“It’s all over the news,” Beau said. “The opposition is doing a happy dance and calling for him to resign. He could even face criminal charges.”
“What’s Prescott got to say about it?” Sky spoke calmly, but his worry for Lauren was mounting. Was she safe from any drug dealers involved? Was she being hounded by the press?
“According to his campaign manager, Prescott’s unavailable for comment,” Beau said.
“And Lauren?”
“I haven’t heard anything about her.”
Sky cursed himself in silence. When he’d cut Lauren loose, hoping she could resolve her personal issues, he’d told her to call if she needed him. She was going to need him now. But given her pride and how much he’d hurt her, he was probably the last person on earth she’d reach out to.
Whipping his cell phone out of his pocket, he rose and strode out the kitchen door. Beau watched him go, saying nothing. Beau knew what it was like to love a woman. He would understand.
On the back porch, Sky punched in Lauren’s number. He heard her phone ring once, then again and again before the recording came on. This time Sky left a message.
“Lauren, I’m here. Call me.”
“So what do you think, Lauren?” Tori asked as they drove away from Hoyt Axelrod’s former home. “If you didn’t know about its history, would it work for you?”
“It’s not bad, especially for the price,” Lauren conceded. It had taken a couple of days for Tori to reach Axelrod’s son and make sure they’d be willing to rent the place with an option to buy. The small three-bedroom house was clean, well maintained, and very affordable. But could she make it her home without being haunted by the thought of the murderer who’d lived here?
“Were you able to check on the apartments?” she asked Tori.
“I called the manager, but they’re full. If you want a place anytime soon, this could be your only option.”
Lauren sighed. She had to get away from her father. And her need to work things out with Sky was becoming more and more urgent. Maybe if she got rid of the rugs and furniture and painted the walls, the house would be livable. “Can I sleep on it and give you an answer tomorrow?” she asked.
“Take as long as you like. Unless somebody else comes along and wants the place, it’ll be here.” Tori swung her station wagon onto Main Street. “Are you hungry? The Burger Shack makes great milkshakes. Besides, I need to talk to you about something else.”
“Sure,” Lauren said. “Make mine strawberry.”
Over tall, cold milkshakes, Tori brought up her next order of business. “You said you needed more work, so I did some checking for you. My friend Natalie, who’s engaged to Beau, could use some part-time help with her billing and accounts. She could give you a few hours a week, and so could I. You could do most of the work on your home computer. The woman who manages the apartment complex was interested, too. When word gets around, you shouldn’t have trouble finding enough clients to keep you busy.”
“That’s wonderful!” Lauren reached across the table and squeeze
d her new friend’s wrist. “I feel like I’ve found a fairy godmother!”
Tori laughed. “I may have unlocked a few doors, but walking through them will be up to you. It won’t always be easy, but if you really want to, you can make a new life here.”
Lauren drove home with the top down, the hot wind raking her hair. She was in high spirits. She’d spent most of her life under somebody else’s thumb—first her mother, then her grandparents and the trust fund they’d controlled, and finally her father. Even with Michael, she realized, she’d been looking for somebody to take charge. The idea of making her own way, answerable only to herself, was as thrilling as lifting off the ground in a hot-air balloon.
Maybe she should just take the house and make it hers. Surely a few weeks of scrubbing, painting, arranging, and refurbishing would help her forget that an evil man had lived there. She would paint the living room in cool shades of blue and gray and put a zinc-framed mirror on the wall above the fireplace. With luck there might even be hardwood flooring under that hideous green shag carpet....
Still musing, she switched on the radio. Johnny Cash’s rumbling baritone blared out of the speakers. Lauren remembered then that she hadn’t checked her cell phone. Never mind, she’d do it when she got home. Any messages would likely be from her father, trying to catch her with Sky.
If only . . .
For an aching moment she was tempted to call Sky and tell him she’d looked at the house. Just hearing his voice would be worth the humiliation. But no, he was apt to think she wanted his advice, or that she was angling for a reunion. Taking charge of her life meant just that—doing it all on her own.
She was halfway home when the four o’clock news came on the radio. Lauren was about to switch to a different music station when she caught her father’s name.
“Texas congressman Garn Prescott was unavailable for comment today after an anonymous source claimed that his current reelection campaign was being financed with illegal drug money.”
Lauren’s pulse slammed. Too shaken to trust herself on the road, she pulled the Corvette onto the gravel shoulder. What she’d heard was just an ugly rumor, she told herself. Her father was far from perfect, but he wasn’t a crook.
“When reached by this reporter for comment, the Texas attorney general would only say that further investigation would be needed. But according to reliable sources, the allegations are based on solid evidence. Prescott’s colleagues in the U.S. House of Representatives and members of his own party in Texas are already calling for his resignation.”
Where was her father now? The gears snarled as Lauren swung the Corvette back onto the asphalt. If he was home, he’d be drinking, hiding from the reporters who would be waiting outside to rip him apart like a pack of yelping, snapping coyotes. Phoning him would be wasted effort. He’d probably turned off his cell and taken the landline off the hook.