A guilty pang struck Wes—between the loan sharks dogging him and the private investigator Meg’s father had put on his tail, he could take credit for the recent traffic jam on their driveway. Then he frowned. “But no one found an abandoned car after Jack took Dad into custody.”
“That we know of,” she agreed. Although that detail might come up in her Monday morning chat with D.A. Kelvin Lucas.
“But driving around to monitor the townhome seems kind of random, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so,” she agreed. “So maybe he could’ve been in a hotel room?”
He mentally mapped the handful of hotels in the vicinity. “Could be. Or maybe he rented an apartment?”
“Or a house,” Carlotta added.
Wes’s heart rate picked up as this mind leapfrogged ahead. “He and Mom could be living in this neighborhood!”
Their gazes locked and in tandem they turned and looked in the direction of the house on the other side of their townhome.
Quiet, unassuming...convenient.
Wes wet his lips as a preposterous idea bloomed in his brain. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Carlotta hesitated, then shook her head. “Wes...that’s impossible.”
But adrenaline began to drip into his bloodstream. “Humor me. When did the gay couple move in?”
“About five years ago.”
“And you’ve never met them?”
“No. I always meant to introduce myself, but...they seemed stand-offish.”
“So they’re avoiding you?”
Carlotta scoffed. “Maybe they don’t want to mix with the next door neighbors who have drive-by shootings and police chaperones.”
He ignored her. “They work from home, right?”
“I just assumed so because of all the deliveries they receive.”
“Have you ever seen them outside, doing chores or mowing their yard?”
“They have a lawn service.”
“As if they don’t want to be seen.”
“Or as if they don’t own a lawn mower.”
He ignored her, then gestured toward the sun room the furtive neighbors had added to the back of their small house. “The addition...”
“Infuriated Mrs. Winningham because it blocked her view,” Carlotta offered.
“And gave the occupants a great view of
our
house from all angles.”
But Carlotta still looked dubious. “That’s a stretch, don’t you think?”
“How many times have you actually seen someone come and go from that house?” he demanded.
Carlotta shrugged. “Maybe a handful of times.”
“And they’ve never spoken to you?”
“No. It was always a quick glance, maybe a wave.” Then she frowned. “Or maybe I waved. But Wes, it’s a
gay
couple. Two men.”
“Maybe one of them just
looked
like a man.”
Her head came up. “You mean one of them could be Mom in disguise?”
“You tell me—you’re the one who crashed your own funeral in a getup so good no one recognized you.”
“Except Dad,” she conceded.
Much later she’d confessed to Wes that a stranger had bumped into her at the fake funeral and placed a note in her pocket identifying him as their father.
“See,” he said excitedly. “It could be them!”
But Carlotta was still shaking her head. “Do you hear what you’re saying? That Mom and Dad could’ve been living next to us all this time? That’s crazy.”
He snorted. “No crazier than anything else that’s happened in our lives.” He was already moving toward the house. “And there’s only one way to find out.”
Carlotta caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “Wes, wait!”
He spun around. “Are you kidding? We’ve waited for ten years to see Mom, and at this very minute, she might be twenty feet away!”
She gave him a tremulous smile. “I meant wait for me.”
Chapter Fifteen
AS THEY CROSSED into the dewy grass of the neighboring yard, Carlotta’s heart thudded against her breastbone to the point of pain. Her hairline felt moist. Mixed emotions assailed her. The thought of seeing her mother again was exhilarating—and terrifying. But other emotions crowded her lungs. If, incredulously, Randolph and Valerie had been living next door to them all this time, some part of her might find it comforting that they’d been keeping an eye on her and Wesley. But another, larger part of her would be furious if their parents had been so close and let their children believe they were missing—and worse.
As fantastic as the story sounded, she found herself listing the reasons it made sense that Randolph and Valerie would be hiding in plain sight. Since Valerie had been emotionally dependent on Randolph, she probably wouldn’t be content to be parked somewhere alone while Randolph roamed around and made surveillance trips to Atlanta. And if Randolph and Valerie had grown a conscience about abandoning their children, moving in next door would probably assuage their guilt.
