have no concrete evidence linking him to Mom’s murder and no eyewitnesses.”
Layne was using her reasonable I’m Assistant Police Chief and therefore know better than you tone. Nora wanted to toss her salad in her sister’s face, rub Ranch dressing into her hair. God, how dare she stand there so poised and rational? This wasn’t just another case they were discussing. This was their mother. She’d never understand how Layne could stay so detached.
Not that she’d question her sister about it. She’d done that once, the night they’d discovered their mother was dead. She’d never seen Layne so angry with her. So hurt. She’d never felt so guilty for causing that pain. Nora never made the same mistake twice.
“You’re just giving up?” Tori asked Layne.
“The case will remain open—”
“But you don’t believe Dale will ever be found.”
Layne met Tori’s gaze, then Nora’s. “No. I don’t. As much as I want to see that son of a bitch brought to justice, we have to realize that this isn’t some police show on TV. Not every case gets solved. Real life isn’t fair. It isn’t easy, tidy or guaranteed to end happily.”
“I think we’re all familiar with those concepts,” Nora snapped. She sure didn’t need her sister reminding her of them. But despite the realization that life sometimes sucked the big one, Nora did her best to maintain a positive outlook, to hold on to the hope that no matter how rough the waters got, there’d be smooth sailing ahead.
That motto, combined with a healthy dose of optimism and a natural, sunny demeanor that bugged the hell out of her sisters—a nice bonus—made it possible for her to become a fairly well-adjusted adult, despite being abandoned by her mother. She’d done her best to maintain that healthy balance even after she and her family discovered everything they thought they knew about their past had been a lie. Valerie Sullivan, their beautiful, charming, imperfect mother hadn’t left her husband and daughters to run off with her lover eighteen years ago.
She’d been murdered.
Brutally attacked and then left to rot in the woods outside of town where her remains were found over three weeks ago. And though the police had little to go on in the way of evidence and the most likely suspect hadn’t been seen or heard from in eighteen years, Nora fully believed justice would be served. The truth, after all, always wins out in the end.
She’d make sure of it.
“You need to talk to his son again,” Nora said. “Make him tell you where Dale is.”
Layne gave her a look of exasperation mixed with indulgence. As if Nora was a precocious seven-year-old instead of an intelligent adult with a damn good suggestion. “Ross has already questioned Griffin and his mother and I spoke with Griffin about it when I ran into him a few weeks ago. Neither one of them have heard from Dale since he left town.”
“So they claim.” But what if they were lying?
Layne crossed her ankles and leaned back against the large, granite-topped center island, one of the few changes she’d made to their childhood home after she’d bought it from their father five years ago. “What would you have me do? Get out my rubber hose and beat the information out of them?”
“Maybe you haven’t asked in the right way,” Nora said.
“I asked in the only way I know how and it didn’t work so don’t think you’d have better luck.”
Nora widened her eyes. “Did I say anything about my speaking to either of them?”
“You didn’t have to.” This from Tori. “It’s written all over your face.”
Nora started to lift a hand as if to wipe her expression clean but then slowly lowered it. Sent a bright smile at her gorgeous, overbearing, irritating sisters. “Now you’re both just being paranoid.”
Layne and Tori exchanged a long look. Nora hated when they did that. It was as if despite their many, many differences, they still had the ability to read the other’s mind. “Stay out of it,” Layne told her.
“More importantly,” Tori added, “stay away from Griffin York. He is nothing but bad news. Do you understand?”
“First of all,” Nora said as she rose and began clearing the table, her movements fluid despite the anger starting to sizzle in her veins, “save that mother tone for Brandon. I’m way past the age where it’ll work on me.” Not that it had worked on her twelve-year-old nephew lately, either. He was still mighty pissed at Tori for divorcing his father over six months earlier. “Secondly, what on earth gave you the crazy idea that I planned on speaking with Griffin York?”
“Because you always think you can succeed where mere mortals have failed,” Layne said.
Tori nodded. “Because you fully believe you can charm what you want out of anyone.”
Since both of those statements were true, Nora did her best to project sweetness and light and innocence. “I’m flattered you two think so highly of me. But honestly, you don’t have to worry.”
“Just promise us you won’t do anything stupid,” Layne said, watching her carefully.
Nora laid a hand over her heart. “I promise.”
An easy enough vow to make. She didn’t do stupid. But she did do whatever she had to in order to get her own way. If that meant facing down big, bad Griffin York, then so be it.
* * *
GRIFFIN CLIMBED DOWN from the tow truck and reached back inside for a copy of the day’s Mystic Point Chronicle. Tucking it under his arm, he grabbed his cup of take-out coffee and sipped it as he shut the door. The cool, early morning breeze ruffled his hair, brought with it the briny scent of the ocean as he walked toward the garage.
Though the tow truck and building both carried the name Eddie’s Service, they—along with the quarter acre lot they sat on, the tools and equipment inside the garage and the monthly small business loan payment—were his. All his.
It gave him a jolt, as it always did, to see it. To realize what he’d accomplished with little more than a high school diploma and a talent for taking cars apart. An even bigger talent for putting them back together again.
Surprise and pride mixed together to make that bump in his belly, along with a hefty dose of pure satisfaction that his father had been wrong.
He wasn’t worthless.
Which was a hell of a lot more than he could say for Dale York.
More than that, Griffin had made a place for himself in this small town despite his last name and his father’s reputation. Now, for good or bad, he was a part of Mystic Point. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was accepted there, that he belonged.
Didn’t mean he wanted to be either of those things.
Typing in the code on the security system’s keypad, he waited while the bay door rose. Across the street, the Pizza Junction, a long building with a flat roof, was dark, the sign reading Sorry, We’re Closed hanging at an angle on the glass door. Next to it, the pounding beat of some synthesized dance tune threatened to shatter the windows of Leonard’s Fitness. Why people needed Marty Leonard, with his overdeveloped muscles and penchant for tight, bright running shorts—short running shorts—to tell them how to exercise and what they could and couldn’t eat, was beyond Griffin. Then again, he’d never been much of a joiner.
Or one to take orders well.
Inside the garage, he flipped on the overhead lights before turning on the iPod in a docking station in the corner. Aerosmith’s “Deuces Are Wild” floated through the sound system he’d rigged throughout the building so that when he stepped into his office, Steven Tyler’s voice met him.
Tossing the paper aside, he sat behind his cluttered desk and did a quick check of the day’s work schedule: four oil changes and two inspections this