Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense) (6 page)

“Oh, I don’t know. I said what I wanted to,” she said, giving him a big, fake smile.

“I’m sure. But I haven’t,” he said quietly. Two slices of pie were laid down in front them with the faint clink of china on the Formica tabletop. They oozed apple juice with flecks of spice and did look good. But Taylor wasn’t even remotely hungry anymore, not even for sweets.

“And why, exactly, should I listen to anything you have to say?” she asked, sitting back and looking at him like a bug she’d like to squash.

“Because I’m sorry,” he said simply. Taylor gaped.

“I…you’re…what?” she said, almost in a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he said and dug into his pie, not looking at her.

Taylor felt like the world had just opened up and she’d fallen through into another dimension. This couldn’t possibly be real. She’d dreamt about it, more than once. But the people who hurt you in high school, especially the way Anton had hurt her, they didn’t just…apologize. That didn’t happen.

“Are you serious?” she asked, when words worked again.

“Very. And I’d like to take you out to dinner. On Friday, if you like, but another night would be fine, too,” Anton said, finishing his pie and looking at hers. She pushed it over to him with a sigh.

“So you’re sorry for being quite possibly the biggest asshole this side of the Hudson River a decade ago and you’d like me to have dinner with you. Why?” she asked, continuing to sit back, arms still crossed, like this was the most boring conversation she’d ever had. Inside, she felt like she was on fire. It was too much. She had no idea how to process what had just happened. It was too monumental.

“I owe you a real date. At least,” he said, eating her slice of pie. She narrowed her eyes.

“You think a burger and a movie will make up for that night?” she hissed.

“No. But it’s a start,” he said. “What do you say?”

She sat there, going through an entire gamut of emotions. Anger. Shock. Denial. Shock again.

“Okay,” she found herself saying. He blinked at her a few times, then smiled so wide and genuinely it was blinding.

“Great! I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday. You at the inn?”

“I am. I’ll be downstairs. Don’t stand me up,” she said, then got up, paid her check, and left, leaving him sitting at the booth, still smiling.

She stood outside for a minute, getting her bearings. The wind had picked up even more and was making a low whine that was going to be a full howl by the time it went dark. And she was going to go to dinner at the end of the week with Anton Quinn. Who had just told her he was sorry for humiliating her and ruining her teen life.

Well. This was going to be one hell of a week.

Neither Taylor Harlow nor Anton Quinn were aware of just how strange and inextricably linked the legend of the Deathless Rider and the town of Sweethollow really were. Even though they’d both grown up there and been basically indoctrinated with the story since they’d been old enough to hear it, they didn’t know the “truth,” such as it was.

Very few did.

Like most local myths and legends, embellishment, superstition, tradition, and plain old storytelling whimsy surrounded the Rider in a kind of web of make-believe and reality. It represented the darker side of small-town life to a degree, a metaphor for secrets and mysteries, and of “justice” finding a way, even when that way was bloody and dark.

Just like any other small town, Sweethollow had its share of darkness. People didn’t always die of natural causes. Not everyone was as small-town sweet and down home as they appeared. There was gossip, rumor, affairs, and corruption. There were crimes of passion and crimes of just plain calculated evil. On balance, it wasn’t as though Sweethollow was worse than anywhere else. It just wasn’t any better.

There were a lot of undercurrents of tension in town, especially at this time of year. The festival involved nearly every business, with everyone trying to make at least a year’s worth of profit over a month. This often required certain kinds of deals and a degree of “looking the other way.”

And it all hinged on this strange, old-fashioned tale about a ghostly Rider and its grisly tendencies. Spinning that into something family friendly had been quite an accomplishment. Especially with people actually turning up dead this year.

The legend had a kind of hold over the town, which relied on the tale to thrive. But it was a tenuous relationship. As long as the Rider stayed just a story, it was appealing in a safely spooky sort of way that attracted city folks sick of the grime and looking for a little “country” homespun quaintness without the actual country. Sweethollow had worked hard to maintain this balance, even though people in town were just as modern and cynical as anywhere else. It just needed to look like Sweethollow was a kind of throwback to a “better,” simpler time. That’s what people paid for and that’s what they got.

The festival had been the main contributor to Sweethollow’s major source of financial solvency for decades now, especially the last ten 10 years. There’d been some kind of resurgence in traveling for “nostalgia” purposes , and while the town couldn’t compete with Christmas in New England or fall Apple Picking, they were a big draw for All Hallows’ Eve.

