He lifted a hand in acknowledgment without turning around.
She got into the car and ordered herself not to watch him go. She hated how happy his offer to call her made her. It was stupid to be happy. Nothing would ever work between them. They’d tried twice and all that came of it was pain and confusion. She knew she’d hurt him when she’d refused to get back together. And she knew she didn’t have the right to miss him.
But she missed him all the same.
With a sigh, she shifted into gear, pulling out of the parking space. She was almost to the exit when her phone buzzed in the dashboard holder. The message was from an unrecognized number. She stopped the car so she could read it.
Dig into the Southern Mafia. Look back seventeen years for the name Martin Dowell. His lawyer might be of interest.
Harper’s brow creased. What the hell was that about?
She turned the phone over as if it might reveal answers.
Maybe it was a wrong number. But she didn’t think so. That phrase “dig into.” That was for a reporter. That was for her.
She quickly typed, Who is this?
She waited for several minutes, but no one replied. It was probably nothing. Her number was on the newspaper website and she often received tips. Most of them were bogus.
If she had the time, she’d look into it later. Seventeen years ago made this an old story.
Still, as she pulled out onto Habersham Street, something about the text bothered her. It was so specific. But there wasn’t any time to think about it. Right now, she had a missing musician to find.
9
Back in the newsroom, she wrote quickly, but with the cops refusing to give her more than a few skimpy quotes, she didn’t have enough information for a front-page story good enough for Baxter.
She was digging through old articles about Rayne, looking for anything she could use, when her phone rang. She grabbed it impatiently.
“McClain,”
“Harper?” The voice was male. It sounded tentative and familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Hunter. From this morning?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Hey, Hunter. What’s going on?”
“Yeah…” He hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry to bug you. This’ll sound weird but, would you mind coming back out here?” There was a nervous edge to his voice. “Things are getting kind of crazy—there are TV vans all over the street. People keep knocking on the door. Cara’s about to lose her shit, and the cops won’t tell us what’s going on.”
This was just what she needed.
Harper stood and glanced at her watch. It was nearly seven o’clock. She had time.
She swept her jacket off the back of the chair and pulled it on one-handed.
“I’m on my way,” she told him, as she headed across the newsroom. “Don’t open the door to anyone.”
When she reached Admiral’s Row twenty minutes later, the narrow tree-shaded street was lit up like a film set. Television satellite vans the size of RVs were parked bumper-to-bumper in the dirt at the side of the short lane and around the corner on the adjacent street.
Harper parked behind a nursing home a couple of blocks away. As she climbed out of the car, she pulled a heavy tote bag from the back seat and swung it over her shoulder. She’d made a stop on the way, gambling that food and cigarettes would seal the deal between her and Rayne’s housemates. The bag thumped against her hip as she jogged toward the house.
The reporters gathered in small clusters looked out of place on the quiet lane in sharply tailored suits or pencil skirts tight enough to make breathing unfeasible. Most of their faces were unfamiliar—the out-of-town media had arrived.
“Harper!”
Catching her eye, Natalie Swanson, the reporter from Channel 12, motioned for her. She stood in the bright glow of TV lights—her blond hair and makeup mystifyingly perfect despite the damp ocean breeze, a white wool coat wrapped tightly around her narrow waist. A camera mounted on a tripod stood next to her. A microphone with ten feet of black cabling was looped loosely around the van’s side mirror.
“I can’t believe you’re only just getting here,” Natalie chided. “I figured you’d be out here all day.”
“I was here this morning.” Harper glanced past her to number 6, which was still and shuttered against the glare of the spotlight. “Has anyone talked to them?”
“Only neighbors. And they’re not what I’d call welcoming. No one in the house will come out. We keep asking the cops if they’ll