Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(38)

I feel his hands tighten on mine.

“Sam, I’m sorry. They’re going to take their shot, and it’s going to hurt; you know these people. You trusted them. That’ll make it personal. Likely other message boards and podcasters will jump on the bandwagon and keep driving it hard. And we can only hope it doesn’t go viral, and keep our heads down until the storm moves on. Okay?”

He lets out a slow breath and blinks. “Okay,” he says. It isn’t. “Sorry. I know there’s a lot of bullshit right now, and you didn’t need this too.”

“But I need you,” I say, and I mean it. “Sam. You hear me? I need you.”

He just nods. I come and sit next to him and fold him into an embrace. I wish I could stop it. I’d hoped that once Miranda was gone, the Lost Angels would lose some steam. But someone’s pushing them onward—probably out of a very sincere belief that Sam killed Miranda and got away with it. It’s an ominous sign that behind the scenes, some new leader has taken charge.

They’re smart to change targets. It’ll throw us all off.

Especially Sam.

“I’ll get on that stuff you mentioned,” Sam says, and I can actually feel the effort he makes to shift to another topic. “So, no answer from Remy’s dad yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe he’s working late. Maybe he hasn’t been home to pick up the message. Hell, maybe he’s on vacation in the Bahamas.” Sam’s really trying to put his problems behind him and focus on mine. I don’t know if that’s entirely healthy.

“That’d be just my luck,” I agree. “But I would think—”

My phone rings. I exchange a look with Sam, eyebrows raised, and pick it up. It’s a Louisiana number, all right. But not the one I called earlier. Cell phone, maybe.

I hit the button to accept the call. “Gwen Proctor,” I say. There’s a brief silence.

“You should go on home,” a voice says on the other end. It sounds drunk.

“Mr. Landry?”

“You should go on home and tell whoever’s stirring all this up to let it go.” Definitely drunk, slurring words. “Got nothing to tell you, cher. Nothing you can do for my boy now. He’s long gone. Sorry for your trouble.” I was right about Mr. Landry’s Cajun roots. The music of it weaves through his words, however intoxicated he might be.

“Mr. Landry, why don’t we talk about this in the morning—”

“No,” he says. His breathing’s ragged. I think he’s crying. “I can’t. Can’t do it. No.”

He hangs up. I frown at the phone, not so much disturbed as thinking.

“Doesn’t want to talk, I assume,” Sam says. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll drop in at his office tomorrow,” I say. “He runs a car place, so that’s my best option. Less chance of some kind of scene. If I don’t get much from him, I’ll check with Remy’s friends in the area. I have a list from his social media.”

Sam nods. “Okay. Sounds like a plan. Do you need me along, or—”

“I always need you, didn’t I just say that?” I nudge him. “Always. Let’s talk about plans later. It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and turns his head to look at me. His smile is so warm, his eyes even better. “And you’re tired.”

“Not that tired,” I say, and kiss him, and then we’re falling back to the bed, and we both spontaneously laugh because this bed is hard as a damn rock, but then that doesn’t matter anymore, and I’m able to forget the specter of the Lost Angels coming for us, and the dark, ugly hatred still arriving in my email, second by second, drip by drip until it floods over onto us.

Trouble’s coming.

But the only cure for that is surviving it.





Morning comes early, but it comes with coffee and a decent breakfast. Lanny wants to go with me on my visit; she wants to be my assistant, but I’m not making that mistake again. Sam promises the kids that they’ll do something fun while I’m interviewing Remy’s dad. Neither of my children look convinced, but at least they cooperate. For now.

Remy Landry’s father has a nice car dealership right on the main drag; it has an inflatable gorilla waving in the breeze and lots of colorful pennons. I park and walk in. I’m greeted by a comfortably padded woman of about forty at the reception desk, and I ask to see the boss. She looks instantly wary. I guess I don’t look like someone in the market for a new ride. “What for?” she asks. “Are you one of our customers?”

“Just tell him Gwen Proctor is here,” I say, and I walk over to admire a shiny, hulking SUV spinning slowly on a turntable in the middle of the dealership floor.

I hear his footsteps behind me, but I don’t turn until he says, “I said I don’t have anything to tell you.”

I turn then, hand outstretched. He takes it, but it’s just instinct; his gaze on me is bloodshot and fiercely unhappy. Like his wife in Knoxville, he looks like an old man. His hair’s gone thoroughly gray, and frown lines groove the skin above his eyebrows and down the sides of his face. They look deep, almost painful. His color’s a sickly yellow under a fading tan. The suit he’s wearing hangs like a sack. For all that, it’s a nice suit, and the tie is neatly knotted to cinch in a gaping neckline on his shirt. A good watch on his wrist, good shoes on his feet. He’s got money.