For a second she didn’t react. She gave him a look Harper couldn’t read.
He shook his head in answer to some unspoken question. “Go.” His voice softened. “I’ll take care of this.”
Allegra bolted from the room, her small shoulders high around her neck as if braced for a blow.
When she was gone, Hunter turned back to Harper and gave a small, understanding sigh. “Look, I know why you think we were involved but I promise you we had nothing to do with it. Yeah, he and Cara had a screaming fight, but that was what they did. They loved each other and they fought. That was them. That’s why Cara’s such a wreck.” He bit his lip, hunching his thin shoulders in that boyish way Harper had once thought charming and vulnerable, but now saw as purely manipulative. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done ‘Revolver Road’ tonight with Cara out there, but that’s all that upset her,” he continued. “Hearing that song—it was too much. I’ll apologize to her and things will be fine.”
“Are you saying Allegra and Xavier weren’t having an affair?” Harper challenged.
“Of course not.” He looked horrified, as if the suggestion were ridiculous. “They were like brother and sister.”
Harper didn’t hide her doubt, but if he noticed he didn’t show it. Instead, he moved closer to her.
“The last couple of weeks have been the worst thing any of us has been through. And I just want to thank you for helping us.” He reached for her hand before she realized what he was doing. “I’m sorry I got angry earlier. It’s just so stressful. But you have really helped—”
Startled, she yanked her hand free and took a hasty step away from him. “Don’t.”
If he was embarrassed by her reaction she saw no sign of it in his unconcerned shrug. “Hey, it’s cool. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“All I want to know is what really happened that night,” she said, evenly. “Nothing more.”
“You know everything there is to know.” He held her gaze, his eyes as flat as coins.
Across the bar, Allegra emerged from the back room, carrying a guitar case and shoulder bag.
“I’ve got to go,” Hunter said. “Thanks for coming tonight. We’ll see you around.”
He sloped off to join Allegra, lifting the guitar case from her hand.
As Harper walked back to the bar, she spotted Jon Graff in a corner being talked to by Junior, who towered over him. Graff’s face was red with rage.
That, at least, was satisfying.
She joined Bonnie, who was watching Allegra and Hunter leave.
“It’s so weird to think they were Xavier Rayne’s friends,” Bonnie said. “He was so spiritual. They’re just thirsty for fame.” She paused as the door closed behind them. “That girl can sure sing, though.”
Harper didn’t reply. Everything was starting to make sense.
At last, she thought she understood who killed Xavier Rayne.
29
Fifteen minutes later, she parked the Camaro on Bay Street, directly in front of the newspaper building. The road was nearly deserted. There was no patrol car waiting for her.
Overhead, clouds scuttled across the dark sky, obscuring the moon. A cool wind blew her hair into her eyes and she shoved it back, hurrying across the sidewalk to the front door and grabbing the handle. It didn’t turn.
She shook it harder. The door stayed stubbornly locked.
Cupping her face with her hands, she peered through the glass at the desk where the guard should be. It was empty.
In fact, she could see no one at all through the smeared pane. She knocked hard on the glass, twisting her head to peer down the corridor, but no one emerged from the shadows.
Suddenly feeling exposed, she pounded harder on the door. “Hello?” she called, raising her voice. “Is anyone there?”
When no one replied, she turned around, surveying the dark street. She shouldn’t be out here alone. She remembered Lee’s warning about the newspaper building. “It’s the one place he knows to look for you.”
Her throat went dry. She should go back to her car, she decided. Drive away. Call Blazer, maybe.
The city seemed dangerously quiet. The only people she could see were two men a block away on the otherwise lonely street, walking toward her.
As she took a step toward the car, Harper found herself watching them, nervously.
They were probably tourists, she told herself. Or friends out for a drink.
But there was something about the way they moved. They weren’t talking. They weren’t even looking at each other.
They were looking at her.
They stuck to the shadows—she couldn’t get a good look at their faces. One was short and stocky, with thick hair that gleamed white in the darkness. The other was tall and walked about two steps behind the first.
Her heart began to beat faster. Keeping her eyes on the two men, she dug into her bag, fingers sliding off the cold metal of the Glock, and she hesitated.
Could she do it? Could she shoot two men on the steps of the newspaper?
The men were crossing the street, now, moving faster. There was no question in her mind that she was their target. She could sense it, feel it in her bones the same way a rabbit could sense a coyote.
Dropping the gun, she turned back and beat her fists against the door.
“Come on,” she whispered, her lips growing numb. “Come on.”
As if he’d heard her, the gray-haired man smiled.
A metallic click broke the quiet and the door behind her gave way. She stumbled backward into the reception space.
The guard held the door open with one hand, a fresh cup of coffee in the other.
“Is everything…” he began.
Harper slammed the door hard and jumped back from it. “Lock it,” she told him, her voice trembling.
He looked confused. “What?”
“Lock it,” she demanded, frantic.
“It locks automatically.” He set the coffee down on the desk and stepped closer to the door, looking out before glancing back at her. “What happened?”
“Two men.” Harper stared at the glass door, waiting for them to appear.
“Following you?” He was surprisingly calm, moving to the side of the door, pushing her gently out of the way so he could look.
“I think so,” she said. “I parked. I got out of the car. All of a sudden they were coming at me on foot. Fast.”
He crossed to the other side of the door in one long step and peered in the opposite direction, talking as he searched the street. “They didn’t address you? Threaten you?”
She shook her head. Suddenly she felt foolish. Maybe she’d overreacted. She was paranoid.
“It was nothing, probably.” But even as she said it, she thought back to that moment on the street. And the steady, focused energy of the two men. The shorter man could have been Martin Dowell. Seventeen years older than the most recent picture she’d seen. White haired. Smaller than she’d expected. But she wasn’t certain.
The guard kept his eyes on the street outside. He was the youngest guard at the paper: African American, maybe early thirties, with short hair and a lean build. She knew little about him except that he was an off-duty Savannah cop who worked security for extra pay.