Little White Lies (13 page)

“I can make some calls,” Wyatt said

Charley’s voice broke. “Don’t leave me.” She clung to him—a lifeline that would break if he let go.

“I won’t leave.” He held her with one hand while he fished in his pocket for his cell. Her pain disconcerted him. Wyatt wanted to comfort but didn’t know how much he could, or should, offer. She’d become a part of his life through an investigation that she’d completed. If he could offer her some consolation, he would, but they’d part ways. She’d agreed and done more than he should have asked. He’d do the same.

“They could be wrong,” he said, though the scowl James made told him otherwise.

“They believe it’s a kidnapping, Charley, but with Sophie missing—” James ran a hand over his head. “Nothing is amiss at the house that anyone—only we’ll be able to tell.” He relayed the information as if he’d read it on the front page of a newspaper.

Charley’s lips trembled as she turned and poked her finger into James’s chest. Wyatt let go when James pulled her into himself.

“Wyatt?” James called over her head. “Please leave. Cael? Take Lily. Call the Sheriff. Find out everything you can while we pack. Wyatt, if you care at all about Charley, go. Now.”

“No,” Wyatt said.

James closed his eyes, tilted his head, and opened them again. “There are things you don’t understand. Charley is going to need some time … to herself.”

“She asked me to stay.”

“Wyatt?” James’s stare penetrated deep in Wyatt’s mind.

What does he see?

“Everything you’ve ever understood could be altered in one single moment, do you understand? For our sakes, you’ll need to keep it completely under wraps. Is that clear?”

Wyatt wanted to grab Charley and pull her back into his embrace. When she’d kissed him, he’d desired her with intensity. When she clung to him, he’d been empowered.

“No, but yes.”

James nodded once at him, leaning into Charley’s hair—the same way Wyatt had moments before. The sweetness in her had reached deep within him to memories that had evaporated. He’d always known smells had power.
Could they last sixteen years?

“Let it go, Charley.” James whispered the words. “Let it go.”

“But—” She whispered back.

James returned his gaze to Wyatt’s. “It’s okay.”

Her entire form trembled again—the smallest of movements but a shimmer nonetheless.

“Wha—” Wyatt began but James stopped him with a shake of his head.

James held her tight in his arms with an intimacy Wyatt expected of lovers. As he watched, the blonde hair he’d let fall through his fingers like rain disappeared. An ink-black hue took over.

This cannot be happening.

Wyatt took a step backward but stopped at James’s defiant glare.

Charley’s breath calmed but broke in fits and spurts. With each intake, more change took shape. The side of her face stretched; her fingers shrunk, as did her legs. She no longer fit in the silver-blue outfit she’d walked in with; it hung from her frame like cooked spaghetti.

He watched the woman he’d met hours before—who’d become someone else for him—return.

“Get over here.” James’s clipped command hit him.

Wyatt hesitated.

“Now!” The man had a boom of a voice.

Wyatt scrambled close.

He shifted Charley toward Wyatt. “Just hold her. Up, down, whatever, just keep her in your arms.”

Wyatt hesitated again, and James shook his head as he moved Charley’s limp body into Wyatt’s arms. Her long dark hair draped across his forearm.

“What do I do?”

“Just hold her. She needs calm and rest after something that drastic.” James began to walk to the other room.

“How long?” Wyatt looked up at him.

“Does it matter?”

He shook his head as James left, dragged himself to the edge of the bed, and sat with her in his lap. One finger stroked Charley’s forehead, twisted in a length of one of her curls.
Asleep? Unconscious?
He didn’t know, but in his arms, she reminded him of a girl he’d known and lost. Her laugh, her touch, and the feel of her skin under his fingertips—all reminded him of her.

“Wyatt?” She whispered through parted lips with her eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”

14

Bags in hands, four of them boarded the jet. Cael took what would have been Wyatt’s seat with Lily leaning into his shoulder, her hand cupped in his.

Two hours and they’d land on their home turf, where Detectives would meet them.

