“The woman helped raise us,” I say. “How in the world can she say nothing to you?”
“She must have been swept off her feet.”
“I’d love that if it were true, but still. This isn’t strange to you?”
“Lilah,” he scolds. “Everything isn’t a crime you have to solve, little sister.”
“She’s family,” I say, walking through the archway to the dining area, and anything more I would add falls short on my lips, and not because the room has changed. It hasn’t. It’s still as long as it is wide. It still has a massive, rectangular light-oak table etched with flowers as the centerpiece. It still has a fireplace to my right and expensive artwork lining the walls. Those things fit what I know of my family home. What doesn’t fit is who’s sitting at that table. My ex–best friend Alexandra is sitting next to Eddie on the far side, facing me.
Andrew moves to sit with them, as if their presence is expected by him and acceptable. But then, he and Eddie have always been pals, while Eddie wanted to be his brother. And sure, my father might be all hugs and love right now, but I am jolted into remembering all the times I knew he’d settled for a daughter in hopes that I’d become my mother’s mini-me. Tonight, he’s stuck with me, just me, and he will soon know this and know it well.
Andrew claims the seat at the head of the table, his back to the dormant fireplace, while I hone in on Alexandra. “Why are you here?”
She shoves her long dark hair behind her ears, spine straightening and discomfort radiating from her. “I tried to tell you today—”
“Tell me what?” I snap.
“She’s my wife,” Eddie announces, sliding his arm around her shoulders, the star on his tan shirt pocket snagging her hair.
“Your wife,” I repeat, with one reaction in this moment: pissed off. Really damn pissed off, and with good reason. I walk to the table, stopping directly in front of Alexandra, and I press my palms to the surface, leaning toward her. “You set me up today,” I bite out. “You played dumb. I expect that idiocy from Eddie, but not you.”
“I didn’t set you up,” she insists. “Eddie was already meeting me for coffee and—”
“Bullshit,” I say. “You called him.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Andrew demands.
My brother’s apparent confusion tells me one of two things: A) He wasn’t in on the diner setup today; or B) He’s really damn good at lying, and Samantha fits him like a glove I didn’t think he could wear. Whatever the case, I stay focused on my bitch of an ex–best friend. “Leave,” I order her, pushing off the table, looking at Eddie, her husband, and bona fide proof that she still has shitty taste in men. “You, too. Now.”
“Lilah, damn it,” Andrew growls. “What in the hell is going on?”
“You tell me,” I say, turning to him. “Because they’re here after she baited me for information about the murder at Micki’s Diner this morning, acting as if she knew nothing when she clearly knew more than I did. Three minutes later, Eddie is at my table, trying to measure dicks with me when I don’t have a dick to think with instead of my head.” I look at Eddie. “I have something bigger. A badge. My FBI badge, and like it or not, I’m here on official business.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your FBI badge,” Eddie snaps. “This isn’t your investigation. And we have our man. Go back to LA where you belong.” He glances at Andrew. “She met with Beth without consulting me.”
Andrew’s eyes narrow on Eddie. “They’re friends, Eddie, and I told you to let me deal with Lilah.”
My gaze cuts sharply to my brother. “Deal with Lilah?”
“Don’t read into that,” Andrew cautions. “I’m simply stating the obvious. I’m the chief of police and you’re a visiting federal agent. Family aside, we’re the appropriate chain of communication. Not you and Eddie. And not you and Beth.”
“Communicate now, Chief Love,” I say. “Because I should have heard about new developments in this case before dinner at my family home.”
“Had you showed up to the press conference,” he points out. “I would have already told you.”
Doubtful, I think, but I say, “Tell me now.”
“After dinner,” he counters.
Since I won’t be eating with Eddie and his playmate Alexandra, I make a demand I manage to phrase as a question. “Do you have any real evidence on Woods? Otherwise, it looks like your detective is on a witch hunt to me.”
Andrew scrubs a hand across his jaw, light stubble rasping against his palm. “So much for ‘after dinner.’” He presses his fingers to the table. “Woods confessed but refused to turn himself in.”
“Confessed,” I repeat, finding this news a little too convenient, but I’m just not sure for who yet. “When, and to who?” I ask, proud of myself for remembering to include the question mark.
“I can answer that,” Alexandra surprises me by interjecting, drawing the room’s attention. “He left a message on my office voice mail. It was just before midnight last night.”
“And he said what?” I ask.
“He was rambling like a crazy person,” she says. “Talking like we were going to kill him.”
“Kill him? How so?”
“He talked about the murder and then said he wasn’t going to give us a chance to kill him,” she supplies.
“Is there a transcript of that call?”
I ask.
“I’ll e-mail it to you,” Andrew offers.
“Tonight?” I press.
“Yes, Agent Love,” Andrew says. “Tonight.”
I smirk at the smart-ass. “Thank you, Chief Love,” I reply. “And where are we on locating Woods?”
“We,” Eddie says, “are doing this by the book and covering every possible base. And if you were going to be difficult tonight, why even come to dinner? I mean, we’re regulars here. You are not. You’re the outsider.”
I could react to this. I could tell him he’s a small-minded, small-dicked—if that is even a word—wannabe-good detective. And it would feel good. Really damn good, but I’m struck by the way he seems to be baiting me here at my father’s house, where he is normally well behaved. I mean, we insiders all know about my father’s lethal temper, easily provoked by disrespect and disorder. Two things he cannot tolerate. And where was Eddie’s car outside? And why would my father, or even my brother, who swears he wants me to return home to live, invite these two here tonight, knowing they would push me away, not pull me closer? Plus, why the hell didn’t Andrew call me about Woods today? It’s as if I was intentionally sideswiped tonight, my attention directed, if not forced, in one direction: Kevin Woods. Why is the question.
My conversation with Kane returns to me:
“There are rumors about your father but not your brother.”
I blanch. “What? My father? What about my father?”
“His run for a higher office and favors promised to the wrong people.”
I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that my father doesn’t want me to dig into his business. He wants me focused on Woods, not him. It might not be the case, but my gut, my best friend in times like these, says that’s exactly what is going on right now. My lips thin and I push off the table, and turn, walking toward the door my father has yet to enter. “Lilah,” Andrew calls out. “Where the hell are you going?”
I don’t stop walking. I enter the hallway and head toward my father’s office, only to have him meet me halfway. “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking concerned, but that’s a practiced skill for my father, and that’s exactly what his reaction strikes me as—practiced.