make sense at all. Charles was trying to push Derek into the corner? Why? Why would he do that? They’d always worked together, supported each other, been the perfect partners out there. It’s why Derek had wanted to be on his team in the first place. Charles had wanted that, too.
What had changed?
* * *
“Yes, Mother, I have been talking to the players, meeting plenty of interesting people.” Hara pressed a hand to her forehead, which did nothing to alleviate her headache.
“Men. Hara, I want you to be mingling with men. I’m sorry your new friend got hurt, but you need to stay focused on the goal.”
“Since my interview made it onto the AP wire and I’ve covered two games, one from the owners’ box, I’d say I met my goal.” She had no intention of telling her mother that it had been her father who arranged for her to win the contest. No reason to give her even more fodder in her fight against her being a sportswriter. Hara was going to write this new story, all on her own.
“You—”
“I know what you meant. That I’m supposed to be flaunting my goods in front of wealthy men, trying to get their attention.” Derek seemed pretty taken with my goods, taking me for a good, long time … “You don’t have to worry, I’ve met plenty of men and I’ve been pleasant.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
Hara sighed. There was also no way she was going to tell her mother about hanging out with some of the team members at the nightclub, and definitely not about spending the night with Derek. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t have time to gossip right now, but I promise to tell you all about it when I get home.”
“When will that be, exactly? Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled you’ve been able to spend more time over there, with the right kind of people. But I do want to know you’re safe. You are safe, right, Hara?”
“Carter has me set up in an incredible hotel.” She smirked. An incredible hotel that used to be a jail and was filled with the ghosts of murderers. “I should be done with my story in the next few days.”
They hung up and Hara unpacked her few belongings into the closet, next to a hotel bathrobe. She stroked a sleeve, smiling. Ah, memories.
When her car had first pulled up in front of the Liberty, she’d been afraid to get out. The hotel’s stone complex, built in 1851 as a jail, now looked like a posh castle with floor-to-ceiling windows and soft lighting. The lobby had three lovely balconies encircling the room. Those balconies had been the guard catwalks, back in the day, and were now sprinkled with small gathering areas, where couples shared secrets, and businesspeople drank martinis and stretched their legs.
The four stories of open brick wall were broken up by cream panels, murals of stylized trees reaching from floor to the very, very high ceiling. What should have been cold and hard had been transformed into an elegant, warm space. The staff at the highly polished teak front desk were kind and attentive though she was dressed in jeans and a sweater—as opposed to everyone else in the lobby, who were in a contest for best dressed.
Her hotel room was ready, so they were able to let her in early. The amazing room boasted huge windows and plenty of natural light, hardwood floors, thick area rugs, a fully outfitted bar, and a rich leather headboard and matching chair set.
She texted pictures to Carter, making sure to include the oil paintings in her room that were of famous Boston locations and looked to be original, though they were almost outdone by the fifty-five-inch flat-screen television and elaborate gaming console. A little something for everyone.
After a quick Internet search, she was surprised, and slightly disturbed, at how easy it was to find the address for Ms. Butler. Privacy just did not exist anymore.
Two hours later, Hara walked the streets close to the Butler house, wanting to get a feel for the neighborhood, grateful for a break in the cloud coverage that offered weak sunshine with a light breeze. It was nice not to have to deal with constantly wiping raindrops off her glasses.
There didn’t appear to be river flooding here, but storm drains were stopped up and the gutters were overflowing. Locals were out, in storm cleanup mode. The wind had done a lot of damage to these row houses—limbs, garbage,