Her legs were rubbery when they climbed the steps to the front door. There were no signs of life in or around the little house—no cat in the window, no blaring TV, no aromas of breakfast sausage wafting outside through a vented stove hood.
Which only made Carlotta more anxious because Valerie was allergic to cats, famously hated watching TV, and would ingest sausage only if it had been soaked in vodka.
They stood on the stoop for a few seconds in silence. She knew Wes was waiting for her—the eldest—to make a move, but she was frozen in fear and anticipation. When Wes stepped forward and rang the doorbell, pride welled in her throat. Somewhere along the way he’d gone from being a timid little boy to a gutsy young man. Granted, he didn’t always make the best decisions, but she was glad he didn’t let life intimidate him.
She wet her lips as the muffled chime of the doorbell echoed throughout the house. As she stared at the door, a strong sense of déjà vu washed over her. There had been another time she’d been standing in front of a door, and when it swung open, Valerie had emerged. Carlotta frowned, her memory churning wildly, and then suddenly, she remembered.
The scene had unfolded in her travel-dream. She had been transported back to the driveway of the lavish home in Buckhead where she and Wesley had grown up. After she had alighted from her Miata and was attempting to orient herself, the door to the mansion had opened, and Valerie had appeared, conversing with Carlotta just as if she hadn’t been absent from her daughter’s life for a decade. Because in that other-place, she hadn’t been. The unexplainable incident was a gift from the universe, Carlotta had come to realize, a glimpse into what her life might’ve been like if Randolph and Valerie hadn’t left.
She still wavered back and forth as to exactly what she had experienced that night, but right here, right now, standing on this stoop, she knew she wasn’t dreaming. The thought of being a heartbeat away from being reunited with Valerie made her lightheaded.
Behind the door, they heard a movement. Carlotta straightened and stared at the peephole. Was Valerie squirreled away and afraid, wondering what to do now that Randolph had been taken into custody? Was she looking at them now, panicking? Would she open the door to her children, or would she retreat into hiding?
Open the door,
she willed silently
, or I’ll break it down.
The click of a deadbolt sounded, then the knob turned, and the door slowly opened.
A tall man stood there in dark jeans, shrugging into a white dress shirt, which he left unbuttoned. He wore a confused expression on his rugged face. “Yeah?” he asked on a grunt, squinting.
Carlotta exhaled in scathing self-recrimination. What an utterly preposterous notion to think their parents had been living next to them all this time. Beside her, Wesley sagged, his disappointment palpable.
“Can I help you?” the man asked in a sleep-rusty voice.
He was all male, Carlotta registered in a glance, with a platter of muscle for a stomach and shoulders that bowed slightly from the stress of holding up all that bulging protein. A tattoo peeked above the edge of his waistband.
“We’re your neighbors,” she said brightly, then nodded to their house. “I’m Carlotta and this is my brother Wesley.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
His voice wasn’t unfriendly, but neither was his body language welcoming. He spread his arms to span the door frame. His short hair was the color of tarnished brass and stuck up at all angles—it appeared he’d just gotten out of bed.
As further proof, he yawned widely behind his hand. “It’s kind of early. Did you need something?”
She glanced at Wes, at a loss. They hadn’t discussed what they’d say in the event the person who opened the door wasn’t their mother...which now seemed like an obvious oversight.
“We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” Wes offered.
Carlotta looked down and realized she was still holding the vase of allergy-inducing daisies Mrs. Winningham had rejected. She extended it. “Here.”
He squinted, then took the vase, which looked ridiculous in his big hands. “Thanks, but I’m just renting this place for a few weeks.”
Wes cut her an exasperated look. “We should go.”
“Right,” she said, nodding. “It was nice to meet you, um...what’s your name?”
“John...son. Hey—” The guy scratched his nose—great, the flowers were already inflicting damage. “—what’s with the police car parked at the end of your driveway the past few days?”
