Page 86 of Dead Rockstar

Finally, she was free, and turned to me with an impersonal smile, the one reserved for all her customers. Her eyes were the same icy glass blue as Lee Courtenay's, her face was covered in freckles, and her red hair was like spun gold. The family resemblance was extremely strong. I knew, if I ever met the infamous Guthrie, his evil-ass face would be covered in freckles.

“What can I get for you, hon?” she asked after a moment, those pale eyes fixed on my face.

“Do you know me?” I asked.

Her brow furrowed. “Did I sell you some soap a while back? The hy-absinthe one? Or no, wait. I sold you some sage, right? Not too long ago?”

“Well, yes,” I said. “You did. But I wondered if you knew me...if you recognized...”

She stared at me. She really didn't seem to know, or she was the best liar ever. I decided to just out with it.

“I know your nephew,” I said. “Lee. And in a manner of speaking, I know your brother, too. We haven't met, but he and I are...we know of each other.”

“Guthrie?” She blinked dumbly. “You two are friends?”

“We aren't friends,” I said firmly. “But I have business with him. I need to see him. I know he lives with you – Lee told me. Can you tell me how to get in touch with him? It's important.”

She shook her head rapidly; her hair flew around her face. “I'm afraid not, hon. I don't just go around giving out my address and phone number to people. I don't know you, you see. And my brother wouldn't appreciate that. He is a very private man.”

“I understand,” I said, trying to be patient. More flies with honey than vinegar. “But as I said, Lee is my friend.”

“If Lee is a friend of yours, can't you just ask him?” she said.

I didn't have an answer for that. I decided to try another tack.

“I have things of an, er, delicate nature, that I can't discuss here.” I gestured around us. “I think you must know what I mean.”

Her dumb stare gave nothing away. Her eyes were as fierce and unwavering as diamonds. Suddenly her face didn't look half as kind.

“I think they may be in danger. I need to warn them. But I can't do that if I don't know how to get in touch with them.”

“The best I can do,” she said, with a conspiratorial whisper, leaning toward me, “is pass on your information to them. Maybe Guth or Lee would call you back. Beyond that, I'm sorry, but I can't help.”

“I guess that will have to do.” I sighed. They already had my information. They knew where I lived, my phone number, everything about me. They'd followed me all the way to Boston. But I still dutifully scribbled down my cell number on a business card and pressed it into her wrinkled hand. “Just tell them it's important – and um, tell them -” I thought for a moment. “Tell them I'm on my own. That it's just me. They'll understand.”

She stared at me for a moment longer, then put the card into her apron pocket and turned back to her soaps without another word.

I stood there for a second, waiting for some other confirmation, a word of goodbye, anything, but it was as though I never existed. Finally, I turned on my heel and left her table, and stalked out of the market, back toward the truck where Sloan was waiting for me.

I was halfway to the car when I stopped, just before reaching the parking lot, my heart suddenly beating fast.

What had his sister called him? Guth? I'd heard him called by that nickname once before, when Phillip had said it. I hadn't paid it any mind at the time, but it had stuck in my memory. It was short for Guthrie, obviously, but it was a weird nickname, one you didn't hear often. It was closer to a term of endearment, something a loved one would use. And it was definitely a rare name for a person, something that you’d not be likely to forget. If someone wanted to hide their involvement with a guy like that, they’d likely change the name to something a little more innocuous.

I stood there, biting the inside of my lip, my blood feeling like ice in my veins, realizing that Guth sounded an awful, awful lot like Gus. And then I was running, as fast as my legs could carry me, back to my truck.

Twenty-Three

Sloan was silent as I began the drive back to my trailer, and the paleness hadn't left her face. I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, deliberating. Her profile was the same – same old Sloan. Any person who happened upon the two of us wouldn’t think anything was amiss; just two old best friends out for a drive, enjoying the comfortable silence between them. But I knew better. I could feel her tumultuous emotions under the surface of her decorum.

I held off speaking for as long as I could, trying to stay calm, to formulate some kind of plan, to make sense of everything. I made it three miles down the road before I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to play dumb at first. “Sloan, what's wrong with you?” I asked. “You’re not yourself. Did something happen when I was gone? Other than you breaking up with Dan?”

She shook her head. “No.” She was staring out the window like an angry, sullen teenager. I pressed her.

“Come on, Sloan. I know you better than that.”

She started to say something in protest, but then her phone rang, the familiar bars of Aerosmith's “Love in an Elevator” blaring loud in her pocket. She pulled the phone out with a groan and hit the silent button. She shoved it back in her pocket and resumed staring out the window. She clearly couldn't wait to get out of my vehicle. I'd not only lost Phillip, but I’d lost Sloan, too. I set my mouth in a firm line, beating back tears. When had it happened? When had she turned on me? And why?

Lydia's words came back to me, her warning. The death card in the tarot. The death of a relationship...a betrayal of trust...The signs had been there all along, and I'd ignored them. I had assumed it meant my marriage, or even losing Phillip. I'd never thought the dying relationship would be mine and Sloan's.

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