Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,98

of cheating with the business, or on his taxes. Good. Step One to getting Annabelle out of there. The situation had kept bugging him, these past year. It was the same, and it wasn’t. He could tell it wasn’t. It was worse.

“They found a body,” she said. “In a car.”

Drunk driving for sure. He’d killed someone, though?

Too many emotions in his brain. Annabelle’s. Jennifer’s. His. He had to get control of this.

He focused like it was the fourth quarter, with the championship on the line. Figure out what you have to do, and do it. “OK. What did they say, exactly?”

“They … the social worker … she’s still here. Because I’m a minor. She said murder. Harlan …” Some more unsteady breaths. Who had their dad hit? Who had he killed?

Oh, God. Let it not be a kid.

“The car …” Annabelle finally said. “It was where they’re building the new shopping center. On the Deane Road land. Dad was so mad when Mr. Boyd sold it a couple years ago, remember? He’s been mad about it ever since. Because Mr. Boyd got a lot for it, and Dad thought he should have held onto it after all. He said he got cheated, but how could Mr. Boyd have known the developer would want it? It was just regular land.”

“OK,” he said. “What else?” The cold was enveloping him now. He always paced when he talked on the phone, but now, he couldn’t move.

“They hit it with the excavator,” Annabelle said. “The car. When they started digging out the site. And then they called the cops. It was a … it was a Taurus. And there was somebody in the front seat.”

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

“Harlan,” she said. “It was Mom.”

31

What Matters Most

Something was very wrong.

She could see it in his posture. She could hear it in his voice. She could practically feel it in the air.

Sometime in there, she’d come to stand beside him. He glanced at her, then focused on the phone again and said, “OK. I’ll be there just as soon as I can. Have you called Alison?” A pause, and he said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call her. Vanessa, too. Look. Who’s that friend you’ve got? Kyla, right? Call her. Ask if she and her mom and can come over until I get there. If she’s not there, call your softball coach, and if she’s not there, call your volleyball coach. Somebody’ll be there, and they’ll come. And let me talk to that social worker. But—Bug. Hang on. I’m on my way. I’ve got this.”

When he hung up the phone at last, he looked shattered.

That was the only word. Like he was in a million pieces. He’d sounded steady and sure on the phone, but he didn’t look that way now.

She had her hand on his arm. “Harlan. What happened?”

He stared at her, but she couldn’t tell if he even saw her. “My dad’s been arrested for killing my mom.”

She had a hand at her mouth. “Oh, no. How? I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. I have to go. I have to book a jet. I have to …” He had a hand in his hair, and it was shaking.

She said, “You need to get something warmer to wear.” The rest of him was shaking, too. “A flannel shirt or something. And socks. I’m going to make coffee and sandwiches.”

“You can’t drink coffee. You’re pregnant. And I can’t. I need to arrange for a jet. Right now.”

“No, you don’t. I’m going to do it. Tell me which company you’re with, and then go get that warm shirt.” When he just stared at her, she gave him a little push. “Go. I’m doing it.”

That was why, fifteen minutes later, she was hanging up her phone, which she’d put on speaker while she worked. She put roast-beef sandwiches on two plates and told Harlan, who was sitting at the counter, “That’s the jet arranged. Wheels up in an hour and a half, and flight time two and a half hours. I’ll call and cancel that clinic appointment. We’ll do it another time.”

“No,” he said. He was eating his sandwich like he was starved. She got the fixings out again and started making him another one. “We should go on and do it. Get the answer.”

“Harlan …”

“No. It’s swabbing my cheek and doing a blood draw on you, right? It’ll take five minutes. You said the appointment was in an hour and a half. What’s that now? Forty-five minutes?”

“Well, yeah. I’m