The Liar

24

The wild rhododendrons burst into bloom along the banks of streams, flashed and flamed their way up the slopes. In the high country the starry yellow blossoms of bluebeard lily peeked out from fanning ferns going thick and green.

She took Callie on hikes and hunts to find them when she could, or just to sit and listen to the music of bluebirds and juncos. Once, from a safe distance, she let her girl share the wonder of watching a bear fish in a tumbling stream before he lumbered off into the green.

Callie celebrated her fourth birthday in the backyard of the house where her mother had grown up, with friends her own age, with family, with people who cared about her.

For Shelby it was the shiniest gift in the pile.

There was a chocolate cake shaped like a castle with all the characters from Shrek scattered around it, and games, and gifts, balloons and streamers.

“It’s the happiest birthday she’s ever had.”

Viola sat, her great-grandson in her arms, and watched the kids play on one of Callie’s treasured gifts. A Slip ’n Slide.

“She’s getting old enough to know what’s what about a birthday now.”

“It’s more than that, Granny.”

Viola nodded. “It’s more than that. Does she ever ask about her father?”

“She doesn’t. She hasn’t said a word about him since we came home. It’s like she’s forgotten him, and I don’t know if that’s right or wrong.”

“She’s happy. She’ll have questions one day, and you’ll have to answer them, but she’s happy. She sure has a love affair going on with Griff.”

Shelby smiled over to where a soaking wet Callie clung to Griff’s legs. “She does.”

“How about you?”

“I can’t deny we’ve got something going, and since where we are makes me happy, I’m not thinking too much where we’re going to end up.”

“You’ve lost most of the sad, worried look behind your eyes. You’ve got my eyes—through me, to Ada Mae, to you, and on to Callie,” Viola pointed out. “Don’t think I can’t read them.”

“I’d say the sad’s gone, and the worry’s lessened. Are you going to give up that baby and give somebody else a chance?”

Viola laid a kiss on Beau’s forehead. “Here you go. Sleeping like an angel right through all this noise. Go ahead and take him out in the sun for a few minutes. Not too long now, but I expect some vitamin D’s good for him.”

It felt wonderful to have a baby in her arms again, to feel the weight and the warmth, to smell the down of his hair. She looked over at her daughter. Such a big girl now, sprouting like a weed. And the yearning pulled and tugged inside her as Beau waved a hand in the air in his sleep.

When Clay, nearly as wet as the kids, walked over, she shook her head. “Don’t you even think about stealing this baby from me. You’re too wet to take him. Besides, I’ve barely had my turn.”

“I figured I wouldn’t get much chance to hold him today.”

“He favors you, Clay.”

“That’s what Mama says.”

“She’s right.”

“I’m after a beer—Gilly’s driving. You want one?”

“I’m sticking with lemonade until this is over.”

Still he put an arm around her shoulders, turned her so they walked to the big tub holding the beer. “Forrest filled me in on what’s going on with you.”

“I don’t want you to worry about any of that. You have a new baby to think about, not to mention Gilly and Jackson.”

He kept his arm around her. He had a way of hugging you in, and always had, Shelby thought, that made her feel cherished. “I’ve got plenty of room for my sister in my thinking-about book. Nobody who looks like this Harlow character’s come by work. I haven’t seen anybody like that around the neighborhood. I know the police are still looking—that’s what they have to do. But he’s most likely gone. Even so.”

He pulled out a beer, popped off the cap. “You be careful, Shelby. I feel better knowing Griff’s looking out for you.”

Instantly the shoulders he’d soothed tightened. “I’ve done a pretty good job looking out for myself.”

After a gulp of beer, Clay tapped a finger to her nose—another life-long habit. “Don’t get your nose out of joint. I like knowing you can take care of yourself. I like it better Griff’s looking out for you, too, so there’s no point getting pissy about it.”

“I’m not getting—” The baby stirred, let out a plaintive cry.

