Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,71
More relaxed. And I can tell he’s slowing his speed to something reasonable. “I love you, Gwen.”
“I love you too. Please get home safe.”
“Oh,” Vee says as I hang up the call. “He ain’t here? Wow. Guess I really did put my foot in it. Y’all didn’t have a fight, did you?”
“No, Vee, we didn’t have a fight.” In her world, violent breakups seem far more likely than happy relationships. “You didn’t just come here to make out with my daughter, did you?”
“What? That’s ridiculous.” She lies pretty well, now that she’s settled. “I wanted to tell you about the flyer in my neighborhood. And make sure everything was okay here.”
“And you wanted to tell me something you found out,” Lanny says from the hallway. How long she’s been there, I don’t know. She’s looking at Vee with very adult eyes right now. “That was really, really dumb, Vee.”
“I know. Sorry.” Lanny sinks down on the couch near Vee, but not next to her. I notice the space. So does Vee. “You’re mad.”
“Disappointed. What did you find out?”
I shift my weight as the meaning of that hits me. “Wait, what? What is Vee doing looking into anything?”
“Vee,” Vee says primly, “is helping. I told you I had a part-time job, didn’t I? Well. I work for Mailboxes For You, the one with all the storefronts all over town, which Lanta says is where you got mailed something you wanted to trace—”
“Wait, what? How do you know about that, Lanny?”
“I’m not blind,” she says. Cool as spring water. “I know the look you get when something to do with Melvin shows up. So I looked at the footage on the security system. You got a package. I saw the mailing envelope on your desk. Mailboxes For You, return address in Knoxville. It isn’t the place that Vee’s working. I just asked if she could find out who paid to send it. Just looking up a receipt, Mom. Nothing dangerous.”
She doesn’t know that. I don’t know that. But we’re well past that now. I look at Vee. “And?”
She pulls a piece of paper out of the pocket of her tight-fitting skinny jeans and hands it to me. It’s folded small, and clammy with sweat. I open it carefully. It’s a printout of a receipt, a courier package addressed to me here on Monday.
The return address is the Mailboxes For You on the other side of the city. But the credit card charge has a name on it.
The name is Penny Maguire.
It takes me a second to link the last name back to Sheryl Lansdowne, but once I do, I stare at that name hard until my eyes burn. Then I fold the paper up and put it on the coffee table. “Thank you,” I say. “And if I could ground you, you’d be grounded for a month, Vee. Best I can do is tell you that you do nothing else. No poking around. No asking questions. Nothing. Is that clear?” I don’t even wait for her answer. I turn to my daughter. “And you’re damn lucky that I don’t have time to ground you, either, because that was not a safe thing to do, Lanny. Not for Vee, not for you, not for this family. Do you understand me? No going off on your own. We communicate, and we stay together.”
I see a muscle tense in her jaw, but she nods. “Sorry,” she says. I’m not sure she’s sorry enough, but there’s nothing I can do to make her understand how much of a risk both of them took.
Lanny, after a beat, says, “Was I right? Was it from him?” She knows I’ve gotten other letters. I’ve tried to be open about it, to the extent I thought was wise.
“It’s the last one,” I say. And that’s not a lie. I’m going to make damn sure it is.
“Can I read it?”
“No, honey.” I hear my voice soften, because I understand this impulse. All too well. My feelings about Melvin Royal are both clear and complicated; my kids are struggling with reconciling a dad they still feel they should love and a monster who doesn’t deserve it. Reading his letters is like touching a hot stove for them. Sometimes they feel they have to hurt themselves to prove they can take it. “I shredded it. It was meant for me. It wasn’t about you or Connor.”
“You shredded it?” She seems surprised. I guess she ought to be. “I thought you . . .