painting.

  There’s no mistaking this woman’s beauty, even amidst the emotions artfully displayed on her face.

  “She was my best friend.”

  It’s evident Sara Jane Tillman hasn’t been in touch with Caitlin Ashford and believes her to be dead.

  So, why the hell is my gut churning and telling me she’s wrong?

  20

  Her

  The brisk November wind whips through the maze-like array of stone slabs that surround me. I trace my fingertips over the engraved portion of the stone, tremors threatening to overtake me.

  Willow Memphis Ashford

  Beloved daughter and granddaughter

  “You’re not supposed to bury your child.” I barely choke out the words, staring down at the stone, unable to focus through the unshed tears. “I’d give anything to trade places with you, baby.”

  Dropping to my knees on the cold grass, I plant my palms flat against her gravestone. “I miss you so much. Your sweet little voice. Your giggle. The way you’d blow me kisses. How you’d always ask for snuggles.”

  My voice cracks, and I swallow hard before releasing a long breath before whispering, “I love you, Willow.” Closing my eyes, I lean my forehead against the cool stone and wish some sort of miracle would bring her back to me.

  No one ever thinks that everything they love and hold dear will end so abruptly. If I could go back, I’d risk waking her up once I tucked her in at night, just to get one more hug and kiss. I’d get more snuggles, tickle her more just to hear those little giggles, and wouldn’t even fathom inwardly groaning at watching her 300th cartwheel. Because nothing is guaranteed. No single moment is promised to us.

  The little girl who grew inside me, who instinctively recognized my voice when she was born and stopped crying when I spoke the words, “Hello, my sweet girl,” will never again hear me tell her how much I love her.

  I’ll never be able to reiterate once more how I’m sorry for raising my voice and losing my temper when she got marker on the couch even after I’d warned her not to use them anywhere except at the table.

  I’ll never have another chance to tell her how amazing she is. That she’s my heart and soul. That I would often just look at her and think, I love this girl so impossibly much.

  I hope she knows how much she was loved. How my heart lies in my chest in jagged pieces, and I’m unsure of how it’s still beating. I’d give my life to hold her in my arms again.

  I can’t pray or beg to God or gods, because I stopped believing in a higher power the day my family was ripped from me. The day I watched my daughter’s body be shredded with bullets. The moment I watched a courtroom and the very individuals tasked with ensuring justice be served purposely fail to do so. The moment I had to turn into someone else—into a killer—to right the wrongs of others.

  Finally, I drag myself to my feet and stand in front of Deacon’s gravestone.

  I smooth a palm over the top of the stone as my eyes trace over his name. Fierce determination is threaded in my voice when I murmur, “I’ll make them pay.” Then I move over to the matching gravestones, side-by-side—my mother and father.

  If only I could go back and have more father-daughter time, where we’d sit and have coffee and talk about everything and nothing all at once. He’d always manage to slip in some words of wisdom in each conversation.

  The faintest excuse of a wry smile tugs at the edges of my mouth. “Well, Dad, you’ll be proud I paid attention to everything you said and taught me.” Sobering, I stare down at where my father’s buried, steeling my spine as I whisper my promise. “I’ll make things right. Like you would if you were here.”

  And then we’ll all be together again. I don’t say it out loud, but it’s always been my plan. Once this is over, it’ll be the end for me.

  I’ve gone on long enough without them.

  21

  Her

  It’s the shittiest bar around. The one where fights break out and people start tossing cash wagers into the center of a table rather than people running to break the fight apart.
r />   It’s one where only three beers are on tap—Bud, PBR, and Coors. Where the liquor is shitty unless you’re important and then, and only then, will they reach for the locked cabinet beneath the counter to get the quality stuff.

  It’s the bar where people may enter and never leave. Where the women who are desperate and starving use their bodies to pay for food or the ones who simply fuck to get their next fix. Where women, down on their luck, find themselves drowning their sorrows in a place they know no one will recognize them. They’re weak little rabbits, in the worst place possible.

  A den brimming with wolves eager to devour them.

  This bar is where bad men gather to shoot the shit, where they feel relaxed enough to settle back and have a few drinks.

  This is where a few of the Dixie Mafia bastards go, which means it’s where I need to be. But not before I’ve readied myself.

  “Haven’t seen you ’round here. You new?”

  I barely cast the man with rancid stale beer breath a glance before returning my deliberately forlorn attention to my glass filled with two fingers of whiskey sitting on the sticky bar top. Clutching my drink like it’s a lifeline, I keep my shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world presses down on them.

  I’ve already brought one wolf to my doorstep, but I’m waiting for the biggest, baddest one to come. He often preys on Judge Milton’s castaways—after the “esteemed” man discards them once he’s deemed them no longer shiny and new—and other troubled, vulnerable girls. They reel them in by assuming a nurturing façade, only to brutally rape them.

  He’s been eyeing me for the past twenty minutes I’ve been sitting on this stool at the far end of the bar, the mirrored wall granting me easy observation.