Clay glanced at his watch. “Like clockwork. Feeding time.”

“I’ll take him to Gilly.”

She wasn’t pissy, Shelby thought. A little annoyed, yes, and entitled to be. She’d gotten herself into a mess, no question about it, but she’d also put considerable time, effort and creativity into pulling herself and her child out of that mess.

She didn’t want to be “looked after.” It slid too close to what she’d let happen before. Hadn’t she allowed Richard to “look after” her? To make all the decisions, run the show, lead her where he wanted her to go?

It wouldn’t happen again. And she was going to make damn sure she showed her now four-year-old daughter what a woman could do if she worked hard enough, stood straight enough.

If she looked after herself.

• • •

LATER, SHE DEALT with party debris, carting in leftovers, bagging up trash. In the kitchen her mother and grandmother put the kitchen to rights.

“I’m making up a big batch of frozen margaritas,” Ada Mae announced. “Mama and I have a yen for some.”

“I could have a yen for a frozen margarita.”

“Forrest and your daddy will probably stick with beer.” While she worked, Ada Mae peered out the window, nodded. “Looks like they’ve about got the extra chairs and picnic tables put away. I don’t know what Matt and Griff have a yen for, but expect Emma Kate might join our margarita party. You ought to ask what they’d like to have.”

“I will.”

“Or maybe the four of you want to go on out for a while. Oh, look how sweet Griff is with Callie.” Ada Mae stopped to beam out the window now. “He’s tying balloons on her wrists.”

“She thinks if there’s enough of them on her, she’ll lift right off the ground.”

“And see there? He’s lifting her up, letting her pretend she’s flying. That man’s born to be a daddy. Some are,” she said as she got out her big blender. “Your brother Clay, for one. He’s so good with his babies. I wish they could’ve stayed awhile longer, but little Beau needed to go home, and Jackson was ready to fall asleep standing up. Callie, now, she’s still got energy enough.”

“Chocolate cake, and the excitement. She’ll be spinning until bedtime.”

“She sure does dote on Griff, and he right back on her. You can tell a man’s character by the way he treats children and animals, I say. You’ve got a winner there, Shelby. One who’s going to look after you right.”

“Ada Mae,” Viola said under her breath, casting her eyes heavenward even as Shelby spoke up.

“I’m looking after me.”

“Of course you are, honey! Just look what a bright, sweet child you’ve raised, and on your own, too. It sure eases my worries seeing you with such a good man—fine-looking, too. We met some of his people when they came down to visit and help him with the old Tripplehorn place. Fine, good people. You should go on out and ask him to Sunday dinner.”

Shelby’s heart began to throb. She knew what it meant when a southern woman talked about lineage and Sunday dinners.

“Mama, I’ve only been seeing Griff for a couple months.”

“He puts a light in you.” Cheerful, oblivious, Ada Mae dumped generous scoops of ice in the blender with the tequila and margarita mix. “Puts one in your baby girl, too. And Lord knows he looks at you like you’re the double chocolate cream in the candy box. He’s got an easy way with friends and family, and has his own business. You don’t want to let a man like that slip away.”

“Let me help you with that, Ada Mae,” Viola said, and hit the switch on the blender to drown out any more words.

Shelby didn’t ask him to Sunday dinner, or suggest they go out with Matt and Emma Kate. She told herself she wasn’t avoiding him over the next several days—just that she had a lot to see to. Just that she had a point to make that she could see to her own.

She did just that with Callie off on a playdate with a new friend, and the afternoon free.

She took time to work on her next playlist—circling back to the second round of the fifties. And with the raise she’d gotten the week before at both jobs, she opted to funnel that extra into a single credit card payment.

If she kept being careful—didn’t buy any more new dresses no matter what her mama said—she should have another paid off by her own birthday in November.

That would be the best gift she could ask for.

At the knock on the front door, she closed the laptop, went down to answer.