Charley leaned back in her seat. James’s palm landed on knees she’d pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured.

“If anything has—”

“Don’t think like that.”

“I can’t not.”

“I know,” he said as Lily sniffed again.

• • •

Wyatt had watched her leave. James had told him to keep in touch and offered a simple handshake. Yet, a fifteen-hour adventure, a kiss to end the world and out of his life forever?
No way.
If nothing else, Wyatt vowed to appease his curiosity. With Stuart, he had more at stake. He’d toed the company line—or government one—with each of his questions. Sure enough, Stuart did work for the FBI—two departments and a few levels down from Wyatt.

The red LCD blinked three thirty as Stuart’s head lolled again. “I told you …” His words garbled with sleep and a drug-induced stupor.

Wyatt sat across from Stuart on the edge of the bed so they could converse. “Why are you here?” He had grilled him with the question already four times.

Stuart’s head lolled again. “Fol—follow up.” He sat bound to the chair.

After a thorough interrogation, Kevin had provided all the information Wyatt needed for his trip, so he’d sedated him and moved him to the bed with Candie. Come morning, he’d find himself in an interesting situation and could conjure his own excuses from there.

“Who’s Charley?” Wyatt asked Stuart.

“Charley?” Stuart mumbled back.

With Stuart half conscious, Wyatt wondered if he’d get the answers he sought.

“You met her at Mind Benders.”

“No idea.”

“Who am I?” Wyatt asked.

“Dunno.” Stuart gibbered as his head drooped.

With a sigh, Wyatt stood and walked to the dresser. From a black case, he pulled a syringe and a vial of clear liquid.

I’ve always hated this part.

With only a side lamp for illumination, he flipped the container upside down and inserted the syringe, pulled the transparent fluid until it reached the first line, popped it off, and set it back in its storage case. Needle to the sky, Wyatt pressed with his thumb and thumped it twice.

Here we go—for real this time.

He returned to Stuart’s side, grabbed one arm, and jabbed the needle through Italian silk into his shoulder. With one quick press, he released the drug to do its work.

Stuart jerked upright in the chair and would have fallen had James not bound him so well. He shook his head and squinted as Wyatt turned on the overhead light.

The two stared at each other—Stuart’s eyes, wide with shock and disbelief, Wyatt with controlled indignation, his arms crossed, legs at shoulder width.

“Wyatt?” Stuart’s head jerked.

Wyatt stepped closer. “Stuart.”

“Wha—what’s going on?” He shook his head.

“That’s what I get to ask.”

Stuart’s head shifted to the right, left, around the room, at the ties that bound him and back to Wyatt.

“Untie me?”

“No.”

“What’d I do?”

What didn’t you do?
Wyatt let Stuart’s question hang. “Who do you work for?” He figured he’d recap to see if any of the answers changed.

“The United States Gov—”

“Which branch?” He jumped to the next question to cut off any opportunity for well-constructed fabrications.

“FBI—”

“Which department?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Wyatt grabbed Stuart’s collar and leaned down to his face.

Stuart turned his head away. “I can’t say.”

“I have authorization.” Wyatt rattled off a code that Stuart would recognize if he were legitimate.

“It’s a sealed group out of DC.”

Wyatt let go and turned away from him.

“How long have you been with the bureau?” Wyatt stuffed his hands in his pockets but didn’t turn around.

“Since after I finished my second tour.”

So she’d told me the truth—or a part of it.

Wyatt turned back to Stuart, sat on the edge of the bed so they could look each other in the eye again. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees. “Who is Charley Randall?”

Stuart cocked his head but held Wyatt’s gaze. “Who?”

“The woman you met at Mind Benders tonight.”

Stuart shook his head. “Candie?”

“No. Charley.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. I only met Candie.” Stuart shook his head again as if to regain his thoughts.

“I know she’s a shape shifter, and I know you know.” Wyatt said it through clenched teeth as his frustration grew.

Stuart’s eyes widened but adjusted within a split second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never were a very good liar.” Wyatt smirked as memories from their childhood surfaced.

