Bonnie’s face lit up. “That’s my girl,” she said, picking up wine. “Tell Aunt Bonnie everything.”
* * *
Harper woke just after nine the next morning in Bonnie’s rose-colored spare bedroom, with a vague memory of terrible dreams.
The two of them had talked until the bottle of wine was empty. Bonnie had made her eat a sandwich while she told her about Paul Dells. Even though the evening with Luke had made the whole idea of dating Dells seem faintly absurd, it still felt good talking about something that wasn’t murder and danger.
Maybe that was why she felt a bit lighter as she showered, helping herself lavishly to Bonnie’s floral-scented shampoo, and wrapping up in warm towels. Talking about something so normal made the craziness of her world recede, just for a little while.
“Make coffee,” Bonnie called hoarsely from her bedroom as Harper padded downstairs, barefoot. “I’ve got a class to teach in an hour.”
As the coffee brewed and Bonnie showered, Harper dug through her closet, finding a few things to wear that didn’t make her look like an artist.
There was only a small mirror in the cottage at Tybee, and when Harper stopped in front of the full-length mirror on the back of Bonnie’s bedroom door, she was arrested by her own image.
For as long as she could remember, Bonnie had been one size smaller than she was, but these clothes fit comfortably.
She studied the new angles and edges to her body, running her fingers across the bones of her clavicle—they pushed against her skin in a way they hadn’t before. She was paler than she used to be—her freckles stood out against the milky pallor. Her eyes appeared hollow, as if the last few months had drawn some of the life from her.
She tore herself away, hurrying back to the spare room to finish getting ready.
There was little time to chat as Bonnie downed a cup of coffee and ran out without even drying her hair, calling back for Harper to stay as long as she wanted. Deciding to take her up on that, Harper settled on the sofa with a mug and some toast. She texted Myra and asked her to feed Zuzu and let her out.
Once that was done, she began thinking through her situation. Her most immediate problem was finding somewhere to live.
She didn’t think she could wait three weeks. Not with everything going on. She wanted out of Tybee. She needed to be back in the city as soon as possible. But where could she go?
She knew coming here last night was a mistake. She’d taken a long route and made sure she wasn’t followed, but still. Now, more than ever, she didn’t want to involve her best friend in her messed-up life. And she certainly wouldn’t move in with her and expose her to danger. She needed somewhere on her own, not too far from the police.
There was one person who might be able to help.
Billy Dupre had been her landlord in Savannah. He knew everyone who owned property in Chatham County. When she called him, he sounded delighted to hear from her.
“How’re you doing, Billy?” she asked, holding her coffee in one hand and balancing a notepad on her knee.
“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” he said jovially. “How about yourself? How’s your situation?”
“I’m good,” she lied. “Things are looking better. It’s just … Myra’s throwing me out.”
“Yep.” He didn’t sound surprised. “Summer starts before Easter for Myra. Got to get that money while she can. You got someplace to go?”
“Actually, I thought I’d check with you. See if you had anything.”
A self-made man from a dirt-poor background, Dupre had gotten into the property market in the city more than twenty years ago. He’d started with a duplex—living in one apartment, renting out the other. Gradually, he’d added to his rental portfolio. Now, he owned about ten buildings in Savannah, most in the historic district.
He was a great landlord. And a trusted friend. She didn’t want to live anywhere except in one of his places if she could help it. But the news wasn’t good.
“I’ve got nothing right now, chère. I got a couple coming up in a few months, though, if you can find a place to see you through until then.”
Biting her lip, Harper moved the mug across the coffee table with one finger. “Is Jones Street one of them?”
“I wish it was,” he said, gently. “I got a family in your old place right now. A mother and two little babies. She works downtown so it’s a good location for them. They’ve got six months left on their lease. Seem pretty happy there, though, so maybe they’ll want to stay longer.”
Harper felt gut-punched. She’d known it was crazy to think it might be empty. It was a great apartment in a perfect location. But for some reason she’d thought it would be waiting for her.
“Of course,” she made herself say. “But you have other places maybe coming up?”
“I got a gorgeous place on Huntingdon Street coming up in May.” Instantly he was enthusiastic again. “Big old building. The apartment’s twice the size of Jones Street. Two bedrooms. Lots of light. It’s even got a fireplace. It’s a little more than your rent was, but it reminds me of Jones Street. Got the same feel. Nice neighbors. You come take a look at it whenever you want.”
“Thanks, Billy, I’ll do that.” She forced a smile into her voice. “It sounds great.”
“You’d love it,” he assured her. “It’d be a fresh start.”
A fresh start. But in two months. What would she do until then?
She knew Bonnie would let her stay if she needed to, but she couldn’t. Her presence here could put her best friend in danger. She needed someplace else. Small and hidden.
When she hung up the phone, she sat for a moment, lost in thought. Then she grabbed her jacket and bag, heading for the door. As soon as she was in the car, she called Miles. “I need to pick your brain. Can I come over?”
All he said was, “Bring coffee.”
Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of the warehouse apartment building next to the river holding two cardboard coffee cups. She pushed the button for number 12 and looked up at the little camera above the door, holding the cardboard coffee cups high.
The door lock released with a click.
Harper’s footsteps echoed as she walked into the cavernous lobby of the converted warehouse, with its angular leather sofas and metal coffee tables. She’d always described its cold, modern décor as “serial-killer chic.”
The subtle lighting didn’t disguise the security cameras in every corner. There was no reception desk, but the place was remotely monitored and Miles said the security firm was good. Nobody in the building had ever had a break-in. The elevator opened the second she touched the button.
Maybe she could live here for a while, Harper thought, as the elevator rose. Rent a place.
Miles had left his front door ajar and she pushed it open, calling, “It’s me.”
“In here.”
She followed his voice to the kitchen—a masculine space with tall cabinets painted dark gray—and found him sitting at the dining table, a Nikon camera disemboweled on a sheet of white paper in front of him. A police scanner sat on the kitchen countertop next to the toaster, burbling a steady stream of misdemeanors.