Wicked Charm(27)

I puzzle it out. Three girls. No witnesses. Same killer, according to the crime scenes. Signature throat bruises.

"Don't know," Beau replies. "Simply to kill?"

Part of me refuses to believe it because it's too ugly.

"Maybe the killer was linked to them in some way. They all go to our  high school. All females. Something matches them up," Pax says.

"Maybe not," Beau counters. "Sometimes people are evil, plain and simple. No reason. No rhyme. Just devil evil."

"Maybe it is the devil," Grant says jokingly.

Mention of the dead girls, along with the dark night and too many  shadows, begins to make my nerves spike. My heart beats a haunting tune.  No one knows who the killer is. He could be out in the woods right now.

"Let's not talk about it anymore," I say, holding my arms tightly.

"She's getting scared," Grant replies. "Guess maybe she should be. She's  the one dating you right now, Beau, and we all know how that's been  turning out for your previous girlfriends."

"You ass," Beau says with a sharp glance at Grant.

I can't believe Grant's words. I also can't believe how true they ring. I could be next.

"Don't listen to him. I'll protect you, Willow Bell." Beau brushes my hair from my face. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"Well, we have to go," Pax says. "Grant wants to hit up Devon's party in  town. He has the absurd idea that he might actually be able to get a  girl's number without you there, Beau."

Grant punches Pax on the arm. "I will. You wait and see."

"You sure you don't want to come?" Pax asks Beau. "You're welcome to join, too, Willow."

Beau looks at me as he answers. "Nah, I'm good right here."

"Thanks anyway," I say.

All the lights of a party hold nothing to sitting under a blanket of stars.

Pax and Grant offer goodbyes on their way out.

"You sure you don't want to go?" I ask Beau as they start the car.

He grins. "Do you know what guys go to parties for?"

"Beer?"

"No. Girls. Beer is just an added bonus. And I have the only girl I want right next to me, so you do the math."

"You telling me that you stayed here to keep yourself out of trouble?"

I can't help the small smile that works its way across my face.

"Possibly."

He takes my hand and kisses the back of it softly.

"You want to come inside?"

I instantly picture his den filled with books and kisses.

"Yes," I say.

I try not to worry what will happen if I meet Mr. Cadwell face-to-face. The man in the photographs who changed Gran's life.

This time when Beau opens the front door, he gives me a tour. The living  area. The kitchen. His room. He points to Charlotte's and Mr. Cadwell's  rooms. I peer through the open doorways. They're perfectly cozy.

Beau grins. "You look nice tonight."

I'm wearing jeans, a shimmery top, and boots. My hair is wavy and down.  Beau likes my hair down. He runs his fingers through it and makes me  lean into him.

"Thanks. Where is everyone?" I ask.

He removes his hands from my hair and places them in his pockets. Then he leans casually against the wall, his eyes glinting.

"Charlotte took Grandpa into town," he says. "So it's just us."

I think I understand the look he gives me.

"Want a tea?" he asks.

I do. "Sure."

"I'll make some," Beau offers.

He walks to the kitchen and reaches toward a top shelf. He pulls down a canister, but there are no tea bags inside.

"We're out," he says. "There's more in the storage shed. We keep extra food supplies there. Give me a minute."         

     



 

He grabs a key from a hook by the door before entering the side yard.  From the bay window, I observe him as he unlocks the shed. Thanks to the  outside lights, I can see him clearly. And because something draws me  to this house, I look around more closely. Floorboards squeak in  high-pitched protests as I bear down on them, making my way through the  living room. Beau's place is clean. It doesn't look as lived in as  Gran's or Jorie's house.

I venture into the hallway. Black-and-white photographs of old barn  houses dot the wall. I wonder what their significance is, and then I  think maybe they don't have one. Maybe they simply fill a spot where  family photos should be.

I glance back outside, looking for Beau. He's disappeared into the shed.