Griff stood on the porch, smiled at her. “Hey.”

“Hey back.” She tried to fight off the flutter in her belly, and politely stepped back to let him in—stepped back just enough to avoid a hello kiss.

“Your mother wants shelves in the laundry room.”

“She has shelves in the laundry room.”

“She wants more.”

“That sounds like Mama. I’ll show you.”

“How’s it going?”

“Good. Busy, like I said before. I was just working on the next playlist, and dealing with paperwork. I never seem to dig out from under paperwork. Here you go. See? Shelves.”

“Uh-huh.” He stepped into the room off the kitchen, scanned the setup. “Decent size. Not much natural light. Plenty of shelves, but— She’d do better with cabinets over the washer and dryer. It’s half a mudroom, isn’t it?”

Drawn in, despite herself, on the idea of redesign, she frowned at the space. “I guess you could say it is. She and Daddy keep their gardening shoes and such in here, and winter boots, that kind of thing.”

“She’d do better taking out those shelves there, putting in a bench with open cubbies under it for shoes and boots. Sit down, take your shoes off. Sit down, put your shoes on.”

“It’s a better use of it, isn’t it? She’d probably like that idea.”

“Shelves over that—high enough you wouldn’t rap your head on them. A longer folding counter under the window. If it were mine, I’d widen that window, bring in more light. Anyway, longer counter with the sink on the far side instead of the middle, keep the hanging rod over it, but put base cabinets with pull-out shelves under it.”

He shrugged. “Or she could just get open corner shelves over there and be done with it. I’ll do some measuring.”

“All right. I’ll leave you to that.”

“Do we have a problem?” he asked as he took his tape measure and pencil out of his tool belt, pulled out his notebook.

“A problem? No. Why?”

“Because this is the first time I’ve seen you since Callie’s birthday party, and you’re being pretty careful to keep at least a foot away from me.”

“I’ve just had a lot to see to—like I said.”

He took some measurements, wrote down some figures. “Don’t bullshit me, Shelby. It’s insulting.”

“I’m not. I really have had a lot to deal with.” But he was right, it was insulting. “And maybe I needed to take a breath along with it. That’s all.”

“Okay.” He wrote down something else, then those canny green eyes lifted, zeroed in on hers. “Did I do something that felt like I was putting pressure on you?”

“No, you didn’t—you haven’t. I just needed to . . . Are you looking out for me, Griffin?”

He wrote down more numbers, did a quick sketch, then lowered the pad to look at her again. “Sure I am.”

“I can look after myself.” Since it was true, she didn’t care how snippy or defensive it sounded. “I need to look after myself. I can’t—just won’t—get caught up again so I let somebody take over.”

She saw it in his eyes, the flash of temper, a surprising spark of heat.

“You know, I’m all about accurate measurements. You screw up there, you screw up everything. If you want to measure yourself by Richard, by what was, that’s your baggage, Shelby. I hope you work that out. But if you’re going to measure me by him, that’s going to piss me off.”

“I’m not. Exactly. What the hell else do I have to measure with? Six months ago I thought I was married.”

“Well, you weren’t.”

He said it so flatly she couldn’t say why the words made her wince.

“And it seems to me you’ve done a good job tearing down those walls, starting to build things in the way it works for you now. If this doesn’t work for you, this you and me? That’s going to be tough to take because I’m in love with you. But being in love with you doesn’t mean I’ll stand here and let you compare me to the son of a bitch who lied to you, who used you, who broke your trust and your spirit. I won’t stand for that. And I won’t be pushed away so you can fucking breathe because I’m looking out for you the same way anybody who gave a rat’s ass would.”

He shoved the measuring tape back in the pocket of his tool belt. “Work out what you need to work out. I’ll get back to your mother.”

He walked right by her and away before she could begin to gather herself. He’d never raised his voice—in fact his tone had been so calm it chilled her, and she felt thoroughly thrashed.

