Page 88 of Murder on Charity Lane

“I can have the kids handle that if you want.” Honestly, having Pax hovering around wasn’t exactly helping her mood.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” When he rubbed the back of his head, his bicep bulged. “I guess I’m being naïve. I mean, the evidence is watertight, but her aura feels innocent, you know?”

Ocean grabbed the empty flat of flowers. “I do know.”

“She’s not a killer.”

“Yeah.” She considered the freshly planted flowers. “I guess we have to hope the real killer pushes someone else down a stairway.”

“Don’t even say that,” Pax told her, his chiseled face perfectly humorless. “That’s a terrible thing to hope for.”

“Then what should we hope for?” she asked, looking for a real answer.

“We should…” He gazed thoughtfully toward the street. “I guess we should hope that our dreams align with the universe.”

But Ocean had never been into that kind of mumbo jumbo, despite being raised by her parents and her relationship with Mrs. B. She believed in protecting the ones you love. And while she didn’t know exactly how she felt about CJ yet, she’d do whatever she could to protect her.

41

CJ

The prison guard left her in a tile room, with tile walls and tile floors. When he closed the door, CJ almost gagged at the stench. Stale sweat and fresh body odor. Then the crackle of a microphone dragged her attention to a woman sitting behind a rectangular window in the wall.

The woman looked fifteen years younger than CJ, with heavy lipstick and thick eyebrows. Through the window, she handed her scrubs that said PROPERTY OF SANTA BARBARA COUNTY JAIL, along with a bin with her linens and a printed guide of jail rules.

Nothing happened for an hour after she had changed. She sat against the wall, then realized the squiggles on the tile floor weren’t designs, they were curls of hair. She stood and read the guide until a guard came and took her along a corridor to what he called a “tank,” which was a room with eight double-bunks. A few of the women inside the tank studied her. Some of them talked to her. One kept hitting herself in the head with the heel of her hand.

CJ couldn’t stop crying. She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t bear it. She needed help, but when the intake officer had asked for her next of kin, the only person she could think of was Frank.

42

VERNON

For his last birthday, Vernon’s wife gave him a plant for his desk. She’d said he needed a “work friend,” which their daughter had thought was the height of humor. Apparently this particular kind of plant “fainted” when the soil got dry, then perked up immediately when you watered it.

Vernon liked that. Nice and straightforward. Unlike the case against CJ Moore, which depended far too much on eyewitnesses. Wealthy and connected eyewitnesses, but still.

He was watering the plant when his desk phone rang. “This is Enible.”

“Detective, hello. This is, uh, Karina DeYoung?”

“Mrs. DeYoung,” he said, to assure her that he remembered her. “Good afternoon.”

“I, uh—I wanted to thank you for handling this with sush…” She cleared her throat. “Such professionalism.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am.”

“Mm. Well, the reashon I called is, I found something I think you’ll want to see.”

“What’s that?”

“A bag full of money. Cash. Addressed to CJ, which—”

“Did you touch it?”

“Of coursh I touched it.”

Fair enough. She was clearly half-drunk; he couldn’t expect her to keep her curiosity to herself.