Stuart mirrored his expression.

Wyatt softened. “Who is she?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Wyatt chuckled. “Learn that in the Army?”

“College. Got a degree in Psychology.” Stuart shifted in his chair. “Butt’s going numb, man. Can you untie me?”

“I could, but I won’t. Whose secret are you hiding?”

“All sorts of secrets.”

“I get that, but tell me about Charley.” Wyatt really only cared about her.

“Look, man,” Stuart shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do!” Wyatt stood and punched the air. “She told me she met you in South America when you were in the Army. She told me she would keep your secret. She told me you’d keep ours. She showed you who she was with a kiss.”

Stuart’s face remained blank, but Wyatt read abdication in his eyes.

“Tell me!” He let his hands fall to his side.

Stuart shook his head.

Wyatt flung his arms out in frustration.

“You know her better than I, how can you not know?” Stuart raised an eyebrow.

“Not know what?”

Stuart dropped his head, kicked the bed and tilted back up to Wyatt.

“What?” Wyatt moved his hands to his hips.

Stuart breathed in deep, let it out slow. “The woman who was Candie?” He shook his head as if he had to consider his words.

“Tell me.” Wyatt tried to keep the plea from his voice.

“That’s Mira.”

• • •

After two days, Wyatt still couldn’t get inside Charley’s files, and with each try, he encountered yet another set of blocks. Ever since Stuart had revealed her name, Wyatt had been mired in anger and confusion. He’d done what any self-respecting male would do—he’d flown home and pulled every string he could find.

The broad mahogany desk before him suited the style of his home office but not his mood, which lent itself to sharp and pissed. His fingers flew across the keyboard as page after page of information scrolled before him.

He punched the intercom of his phone. “Sheila!”

“Yes, sir?” She answered with as much politeness as usual, despite Wyatt’s repeated outbursts.

“Will you please do some translation for me? I’m sending the files now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wyatt leaned back in his chair, thought of Charley or Candie or Mira—whatever her name. Stuart had relayed the same exact story Charley had about how they met, so at least that part had been true or as truthful as either wanted to be.

He leaned on his desk and put his head in his hands. He understood why her body had fit to his so well, why she’d been so familiar yet distant. He knew her yet didn’t. The woman he knew as Mira had become the biggest enigma in his entire career.

The knock on the door drew him away from his thoughts.

“Sir?” Sheila stood at the door. She waited until he nodded before she proceeded. “You have a visitor.”

He’d left his calendar clear but not for a guest.

“Who is it?” Wyatt scrubbed his head with his palm, regretting his gruffness. “I’m sorry, Sheila. I’m just not in the mood for company.”

“I understand, sir. But it’s your mother.”

Wyatt looked up. “My mother?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head.
Why’s my mother here?
There’d be no way to avoid her. “Bring her back.”

As Sheila left, Wyatt rose and walked around his office—a quick dust check had to be in order. He knew his Mom wouldn’t mention it, but he really didn’t want to take the chance.

“Oh, well.” He sat behind his desk again.

The fact that little to none of his paperwork ever got printed kept his desk debris-free and at least clean-looking to the less observant.

“Wyatt!” His Mom held out her hands as she entered in front of Sheila.

He walked around his desk again. “Hey, Mom.” A nod to Sheila over his Mom’s shoulder as she embraced him, and Sheila disappeared.

“How are you, honey?”

“Fine, Mom. You?”

She patted his cheeks and smiled, her expression arranged into one he recognized well and filled him with happiness.

“You want to sit?” He held out one of the two leather-backed chairs that had come with the desk ensemble.

Katherine Jennings sat, her hands in her lap, one leg crossed over the other—as sweet and kind as ever she’d been. Her hair had yet to gray. Her eyes sparkled. Trim and fit, at a foot less than him, he still looked up to her. She shifted in her chair while Wyatt made his way back around his desk for the third time.

He sat with a thump and leaned back. “What brings you to the other side of town, Mom?”