He couldn’t say those things, couldn’t talk to her that way, then just leave. He’d started a fight, that’s what he’d done, and then left before she could block or toss a punch of her own.

She didn’t have to put up with that.

She marched out of the laundry room—and oh, she intended to have a few choice words for her mama because if this didn’t smack of an Ada Mae setup so she’d have time alone with her mama’s choice of the man of her daughter’s dreams, she didn’t know Ada Mae Donahue Pomeroy.

And she damn well did.

Frustratingly, she’d been too slow or Griff had been too quick, because she heard his truck drive off before she made it to the front door.

That was fine, she told herself, pacing back and forth, then stomping up the stairs. That was likely for the best. She’d just get herself calm again before she said her piece. Whatever that piece might be.

Because her cheeks felt hot, she went into the bathroom, splashed cool water on her face. Her brain still felt hot, but that would simmer down, too.

She’d made him seriously angry, and she’d never seen him seriously angry.

Because they’d only been seeing each other a couple of months, she reminded herself. She’d been right to slow things down; she’d been right to take a step or two back.

Then she pressed her face into the towel.

He’d said he was in love with her. And that just filled her up and emptied her out again. It made her want to shake, it made her want to weep. It made her want to hold onto him as if her life depended on it.

She couldn’t think about that now, just couldn’t. She was too worked up to think about that. And he was too mad to think straight anyway.

She’d go for a walk, that’s what she’d do. Go for a walk and clear her hot head. And she’d talk to Emma Kate. She really needed to talk to Emma Kate.

She started downstairs again, a little desperate to get out of the house. When she saw the front door open, she all but ran.

“Now you listen,” she began, then stopped dead when she saw Forrest, and the two black-suited men behind him.

“Somebody got your red up,” he said easily. And since he’d seen Griff’s truck heading into town from this direction, he could deduce who’d gotten her red up.

“I was just . . . going for a walk.”

“That’s going to have to wait. What we have here is the FBI special agents Boxwood and Landry. They need a conversation.”

“Oh. All right. I—”

“Could use something cold,” Forrest continued.

“Of course. Y’all go ahead and sit down. I’ll be right back.”

He’d sent her off to give her a chance to compose herself, so she did her best to follow through. It had to be bad, she thought while she filled glasses with ice and tea, added out of habit sprigs of her mother’s mint. It had to be bad to bring the FBI to the house. She set the glasses on a tray, added the little pale blue napkins, started to get out a plate for the frosted cookies her mother served to unexpected company.

The FBI wasn’t company, she thought, and picked up the tray as it was.

She heard Forrest talking, something about white-water rafting and how his brother Clay would give them a hell of a ride if they had time for one.

The tall agent rose when she came in, took the tray from her.

“Appreciate it,” he said, and she heard Georgia in his voice.

Tall, she noted, lean to the point of gangly, dark skin and eyes, and dark hair cropped close to the scalp.

He set the tray down, held out a hand. “Special Agent Martin Landry. My partner Special Agent Roland Boxwood. We appreciate you speaking with us.”

“It’s about Richard. It has to be about Richard.” She looked from Landry to the other agent.

Boxwood had more girth, more muscle. He was as light as Landry was dark, with Scandinavian blond hair, blue-ice eyes.

“Sit down, Shelby.” Forrest took her hand, drew her down on the couch with him. “Our federal friends here flew in from Atlanta today.”

“Atlanta,” she murmured.

“They’ve given me the go-ahead to bring you up to date.” He gave her leg a quick rub. “I sent what you put together, what Griff put together, what I put together. I boiled that all down and sent it to the police in Miami, in Atlanta, in Philadelphia—and so on. And as the so-ons made a lot of sending, I sent the boiled-down to the FBI.”

“You said you were . . . you said that’s what you’d do.”

“That’s right. Now, their boss sent these agents down to talk to you directly.”

