Turning back to Harper, he said, “Look, I’ve got to get going. Hang tight. Let me see if I can find out more. And don’t worry too much. The state police will be keeping him close. They know what he’s capable of. He’ll be monitored.”
She mumbled her thanks.
After he’d gone, though, she stood lost in thought. Dowell was out. No one knew where he was. And he wanted to kill her.
Someone jostled her, and she turned to see Josh Leonard from Channel 5 pushing past, a microphone cable draped over his arm.
He shot her a quizzical look. “You just staying here, McClain? Must be nice to have leisurely newspaper deadlines.” When she didn’t reply, he frowned. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she told him, curtly, and turned away.
It was nearly six. She didn’t have time for any of this. She had work to do.
* * *
It took everything Harper had to put her conversation with Luke out of her mind and write the piece on the Xavier Rayne case.
Still, the distraction of knowing Dowell was out there somewhere, of trying to work through everything she didn’t know, slowed her down. Baxter grumbled about deadlines and getting her head in the game.
Finally, though, she pulled herself together, and wrote a story that hung Cara Brand out to dry.
Police Investigation Looks at Those Close to Dead Musician
By Harper McClain
Police investigating the murder of Savannah singer-songwriter Xavier Rayne are narrowing their search, focusing on those closest to him, and on his last days alive.
Everyone who lived with Rayne—singer Allegra Hanson, keyboardist Hunter Carlson, and actress Cara Brand—has been questioned.
The large mansion where Rayne lived on Tybee Island was searched by a team of forensics experts late into Friday night. Police declined to state on the record if any evidence was found.
Much attention was clearly focused on Brand, Rayne’s girlfriend. Witnesses claimed to hear the two fighting regularly. One described a loud argument on the night Rayne was killed—a fight so loud it woke up neighbors on the quiet lane.
When questioned, Brand admitted the two broke up hours before Rayne’s death.
“I was sad to lose him, but it was over,” she said. “I was going to leave the next morning but then he disappeared.”
Brand swore she never hurt Rayne.
“I would never harm him,” she said. “I loved him.”
Police confirmed they were aware of these reports, but declined to comment further on the ongoing investigation.
Also Saturday, the coroner issued her autopsy report, which found that Rayne was killed by two gunshots, and was dead before he either fell or was placed in the ocean.
The shots had been fired from a .22 caliber revolver, according to authorities. The gun has not yet been located.
When she’d added more details and polished the article, she sent it to Baxter, who read the first paragraphs with a low admiring whistle. “I guess you’re not trying to make friends anymore.”
“I guess not.” Harper’s voice was tense.
She liked Cara. She liked all three of them. And she knew this article would explode in the beautiful, bohemian house like a roadside bomb.
The final spread featured a photo of Xavier and Cara, taken at a party in Los Angeles months before he died. In it, his brown skin and dark hair contrasted strikingly with her pale coloring. His expression was brooding, but she was smiling at the camera, her face so perfect it could have been carved from marble.
The beautiful and the damned.
Harper managed to focus on her work for several hours, but as soon as she was done, Martin Dowell crept back into her mind.
As the hours passed, her mood began to change. By the time she drove back across the marshes to Tybee, her fear had been replaced by a simmering rage.
If she was right, Dowell was responsible for her mother’s murder. He might have spent seventeen years in prison for killing someone else, but he hadn’t served a single minute for taking her mother’s life.
Now, he was out there somewhere. Free.
She’d spent months living in fear. She’d endured years of grief.
Because of him.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. It was Saturday night and the road to Tybee wasn’t quiet, even this late. Several sets of headlights followed her. More came the other way. With so many cars, it was impossible to know if she was being followed.
She almost hoped she was. Right now, if she could get her hands on Dowell she’d tear him to pieces.
When she pulled up in front of the cottage fifteen minutes later, she found lights blazing through the small windows. She stayed in the car long enough to calm herself down. She couldn’t unload all of this on Bonnie out of the blue.
When she climbed out of the Camaro, she could hear music. She unlocked the front door and walked in to find the radio blasting. The house smelled so strongly of garlic and oregano it made her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
It was easy enough to locate Bonnie. She was in the kitchen, singing loudly along with Kelly Clarkson.
Her footsteps lost beneath the music, Harper crossed the living room to the kitchen, where Bonnie stood with her back to her, stirring pasta sauce.
“What are you making?” Harper asked.
Bonnie screamed. The wooden spoon she’d been using flew from her hand, leaving a bloodred mark on the ceiling before sailing to the floor by way of the wall. “Jesus Christ on a unicycle, Harper.” She clutched her chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Despite everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, Harper found herself laughing. “Your face…”
“My face?” Bonnie glared at her. “How did you get in so quietly? What are you, a cat?”
Wiping tears from her eyes, Harper reached for the radio to turn Clarkson down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed until she cried. It seemed to loosen something tight in her chest, if only for now. She gestured at the pots on the stove. “What is all this?”
“Dinner.” Bonnie beamed. “I’ll bet you five dollars you haven’t eaten anything since you left the house today.”
Bonnie collected the wooden spoon and dropped it in the sink before opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle, which she waggled at Harper enticingly. “Wine, for madam?”
“Oh, yeah, madam will have wine.” Harper squeezed past her to get across the tiny kitchen to the cupboard holding glasses. She poured them each a healthy slug and carried it through to the living room.
There was no room for a table in the cottage; they ate with plates resting on their knees.
Harper hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She ate steadily and nearly silently, her mind on Martin Dowell. She’d nearly cleared her plate when she remembered she wasn’t alone. “God, this is delicious,” she said. “Please move in with me.”
“I will, if you tell me the truth.”
Harper stopped eating. “What?”
Bonnie was holding a glass of wine and watching her. “I want to know what’s really going on. I’ve hardly seen you in weeks and, when I do see you, you’re miles away. Something’s wrong. Tell me what’s up.”