A Beautiful Corpse

‘I know you do.’ His flat tone shattered her hopes. ‘But that’s not how things work. Trust doesn’t come back because you want it to. Some things you break can’t be fixed.’

They’d talked for a while after that, and then parted, knowing it was over.

They’d barely spoken again. Until tonight.

Raising the glass to her lips in a swift, economical movement, she downed the second whiskey, waiting as it traced a line of fire down her throat to her heart.

Some of the tension in her body released. She let out a long, shuddering breath.

He’d be working her shift from now on.

Maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Maybe they’d find a way to forgive each other.

But in her heart she knew that was only another dream.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_7e0d68b1-14ea-5509-b4df-cd2cb04d87d3)

The next day, Harper arrived at the newspaper at noon with no story to write.

There’d been a time when she could have called Detective Daltrey and teased a few snippets of information out of her, but those days were over.

After her conversation with Bonnie, she’d hoped Naomi Scott’s father might get in touch but, so far, her phone hadn’t rung. She’d tried his home number several times, but her calls went straight to voicemail.

She couldn’t blame him – his only daughter had died the day before. But still.

Dropping her bag next to her desk, she switched on her computer and turned her scanner on low, right as DJ walked into the room from the back hallway.

‘Not you again,’ he said cheerily.

Harper ignored this.

‘Is Baxter around? Please say no.’

‘OK. No,’ he replied, before adding with an apologetic wince, ‘But she is. She’s in Dells’s office right now. Why? What did you do?’

‘Nothing, and that’s the problem.’ Harper reached for her coffee. ‘I haven’t got anything new on River Street. My source didn’t come through.’

‘Oh, you’re screwed then,’ DJ assured her. ‘Because she’s been telling everyone the update will be live at one o’clock. Says you’ve got an exclusive with the dad.’

This was worse than she’d thought.

‘She’s going to kill me,’ Harper said. ‘The dad stood me up.’

‘Ah, bummer.’ Giving her a sympathetic glance, DJ turned back to his desk. ‘RIP, Harper. It was a great career while it lasted.’

Harper logged into the system and began searching local websites to see if any other news outlets had something she’d missed. Anything she could substitute instead of the father. But nobody seemed to have anything new. All news on the Scott case had stopped when Wilson Shepherd was arrested last night.

One article on a television website said Shepherd had a history of drug dealing, back in Atlanta. Harper made a note to look into that. It didn’t seem to fit the clean-cut, law student he’d always appeared to be.

But that was it. Just a line, buried in the middle of the article about his arrest.

The desk phone began ringing insistently but, absorbed in her research, Harper took her time before finally snatching it from its cradle.

‘McClain,’ she snapped.

‘Miss McClain, this is Gary at the front desk. There’s a man down here who says he needs to talk to you.’ He sounded irritated. Gary hated visitors. ‘His name’s not on the visitors’ list. Now, you know the rules about updating the list with any expected guests. It’s a security issue, Miss McClain. I keep telling you –’

Harper let her head drop back hard against her chair.

‘I’m not expecting a visitor, Gary,’ she said, cutting him off impatiently. ‘Who is it?’

‘Says his name’s Jerrod Scott. Should I send him away?’

Harper stood up so abruptly she knocked over her coffee, sending dark liquid flowing across her desk toward her scanner.

‘Don’t send him away for God’s sake.’ Her voice rose. ‘Send him right up.’

‘Fine,’ Gary sniffed. ‘But he should be on the list.’

Swearing under her breath, Harper set the phone down and threw a copy of yesterday’s paper on the spill.

Grabbing a clean notepad and pen from a drawer, she ran across the room, reaching the newsroom door just as a tall, thin man with dark skin and neatly cropped, graying hair walked in.

‘Mr Scott?’ Harper said.

He nodded, looking around the newsroom warily.

‘I’m here to see Harper McClain.’ His voice was deep, with a strong Savannah accent that gave her last name three syllables.

‘I’m Harper.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Scott.’

His fingers were long and sturdy, and his grip on her hand was so powerful it almost hurt. Up close she could see that his brown eyes were rimmed with red – from exhaustion and grief, she guessed.

‘Miss McClain. Your friend Bonnie told me I could trust you.’ His eyes searched her face with unexpected intensity. ‘Can I trust you?’

‘You can,’ she promised him, hoping it was true.

Conscious of the reporters watching this exchange curiously, she gestured for him to follow.

‘Come over here. Let’s talk.’

She led him to a quiet back corner of the newsroom.

Something about Scott – a kind of exhausted energy in his manner – told her she should get straight to the point.

‘I suppose you know about Wilson Shepherd’s arrest?’ Harper said.