At the end of the hall, I find a bathroom and step inside. I check my  reflection, smoothing down stray strands of hair and adding a layer of  gloss to my lips.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice something glint from a jewelry box  on the counter, the bottom of three drawers ajar. I edge closer, peer  inside, and make out a garnet as red as blood attached to a silver chain  and an emerald brighter than a flower stalk set in an old, tarnished  broach. I admire a turquoise stone framed by an intricately carved ring,  but suddenly my blood turns cold. There, just next to the ring, is a  silver earring, a chunk of green-amber dangling down. I inhale sharply.

I know this earring. I found its match in the woods. Left there by the  person in the cloak, who I happen to think is the Mangroves Murderer.

The door creaks behind me, and I spin around, nearly face-to-face with Beau.

"Everything okay?" he asks. "I heard you gasp."

"Beau." His name is barely a whisper on my lips. "Whose jewelry box is this?"

"Charlotte's." The smile drops from his face the moment he notices my expression.

"You're sure it's hers? She didn't have a friend over who accidentally  left it? Or maybe your grandpa had a visitor who left this here?"

Beau shifts uncomfortably. "It's Charlotte's, I'm sure of it. It used to belong to my grandmother."

I slowly turn back to the box.

"Look inside," I say.

He steps up to the counter, peers at the jewelry, and stills.

"Is this what I think it is?" He pulls out the earring.

"You tell me."

I'm standing in the house of the girl who wore those earrings in the woods.

"The police were right," I say. "These didn't belong to one of the victims."

I brush past Beau and into the living room, trying to get to the front door.

"I'm afraid," I say, "that they instead belong to the killer."

Beau's sister could be the killer. I'm in her house. She could return at any moment.

"Where are you going?" Beau asks.

"I'm leaving." God, Gran is right, isn't she? "I need to go."

I take a step away from Beau.

"There has to be another reason," he says. "Maybe Charlotte found the other earring. How do you know it's hers?"

"I … " Well, actually …  "I don't."

Beau trails a finger down my arm, stopping at my fingers, which he winds his through.

"And how do you know she's not helping the investigation in some way?" he continues.

"I don't," I repeat. "But this is pretty damning evidence. Why didn't  she take it to the police? Why didn't she tell anyone she found the  earring?"

"Maybe she did, and we just don't know. Or maybe she didn't think anything of it. We never told her about the match, remember?"

"True," I say.

"Until we know something, let's not jump to conclusions. Let me talk to  Charlotte. If she can't give me a good reason for the earring being  here, I'll hand her over myself."

"You'll turn her in?" I ask skeptically. "Your own sister?"

"I will damn sure make certain she never hurts anyone again, if that's what you mean."

He watches me close-like. His penetrating gaze burns my blood right up.  And there, in his stare, I find truth. If Charlotte is the killer, Beau  will stop her.





26


Beau

I haven't talked to Charlotte about the earring yet, and Willow's asked  about it only once since she discovered the stone yesterday. She's  agreed to give me time but not much. Soon, I'll need to confront my  sister.

The truth is, I'm afraid to ask. I don't want her to be involved, or to  know why Charlotte has the earring. It's too close to home. If it isn't  hers, and I ask for an explanation, I just might strain the most solid  bond I have with another person. Charlotte is mean, sure, but she's my  sister. She's been with me the longest. She knows me the deepest.         

     



 

Willow takes a seat with me under a pecan tree. We gather a few of the  fallen nuts and break them open against a hard rock. Her small boat sits  at the shore, tied to a tree. This part of the swamp is like our own  private beach. Only instead of clear waters, we have green swamp. And  instead of sand, we have dirt. The peacefulness is the same, though.

"Beau," Willow says. "Do you ever miss your parents?"

"Yes." I surprise myself by answering.

"Tell me about them?"

I don't think of them often. Well, that's a lie. I do think of them, but  usually I push the thoughts away. This time, I let them come. And with  each one, I feel it, the pang of grief, heavier than anything I've  attempted to carry.

"My mom used to crochet everything. Scarves. Blankets. One year she  knitted me the ugliest sweater out of all her scraps." I laugh at the  memory. "I still have it."