The Liar

“It’s just one of the many things that make me such a good catch.”

The door opened as they came up the walk.

“Oh, baby girl.”

“I’m all right, Mama.”

“Of course you are. Come on in here, Griffin.” Ada Mae scooped Shelby up in a hug. “Your granny and grandpa came by, told us everything. Forrest, is he still over there?”

“Yeah, he’s still there.”

“Good. Don’t you worry about Callie. I checked on her five minutes ago, and she’s sound asleep. Why don’t I make you something to eat?”

“I couldn’t, Mama.”

“Let me look at the girl.” Clayton stepped up, tipped up Shelby’s face. “You’re pale and you’re tired.”

“I guess I am.”

“If you can’t sleep, I’ll give you a little something. But you give it a try first.”

“I will. I guess I’ll go on up. Daddy, Griff left his truck back at the bar and grill so he could bring me home. Thank you, Griff.” She turned, touched her lips to his cheek.

“I’m going to see you settled and tucked in.” Ada Mae put an arm around Shelby’s waist. “Thank you, Griff, for seeing to my baby girl. You’re a good boy.”

“But am I a good catch?”

At Shelby’s tired laugh, Ada Mae gave a puzzled smile. “Best in the whole pool. Come on now, my baby.”

Clayton waited until they were up the stairs. “You got time for a beer and some details, Griff?”

“If you’d make that a Coke or ginger ale, I’ve got time. I plan to bunk on your couch there anyway.”

“I can get you back to your truck.”

“I’d feel better bunking right here tonight. I don’t think there’s going to be any trouble, but I’d feel better right here.”

“All right, then. We’ll have a Coke and a talk. Then I’ll get you a pillow and blanket.”

An hour later, Griff stretched out on the couch—a pretty comfortable couch. God knew he’d slept on a lot worse. He stared up at the ceiling awhile, thinking of Shelby, letting some of the songs she’d sung that night replay in his head.

At some point he’d let the whole business play around, like the songs, in his head. It’s how he solved most problems. Let all the pieces roll around, try fitting some together, taking them apart again until a picture formed.

Right now the only clear picture was Shelby.

She was in plenty of trouble, no doubt about it. Maybe he couldn’t resist a damsel in distress. Not that he’d use that term out loud. Besides, if a woman liked the term, if she was the sort who just wanted to sit around doing nothing while he rescued her, well, she’d bore the crap out of him in short order. And that would be right before she irritated him so he never wanted to deal with her again.

So it probably wasn’t the damsel-in-distress thing, now that he thought about it. Turn that around into a smart, strong woman who just needed some help. Add in the way she looked, the way she sounded. The way she was.

He’d be a moron if he didn’t want the whole package.

He was no moron.

He let his eyes close, ordered his mind to go drifting. Drifting, he dropped, slept light and restless until, on the edge of dreams, he heard something that brought him to full alert again.

An old house settling? he asked himself as he strained to hear.

No. That was creaking boards and footsteps. He slid off the couch, moved quietly in the direction of the sound. And, braced to attack, slapped on the lights.

Shelby clamped a hand over her own mouth to muffle the scream.

“Sorry! Jesus, sorry,” Griff began.

She waved her free hand, shook her head, then leaned back against the wall. Slowly, she dropped her other hand. “Well, what’s another ten years? What are you doing here?”

“I’m bunking on the living room couch.”

“Oh.” Now she dragged her fingers through her hair in a way that made all those wild curls go just a bit madder—and tightened every muscle in his body. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to make some tea or something.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want some tea or something?” On a thoughtful frown, she cocked her head. “Do you want some scrambled eggs?”

“Oh yeah.”

He followed her back to the kitchen. She wore cotton pajama bottoms—bright blue with yellow flowers all over them—and a yellow T-shirt.

He could’ve lapped her up like ice cream.

She put the kettle on, got out a skillet.

“I can’t turn my mind off,” she began. “But if I asked Daddy for a sleeping pill, Mama’d start fussing again.”

“They love you a lot.”

“I’m lucky they do.” She put a pat of butter in the skillet, let it melt while she beat some eggs. “I thought when the woman told me all those things this morning, the client of that detective was probably the person they all stole from.”

“It’s a good guess.”

“Now I wonder, was this woman the client? Did he find me, follow me here, all of that, for her? She said no when I asked her, but she’s—she was—a liar. So maybe she had him follow me so she could come and push me for something I don’t know.”

“That’s another good guess, but if you’re wondering did he kill her? Why would he?”