Chapter One
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Breaking news tonight from country star Holly Wix’s hometown of Gold Haven, Kentucky. Although a small village of only about two thousand residents, it has been plagued by the methamphetamine epidemic that has impacted much of rural America. Sources in Gold Haven report the explosion of a third meth house in a matter of weeks, and we’re told this one is located near a residence Wix owns and still visits on occasion.
Even more devastating to the town, an unidentified body has been discovered inside. No name has been released yet, pending notification of the family.
We’ll have more as the story develops. We’re sending our top investigative reporter, Memphis Lockwood, to Gold Haven to dig for answers. Stay tuned for her reports coming live from Kentucky.
* * *
By the time my flight touches down in New York, I find myself feeling anxious. It’s hard to believe I only left here a couple of weeks ago. The city that has been my home already feels foreign.
As I climb into the back of a cab at JFK, I rattle off the address of my old apartment building. I cringe as the driver slams on the brakes, honks his horn, and yells out the window at a Mercedes that cut him off. It’s nothing like driving through the one blinking red light in Gold Haven. The people and cyclists cutting across the street force yet another abrupt stop, annoying me.
After the nauseating hour-long ride, I find myself wondering why I’ve always considered Manhattan the only truly livable city on the planet. Maybe because it’s all I’ve ever really known, but Logan has shown me a completely different perspective. New York may be the center of the world in a lot of ways, but it’s no longer the center of my world.
When I climb out of the cab in front of the building, the doorman’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Ms. Regent. We’ve missed you. I hope you’re doing well.”
“Thank you, Joe. I’m doing great.”
The lines around his eyes deepen as his quick smile dies away. “I assume you’ve heard about Mrs. Frances passing.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them away.
“She always liked you. May not have acted like it, but she did. Do you need me to call up to the apartment, or are they expecting you?”
I shake my head. “Sofia asked me to come. I texted her on the way here.”
He glances toward the elevator. “You know the way then.”
With a small smile, I drag my suitcase toward the shiny gold doors and press the call button. When it finally arrives, I step inside and select my old floor.
As the doors slide closed, a man shoves his briefcase between them to stop them. Typical New York. He and a woman bustle inside. He reaches for the button panel but yanks his hand back almost immediately without pressing one.
Are they the new tenants in my former apartment? My question is answered within moments when the man speaks.
“You must be helping clean out the apartment across the hall. We heard the old lady passed away.”
My hackles rise at the way he refers to Myrna, even though I’ve called her the old lady plenty of times myself. But still, that was after years of the privilege of knowing her. These people don’t know crap.
“Her name was Myrna Frances.” My tone is frosty at best, dripping with an unspoken layer of go fuck yourself.
The woman presses a hand to her chest. “Are you family? We’re terribly sorry for your loss. She seemed . . . lovely.”
My hold on my temper snaps, weakened by grief and hours of travel. “I lived across the hall from her for five years, which is a hell of a lot more than you can say. Don’t feed me your bullshit sympathy. You didn’t know her.”
Guilt settles in both their expressions as the woman’s hand lowers to her rounded stomach. “We’re sorry about that. I’m due in four months, and we really needed a bigger place. It wasn’t personal. It was just . . . we needed the space more than you did.”
Her words don’t make sense . . . at first. But then the pieces snap together.
I open my mouth and close it again before finally speaking. “Are you . . . are you telling me that you sold me out to the association board and got me evicted so you could have more space?”
The woman recoils at my harsh tone. “Not us personally. A friend in the building who knew we couldn’t stay in our place when the baby came. I’ve felt really guilty ever since, though.”
A rusty laugh escapes my throat. “You’ve felt guilty? For making sure I ended up homeless?” I look down at her stomach and back up to her face as the elevator doors slide open. “God help your kid. I hope you’re not as shitty of a parent as you are a person.”
I stalk out of the elevator and down to Myrna’s door, wrath fueling my every step. One of the tears I’ve been holding at bay sneaks through and lands on my cheek. I swipe it away, even more furious.
I’ve spent all this time being angry at Myrna, thinking she ratted me out, but it was some asshole trying to get a bigger place for a friend. The knowledge overwhelms me, and another tear falls.
My fist lands on the door harder than I intend, but I have to get out of this hallway before I let them see me cry. I don’t turn to see if they’re following or are wisely choosing to wait in the elevator until I’m out of sight.
Thankfully, Sofia opens the door and throws her arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I hug her back hard as she begins to shake. Pulling away, I meet her tear-filled gaze, which matches my own. “Me too. I’m so sorry.”
“It’ll be better now. You’re here, and I don’t have to do this alone.” She sniffles as another tear tracks down her cheek. “Mrs. Frances’s daughter just called and said she’s not coming.”
“What?” Rage and grief take turns slamming fist after fist into my gut. “What do you mean, she’s not coming? Her mother died. She has to come.”
Sofia shakes her head. “I don’t understand either. She was so angry. She just yelled and yelled and hung up on me.”
Myrna’s relationship with her daughter is about as good as mine with my mother. And yet I still don’t understand how she could decide she’s opting out of this responsibility. If she’s serious . . . that’s tragic. But maybe that’s how my mother would react if something happened to me. I can practically hear her.
“Now isn’t a good time. I’m not able to leave until this segment of the research is concluded.”
Not. Acceptable.
I wrap a hand around each of Sofia’s shoulders and squeeze. “I’ll call her. There’s got to be some kind of mistake. Maybe she just delayed her flight because she had something going on.”
I pull out my phone and find Dee Booker’s contact information. She answers on the second ring.
“Hi, this is Banner Regent. You know, I used to live across—”
“Are you calling to tell me I should’ve visited more while she was alive, and maybe she wouldn’t have screwed me over so hard in death?” She spits the angry words at me, not sounding at all like a congresswoman.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Booker. I know that this isn’t easy. My mother and I have a . . . difficult relationship too, but I would—”
“Am I supposed to care that you have mommy issues? If that’s what you think this is, you are woefully mistaken.”
Her jab about mommy issues hits home, and I stiffen. Myrna would be so embarrassed, and I’m embarrassed for her.
“Yeah, I do have mommy issues. Actually, I have shitty, disconnected parent issues. But that’s not what this is about. Who do you think is going to handle Myrna’s estate and apartment if you don’t step up? She didn’t ask a whole lot from you while she was alive; the least you could do is give her some consideration now that she’s gone.”
I almost expect lightning to strike me down because someone could say the same thing to me if my mom died tomorrow. Grief for a parent I haven’t even lost yet rises up, and those few tears from earlier multiply.
Dee Booker is silent for a beat after I stop speaking. “You don’t even know, do you?” A bitter laugh comes over the line. “I don’t need to spare a moment of consideration for my mother because she didn’t have any for me. After all, she left every damn thing to you.”
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