When she nodded, Landry leaned forward. “Ms. Foxworth—”

“I wasn’t ever, I only thought . . . It’s Pomeroy. Please.”

“Ms. Pomeroy, you sold some watches last February. To Easterfield on Liberty, in Philadelphia.”

“Yes. Richard had several watches, so I . . .” She closed her eyes. “They were stolen, weren’t they? I should’ve known, I should’ve realized. The man who helped me, at the store, he wouldn’t have known. He was just helping me. I’ll pay back the money. I don’t . . .” She didn’t have the money. Even if she wiped out the savings she’d kept—the house fund—she didn’t have enough. “If I could have a little time, I’ll pay back the money.”

“Don’t worry about that, Shelby.”

Fiercely, she shook her head at Forrest. “He stole them, and I sold them. I used the money. It’s not right.”

“There are other items.” Boxwood spoke. He had a gravelly voice that struck Shelby as threatening. “Cuff links, earrings, an antique hair clip.”

“I have the hair clip! I didn’t think it was worth anything, so I didn’t try to sell it. I’ll get it.”

“Just sit, Shelby.” Forrest pressed a hand on her leg. “Just sit for now.”

“All of these items—the ones you sold in Pennsylvania,” Boxwood continued, “match items reported stolen in burglaries in the Atlanta area from May of 2011 to September of 2014.”

“More than one,” she said softly. “More than one burglary.”

“Numerous other items were reported stolen from these cases. We’d like you to look at photographs.”

“Yes, I’ll look. Of course. We didn’t move to Atlanta until the fall of 2011. We didn’t live there in May, but . . . He took trips. I don’t know . . .”

“You lived there in April of 2012,” Boxwood added.

“Yes. We lived there.”

“Can you tell us where you were on April thirteenth of that year?”

“I . . . No. I’m sorry, I don’t know. That was over three years ago.”

“Think about it,” Forrest said easily, though his hand stayed light on her thigh. “That was just a couple days before Easter. It was Good Friday.”

“Oh. Easter, and Callie would have been nearly a year old. I got her an outfit, a bonnet and everything. I took her for photographs that Friday. I have them in her album. They had props—little chicks and stuffed bunnies. Baskets and colored eggs. I sent copies to Mama, and to Granny.”

“I remember those pictures.”

“That was Friday afternoon. I don’t remember what time, exactly. It was at this place called Kidography. It was such a clever name. I remember because I took Callie back for other pictures, the photographer—her name was Tate . . . Tate—oh God—Tate Mitchell. I’m sure of it, I’m sure that’s the right name. And after, that first time on the Friday before Easter, I changed Callie into play clothes and took her for ice cream as a treat. I’d bribed her with that, told her if she was a good girl I’d take her for ice cream—even that young she knew the word ‘ice cream.’ We went to Morelli’s.”

“Best ice cream in Atlanta,” Landry said.

“You’ve been there? Callie loved going there. We went to Morelli’s, and I let her spoil her dinner. I remember that, I remember thinking, Oh well, she’s not going to want a good dinner now, so it had to be late afternoon.”

“What about that evening, that night?” Boxwood prompted.

“Let me think.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Let me try to go back and see it. There was traffic—I remember that—and how Callie fell asleep in the car. I was worried, a little, that I wouldn’t get home before Richard. He didn’t like if he didn’t know where I was. I thought about texting him, but I didn’t. He didn’t like me to call or text him when he was working.”

Lowering her hands, she took a settling breath. “We got home, I think it must have been around six or so. Charlene—she did some cooking and light housekeeping for us—but she had the long weekend off. So Charlene wasn’t there, and I was glad to have the condo to myself. I liked Charlene fine, I don’t mean to say I didn’t like her.”

“But the place was quiet, just you and your daughter.”

