Blood, Ash, and Bone

CHAPTER Three

Trey’s voice held a tone of disbelief. “That’s what he wanted? To hire you?”

I tucked the phone against my shoulder and unfolded the sofa bed. “So he says.”

I climbed into bed. The mattress smelled like stale popcorn and gun oil, but thanks to Trey, it had 400-thread-count Italian sheets.

I curled around a pillow. “I don’t suppose you know anybody with expertise in that area?”

“I do. Audrina Harrington.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. She hired Phoenix to create a safe room for her collection. I designed the security system.”

Audrina Harrington, Atlanta’s most famous doyenne of all things related to the War of Northern Aggression. Her family traced their ancestry back to Mary Rose, one of the Confederacy’s most notorious spies, and she still maintained a certain aristocratic hauteur, like an exiled countess. She was also, as John put it, one of those big-money, under-the-table collectors. Unlike my customers, she didn’t run around in green fields waving her bayonet. Instead, she accumulated Civil War artifacts with a hoarder’s zeal, her specialty being ephemera—books, letters, papers, documents.

I pulled my computer from under the bed and typed her name in the search box. Sure enough, the Journal-Constitution had done a full color spread, featuring the diminutive Harrington surrounded by her faded brittle treasures. She stared straight at the camera, a tiny birdlike creature, her vivid clothes like plumage, her steel gray hair like a cap of feathers.

“Wow. Lots of photographs.”

Trey made a noise of annoyance. “She wasn’t supposed to show anyone that room. That completely defeats its purpose.”

“Y’all should have told her that before she brought in the AJC.”

“I did tell her. It’s an environmentally-regulated storage room now, not a true safe room. But her brother convinced her the publicity would be good for their foundation.”

His voice held disapproval. Trey did not like people hiring him to make rules and then ignoring the rules he made.

“Is that the man standing next to her in the photo?”

“Describe him.”

“Short, stout, silver-haired?”

“Yes. That’s Reynolds Harrington. He’s responsible for bringing in the external funding, mostly corporate, some private donors. Miss Harrington manages the family assets.”

I clicked on a link for the Harrington Foundation. A quick scan of the website revealed two things—a serious commitment to curating the largest museum-caliber collection of Civil War antiquities outside of a museum, and an equally serious bankroll to fund it.

“You think she’d talk to me?”

“I could get in touch, if you’d like.”

“I would. Thank you.” I stretched out under the sheets. “Not that I’ve decided to take the case or anything.”

“Case?”

“Situation. Whatever. I haven’t given John an answer yet.”

A pause. “Has there been foul play?”

“Beyond Hope running off with his possessions? No. I mean, there’s lots of hypothetical hinkiness, but nothing obvious.”

Trey waited, but I had no further explanation. The memory of the check still loomed crisp in my mind. So did John’s face. And Hope’s. And the humiliation I’d felt at their hands. It had been over a year, and the fire of anger had diminished. Time helped. So had acquiring a top-of-the-line boyfriend. But the scars remained, thick ropy ones.

“I’ll do a little poking about and let you know more at dinner tomorrow night. We’re still on for dinner, right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re helping me pack on Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“And you finalized the paperwork to get the week of the Expo off?”

“Yes.”

Our first getaway. Not exactly a vacation—the Expo and related events would keep me busy for several days—but a first of some kind. Almost portentous.

“Are you ready for the interview tomorrow?” he said.

“I hope so. The ATF guy is showing up at eight sharp, ready to talk federal firearms license renewal.”

“You’re wearing your suit, right?”

I looked over to where my only suit, a purple pants-and-blazer set, hung on the bathroom door. The ATF’s letter called the meeting “informal.” Trey insisted I wear the suit anyway.

“Ready to go. I even ironed the thing.”

“Good. If you need anything—”

“—I’ll holler, I promise.” I reached over and turned out the light. “I miss you.”

“You could have come back with me.”

“I’ve discovered that nights at your place do not make for productive mornings.”

A soft exhale at his end, almost like a laugh. “I’ve discovered the same thing.” A pause. “I miss you too.”

He’d once explained what that felt like to him—a hard knot in the diaphragm, surrounded by an achy spreading warmth. I put my own hand in the same spot on my own body and felt the same tenderness. I wasn’t someone people usually missed, especially not people like Trey. Usually people like Trey sighed with relief and straightened the slipcovers when I left.

“Tai?”

“Yeah?”

“This may sound overprotective, but—”

“It’s a runner’s job, that’s all. No bodies, no fires, no stalkers, no drug cartels. I do this all the time.”

Silence at his end.

“Trey, listen to me. I learn from my mistakes. I know to back off if things get dangerous.”

He listened. His exquisitely fine-tuned ability to detect other people’s deception did not extend to phone conversations, which was a relief. But I was telling him the truth this time. I didn’t need any drama on my plate.

“Okay,” he finally said. “But if the situation changes—”

“Then I drop it.”

He hesitated, then acquiesced. “Okay.”

***

I tried to sleep. Eventually I got up and dug the box out of the closet. I found the photograph quickly—me, reclining on the hood of my cherry-red Camaro Z-28, the late summer sun flaring off the chrome. Tybee Beach glowed in a sandy blur behind me, the sky a milky blue. I wore a halter top and jean shorts, a two-week-old tattoo hidden beneath the denim. My first ink, a gift from John’s talented hands, a red fox with vixen eyes.

Only two men had seen that fox—and they’d been standing face to face in my parking lot one hour ago.

I touched the image, half-expecting it to be warm beneath my fingers. I was alone in the shot, but I could see John in the gleam of my eyes. He was behind the camera, and I stretched in the heat of his gaze, grinning, one hand shading my face from the noonday glare.

I tried to inhabit the photograph—the sun-baked metal, the sand gritty between my toes. The girl I was then had been perched on a slice of between-time. Within a month, my mother would be diagnosed with breast cancer. I’d sell my wild red car and drive her more sensible four-door back and forth to chemo. In less than a year, she’d be dead, and I would be the one at her bedside when she took her last breath. And soon after that, John and Hope would sneak off in the night.

I placed the glossy 3X5 back in the box and turned out the light. I’d known my past was waiting for me down in Savannah. I’d been preparing. But I hadn’t been prepared for it to show up on my doorstep in Atlanta, unannounced, with eyes that still looked like a storm about to erupt.