“Oh, that,” Carlotta said. “That’s, um...”
“Speed trap,” Wes finished, yanking on her arm. “Be careful driving on this street. See you around.”
Wes practically dragged her off the stoop and back to their yard. Behind them, the door to the neighboring house closed soundly.
“Easy,” she said, rubbing her arm.
“Sorry. I have to get going,” he said, his eyes suspiciously moist.
Her heart squeezed for him. “Wes, it was a good theory. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but hopefully we’ll get to talk to Randolph soon and get some answers.”
He nodded.
“I’m glad you pushed me into going over there,” she added with a smile. “Even though we came up empty, it feels good to do something, you know?”
He hesitated, then stabbed at his glasses. “Actually...I’m working another angle to contact Dad.”
She frowned. “What other angle is there?”
He squirmed. “A guy I know on my courier job. He has a friend on the inside.”
Panic blipped in her stomach. Wes didn’t know
she
knew the “courier” job was the lie he’d told to cover for his work as a confidential informant in The Carver’s organization, at the behest of D.A. Kelvin Lucas, the toad.
“On the
inside?
Of the prison? Who are you, Baby Face Nelson?”
“I figured if the authorities won’t work with us, we’ll go around them.”
She stared at him with a mixture of pride and dismay. He was so damned resourceful...and how wretched that he had to scheme with thugs to communicate with their long lost father in jail. “And has your
friend
reported back?”
“Not yet. But soon.”
Resentment toward her parents for Wes’s predicament rose in the back of her throat. But knowing the futility of that path, she swallowed the bad taste. “Okay. Keep me posted?”
“Sure.”
Carlotta angled her head. “So, how are things with Meg?”
She caught the darkening of his eyes before he averted his gaze. “She’s in Aruba with her folks.”
While Wes was here conspiring to make contact with his jailbird dad. The contrast was heartbreaking. “When will she be back?”
He started walking backward toward the garage where he stowed his bike. “I gotta run. Later.”
Carlotta hugged herself and watched Wes scramble to retrieve his bike, lower the garage door, and take off. He waved as he pedaled past her. She returned the wave, then pushed her tongue into her cheek.
Since Wes had deflected the subject of Meg, he’d probably done something he shouldn’t have...again. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for Meg because it was clear Wes had lost his heart to her.
Carlotta sighed. Then her head pivoted back to the house next door.
Their fugitive parents hadn’t been living there, but something was definitely amiss.
“Johnson,” or whoever he was, had gone to great lengths to make it seem as if they’d gotten him out of bed. But while his hair was disheveled, his jaw was fresh-shaven—down to a tiny piece of toilet tissue blotting a cut, and the strong scent of his after-shave was another giveaway that he’d been up for a while.
Also, for someone who’d just rolled out of bed, it was strange he’d had time to put on lace up shoes that were spit-shined.
Plus, the tattoo at the man’s waist was a blue and gold emblem—perhaps military, perhaps law enforcement.
And while bracing himself against the doorframe with his shirt hanging open had seemed like a casual pose—and not an objectionable sight—most likely it was an attempt to block them from seeing the big honking camera set up on a tripod facing the Wren house.
The man could be a professional photographer...or a voyeur. But if she were a betting person (like her little brother), she’d wager it was no coincidence they had a new neighbor who was an even bigger snoop than Mrs. Winningham at the precise time that Randolph had returned.
Chapter Sixteen
WESLEY WALKED INTO the International House of Pancakes, still stinging from the disappointment of the visit to the neighboring house. How epically perfect would it have been for their parents to be living next door all these years?
Chance waved from a booth. “Thanks for coming, man.”
Wes swung into a seat. “What’s up?” He was wary. It wasn’t like Chance to ask to meet for breakfast—or anytime, for that matter. He wanted something—for Wesley to take an exam for him, deliver a package—something. And while Chance always looked a little on the disheveled side, today his chuffy blond buddy looked especially worse for wear.