She nodded at Landry. “Yes, that’s it. Callie was a little cranky, what with the photos, the ice cream, the nap in the car, but I settled her down with Fifi—her stuffed dog—and some blocks. She liked these blocks that made noise. I hurried to put dinner together. I swear I can’t remember what I fixed, but I had it together by seven or seven-thirty, and I was relieved. But he was late. Richard. I put it in the warmer, and I got Callie her meal, coaxed her to eat a little, and she did since I’d waited until she’d worked off that ice cream. I gave her a bath, and read her a story, and put her to bed.

“I did text Richard then, just to say his dinner was in the refrigerator, and if I was in bed already, he could heat it up. I was angry, I guess, but tired, too.”

She rubbed at her temple, rubbed and rubbed as she tried to see it all again.

“I went to bed not long after Callie was down. I never heard him come in. I saw him in the morning. I looked in, and saw he’d slept in the guest room.”

It seemed so personal, where he’d slept, she had to fight off a blush.

“He, ah, used the guest room sometimes if he got in late. I fixed breakfast for Callie, and I put eggs on to boil. We’d dye eggs for Easter later that day. He didn’t get up till close to noon, and he was in a fine mood. I remember that, too, clear now, as he was in such a fine mood, all jokey and excited. He made Callie laugh, I remember. I guess he could see I was a little put out, and he said something—I don’t remember what because he always had some excuse. Late meetings, couldn’t get away. Whatever it was, then he . . .”

Trailing off, she gripped her hands together, tight, tight. “Oh God, the hair clip. He said, here was a little something for Easter, and he gave me the clip. He said I should go fix my hair, and get Callie dressed up. He was taking his ladies out for lunch. He hardly ever wanted to take Callie anywhere, and she was so happy about it, I set being put out aside. I did exactly what he wanted. I’d gotten used to doing what he wanted. The hair clip.” She pressed her lips together. “He’d stolen it, then he gave it to me, like you give a Milk-Bone to a dog.”

She took a long breath. “I guess you can check on the time of the photos and all, but I can’t prove the rest. Somebody probably saw me come in with Callie, but I don’t see why they’d remember after so much time. And no one was home. If you think I was with Richard, if you think I was part of what he did, I can’t prove I wasn’t.”

“That’s a lot of detail on a day that long ago,” Boxwood pointed out.

“It was Callie’s first Easter, and the first professional photographs. I’d wanted a family photo done, after she was born, but Richard never had time. So this was special. She—Tate—she took one of the two of us, and I sent it to my parents, special. She’d taken her bonnet off—Callie—and her hair’d gone everywhere, like mine would. I hadn’t gotten to the salon to have mine straightened the way Richard liked it. It’s a favorite photograph of mine.”

She rose, took it from the mantel. “This is the one we had taken that Friday before Easter.”

“She sure looks like her mama,” Landry commented.

“When it comes to Callie,” Forrest put in, “Shelby remembers.”

“I guess that’s true. Especially the firsts.” She set the photo on the mantel again, sat back beside Forrest.

“Oh!” Struck, she came half off the sofa before Forrest nudged her back again. “I wrote it in her baby book. I wrote about the photographs, and put one of them in there. I can get it.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, for now, Ms. Pomeroy.”

“It’s not easy to admit you were stupid,” she said carefully, “that you were duped. I never knew he was stealing, he was cheating people, and I was living in that fancy condo, I had all those clothes, and someone to help with the work because he stole and he cheated. I can’t go back and change it. Should I get the hair clip? I know just where it is. You could give it back to whoever he stole it from.”

“We believe he stole the hair clip, one of the watches you sold, and other items valued at approximately sixty-five thousand dollars from Amanda Lucern Bryce, of Buckhead. Her daughter found her on Saturday afternoon, April 14, 2012.”

“Found her?”

“She’d fallen—or been pushed—down the stairs of her home. Her neck was broken in the fall.”