She tilted her head, worried her hands, looked down at her feet and back up a number of times before she blew out a breath. “Well.”

Wyatt couldn’t help the smile. “Something going on with Dad?”

“No, no, honey. It’s not that.”

Her tone turned wary and sent Wyatt’s nerves fluttering. “Are you sick?”

“Oh no! No, honey, I’m fine.”

“Okay, Mom. Spit it out.” The shift from happy to worried only added to the strain that already weighed on his shoulders.

“Okay, well …” She sighed. “You remember that story I told you a long time ago?”

All the stories came from long ago.
Wyatt blinked, unsure which one she’d bring up.

“Well … that family that lived in that house, they still live there. Though I’m sure she’s a grandmother by now. I heard on the news that their son—or grandson—I don’t know. Anyway, he’s missing, and I hoped maybe you could help.”

She’d come to ask for his help on behalf of Charley?
“Are you talking about the Turner Point family?”

She nodded.

“There are detectives working that case, Mom. It has nothing to do with the FBI.”

She waved a hand through the air. “Oh, I know, honey. I just thought maybe you could be helpful—seeing as you live right here and all. You’re so good at what you do. You have all those commendations and awards.” She pointed to the framed plaques that adorned his office.

“Do you really even know them, Mom?”

She sat up tall in the seat. “Does it matter?”

Wyatt decided a few prying questions wouldn’t hurt. “How? You met them once, thirty-four-odd years ago, right?”

She softened again. “You never take for granted those who have helped you along the way. Plus, they were so kind—the four of them. They took care of me at one of my darkest hours. I’m not sure I would have survived without Charley, let alone been able to cope. She, Lily, James—and there was one more. I can’t remember his name.”

“Cael?”

“Yes!” She wagged a finger in Wyatt’s direction. “But, Charley … she’s the one who helped me. I think she must be in her fifties or sixties by now. I’ll never forget her.”

Charley had helped his Mom? Wyatt wracked his brain for the right story.
He shook his head—a futile attempt to clear his confusion. “How old were the rest of them then?”

She closed one eye, the other and popped them open. “In their twenties. I haven’t seen them since then, but I wrote a few times, and they responded.”

“What do you mean?” He folded his arms on his desk, his head nearly at rest on them. His mother had both irked and intrigued him.

“Oh, I sent letters to them about you and as you got bigger, about your life. Since they were there … when you were born, I thought they might like to keep up with you.” She closed her eyes as if in mid-memory. “I told them about high school and going off to college and you settling right here back in town.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Charley always wrote me back and thanked me for the letters. They sent you Christmas and birthday presents, too. Bet ya didn’t know that.” She pointed a quick finger at him.

Wyatt shook his head and let out a small laugh. “Uh, no.”

She’d never told him, and he’d always assumed the gifts came from his parents—even when both of them lost their jobs during the recessions, he’d been oblivious.

“Anyway, I thought maybe you could help. I don’t know who lives there now—probably a daughter or other children—but my letters always get there and are always answered, so I keep sending them. I was just hoping maybe you could help me pay them back a little.”

What can I do?
“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, honey.” She turned her watch toward her face. “I gotta run.”

“Where ya off to?”

“Lunch with your dad.”

Wyatt walked around his desk, lowered to the side of his Mom’s chair and hugged her right there in her spot. He breathed in her familiar scent—some perfume she’d always worn.

“One more thing. I brought something for you.”

“What is it?”

She dug through her bag, eyes and hands intent. “This.” Out of it, she pulled a box. “We cleaned out some drawers.”

Wyatt took it from her, rubbing the soft velvet. Together, they stood and walked to the door.

“I thought you might want that.” She reached up with one hand and pulled him forward for a kiss on the cheek. With a pat and a ‘you take care’, she headed down the hallway.

Wyatt opened the box to find the ring and stone as it had been tucked within almost two decades before. The one he’d intended to give his first love—the one Lily—or Leena, as she’d been called then—had forced him to promise to hold.