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 give a statement but they aren’t talking either. My editor’s screaming.” She gave Harper a curious look. “How did you get so much out of them yesterday?”
“Oh, you know.” Harper made a vague gesture. “Right place; right time.”
Natalie barked a laugh. “Please don’t tell my boss that.” Her eyes fell on Harper’s bag. “What’s that? Supplies? You planning to be out here all night?”
Shifting her posture so the bag hung out of view, Harper took a step away. “It’s just a few things Miles asked me to pick up.” She glanced around. “Speaking of him, I better go track him down.”
Miles was still in Savannah, but Natalie couldn’t know that.
“Hey, do me a favor,” Natalie called, as she hurried away. “Don’t make me look bad.”
Harper laughed. “You always look good, Natalie.”
She waited until she was out of earshot before slipping her phone from her pocket and dialing Hunter’s number. “I’m here,” she told him quietly.
“Come around to the side gate. The lock code is 0924.” She could hear the relief in his voice.
Out of the blinding circle of TV lights, it was easy to fade into the darkness. The backs of the houses on the row were shielded by high hedges and tall, locked gates. Privacy was obviously important to the residents—small, tasteful signs warned of CCTV cameras and alarms.
Slowing her steps, Harper glanced over her shoulder. Natalie was deep in conversation with Josh Leonard from Channel 5. No one was watching.
Unobserved, she slipped down the walkway between number 5 and number 6. The path was dark and narrow, hemmed in by oleander bushes. Harper was looking for the gate when a small, wiry man rounded the corner ahead of her.
She couldn’t make out his features in the shadows, but she didn’t think she’d seen him before. For a second, his presence made her uneasy. Then she noticed the camera in his hand.
He had to be part of the out-of-town press.
For some reason the realization made her bristle. What the hell was he doing, trespassing?
She avoided his eyes as they neared each other, but he spoke as he passed.
“Don’t bother. It’s all fenced in. There’s a gate, but it’s locked. I’ve been all the way around.”
How he knew she was a journalist she had no idea. She didn’t like being so obvious.
“Thanks,” she muttered, keeping her head turned away.
The gate he’d mentioned was an arched door, artfully tucked into the greenery. A lighted electronic combination lock glowed blue. The sound of the ocean was closer here—the footpath must continue on to the beach.
She typed in the number Hunter had given her, and the lock released. She slipped through, latching the gate behind her.
In the sheltered garden, the night felt different, somehow. More peaceful. Overhead, the clouds were dissipating. Stars glittered silver against a velvet sky. From where she stood she could see the white, columned house in all its glory. Out front, the curtains were all closed. Back here they were open, the windows ablaze with light.
Sliding the tote-bag strap back up her shoulder, she crossed the lawn. As she neared the raised veranda, she could hear the faint hum of voices, then music. Someone was playing a guitar with real skill. It sounded like they were outside.
“Hello?” she called, as she reached the foot of the wide wooden back steps.
The music stopped.
“Harper!” Allegra’s voice came from the porch above. “Come up.”
When she reached the top, the three housemates were sitting on white wicker chairs arranged around a low table. Hunter, cupping a wineglass in one hand. Cara, her beautiful face watchful. Allegra, curled up like a kitten with her feet tucked under her—dark eyes gleaming in the porch light.
Harper held out the shopping bag to Hunter, who had invited her. “I thought you might need supplies.”
“You star.” He pulled out two cartons of cigarettes, relief suffusing his features. “We can live without food but not without smokes.”
“Please tell me there’s food in there.” Jumping from her seat, Allegra ran over to kneel next to him to root through the supplies.