The blood drained out of Shelby’s face as she stared at Boxwood. “She’s dead? She was killed? Richard . . . He was in such a good mood. He made Callie laugh. I’m sorry, I need a minute.” She rose abruptly on legs that shook. “Excuse me.”

She rushed to the powder room, just leaned over the sink. Her stomach pitched and roiled, but she wouldn’t be sick. She would not be sick.

She would fight that off. She only had to breathe. Only had to take a few minutes and breathe, then she could deal with what came next.

“Shelby.” Forrest rapped on the door.

“I just need a minute.”

“I’m coming in.”

“I need a damn minute,” she snapped when he opened the door, then she just walked into his arms. “Oh God, oh God, Forrest. He took us out to lunch. He left that woman lying there, the one he stole from, and he came home and went to bed. Then he took us out to lunch. He ordered champagne. He was celebrating. He was celebrating, and he’d left that woman lying there for her daughter to find.”

“I know it. I know it, Shelby.” He stroked her hair, swayed with her a little. “One day it would’ve been you. I know that, too.”

“How could I have not seen what he was?”

“You didn’t. And you’re not the only one who didn’t. Nobody thinks you were part of this.”

“You’re my brother, of course you don’t think so.”

“Nobody,” he repeated, and drew her back to look in her eyes. “They have to do what they do. You’re going to look at pictures of stolen articles, of people he stole from. You’ll tell them whatever you know. That’s all you can do so that’s what you’ll do.”

“I want to help. The clothes on my back, Forrest, the clothes I put on my baby. It makes me sick knowing where they came from.”

“Tell me where the hair clip is. I’ll get it.”

“The top right drawer of the vanity in the bathroom I share with Callie. I have a box in there. All my hair clips are in it. It’s mother-of-pearl with little blue and white stones. I thought it was fake, Forrest. I never thought—it’s a hair clip, so I never gave it a thought.”

“Don’t worry about it. If you don’t want to talk to them anymore now, I’ll tell them you’re done.”

“No, I want to tell them whatever I know. Whatever I know I didn’t know. I’ll go back in now.”

“When you’ve had enough, you just say.”

“I want it over.”

She went back, and once again Landry stood.

“I’m sorry,” she began.

“Don’t apologize. We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Pomeroy.”

She sat, picked up the tea. Too much of the ice had melted, but it was cool enough, and wet enough. “Did he kill other people? Do you know?”

“It’s possible.”

“He was never violent with me or Callie. If he had been . . . that would have been different. He didn’t pay much mind to her at all, and less and less to me. He’d say things, cruel things sometimes, to me, but he was never violent.”

Carefully, she set the glass down again. “I never saw what he was. If I had I would never have let him near my baby. I hope you can believe that. Callie’s going to be home in about an hour. If we’re not done, I need us to go somewhere else, or wait until tomorrow. I don’t want her to hear any of this. She just turned four.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“If you could give me another date. If I could figure out something around it, a holiday or a doctor’s appointment, something that sticks out, I might be able to tell you what I was doing. What he was doing. I don’t know what else I can do to help. I want to help.”

“Let’s stick with Atlanta for now, work forward.” Landry nodded at Boxwood.

“August eighth, same year,” Boxwood said.

“My daddy’s birthday is August ninth, and Forrest was born on August fifth. We always had a double birthday party, the Saturday or Sunday closest. I wanted to come. I hadn’t been home in a while, and I wanted Callie to visit her family. Richard said no. We had a charity gala to attend on that Saturday, and I couldn’t go running off to Daddy. I was his wife, and expected to attend, and act like I belonged. It was at the Ritz-Carlton, in Buckhead.”

“Saturday, August eighth, 2012, six figures’ worth of jewelry and rare stamps were stolen from the home of Ira and Gloria Hamburg. They had attended a gala at the Ritz that night.”

“Like in Florida,” Shelby added. “Jewelry and stamps. It must’ve been like a . . . specialty of his.”

“You could say that.” Landry sat back. “Tell us about that evening.”