This year the town had a major show planned. They’d amped up the haunted trail and ride, commissioning real special effects artists from the city and some actors from the county playhouse. There were now four haunted houses in town, a pumpkin-carving contest and display, a tame hayride and a much-less-tame one with a Rider that followed the cart, a dance party on Halloween itself, and a reenactment of the legend that played all weekend, culminating in a surprise “Run of the Rider” through the final Halloween show. And the local ale flowed freely and cheaply at all of them.

Many locals actually dreaded this time of year, just because of the influx of loud tourists. Many of the older residents didn’t think it such a great idea to make the Rider into a commercial figure. Did they believe the Rider was real? Hard to say, but superstitions ran deep in Sweethollow. With good reason.

The recent murders had put a dent in the local festivities, but only long enough for those in the know to sweep away the evidence, spin it as a terribly tragic accident, and quickly move on. Just like they had before and would again if any more deaths occurred. It was, in a way, a tradition just like the legend and the festival. Even those who suspected something was very wrong kept quiet.

The older the resident, the stronger the superstition, mostly because those who had been around long enough knew that something about the story of the Rider matched up far too coincidentally with too many deaths. Even if it wasn’t the cause, the correlation was there. For some, it was almost charming in a morbid way; for others, haunting. Very few families that stayed in Sweethollow went untouched by the odd tragedies that surrounded the Rider. But few ever acknowledged it beyond whispers and stories passed down from generation to generation like an old heirloom. Instead of old lace or an armoire, this legacy was death and disaster. But what family isn’t touched by tragedy? That’s what they told themselves, and it mostly worked.

Taylor’s family had been in Sweethollow only since her grams, yet her parents’ deaths had occurred at this time of year. Anton’s family had been in town far longer, and his grandfather had died in that spectacularly gruesome way. Even his mother’s passing had happened near All Hallows’ Eve. Were they linked? Had the Rider been involved? Maybe; something about that time of year seemed to draw a kind of darkness around Sweethollow that invited loss. Many people got ill, though they always dismissed it as being “cold season.” Many of the elderly in town died around this time, though no one seemed to make the connection. Lost pets, accidents, all of them went up around Halloween. Some might call it coincidence. Others believed differently. No one knew for sure. And most didn’t want to.

What most in town didn’t know was how long these kinds of events had been going on. There had been witch trials even before the Revolutionary War, strange happenings, and the legend of the Rider had begun. Many good people had been hanged in a panic of fear. That history had mostly been expunged, obliterated in a fire years after the deeds had been done. No records remained, none that anyone knew of, anyway, and the town had been called something quite different then.

Neither Taylor nor Anton suspected that the Rider might really be real, because they wanted to believe that they were rational people and that ghosts were things that belonged in scary stories. But somewhere, deep inside both of them, they wondered.

Taylor walked away from the diner toward her car, then decided to walk to the nursing home instead. It wasn’t that far, and she definitely needed the air after that little encounter with Anton. Might as well get this interview out of the way while she tried to make sense of what had just happened.

She was still reeling. It might sound ridiculous to others, but for her, having him say he was sorry and invite her to dinner was maybe the biggest shock she’d had since her grams had passed. She’d been hanging on to her (justified) anger at him for a decade. To have him just come right out and apologize was like finding out the world was really flat. Reality as she knew it had taken a decided left turn into uncharted territory.

In her world, Anton Quinn was an unrepentant shit who had hurt her and left her unable to trust anyone (including herself) again. That he was sorry, that he regretted what he’d done, that maybe he’d thought about her over all these years, had never occurred to her. She’d made him a villain and been comfortable with that view.

But the truth was, Anton was human. She knew that. It didn’t make what he’d done okay, but maybe she had been allowed to indulge in her anger and resentment for a little too long. Painting him like some kind of inhuman monster in her mind, when really, he’d been a damaged teenage boy. And weren’t all teenagers monsters sometimes?

None of this meant she forgave him or ever would. But she had to admit she was curious about what he was like now. If he’d changed. He didn’t really look much different, other than a tad older and possibly more beautiful, which figured. He was still cocky as hell, too.

She sighed, pushing her windblown hair out of her face. Maybe she just wanted him to have changed. So she could feel better about the conflicting feelings she was having about him. Because it definitely felt like her old crush was resurfacing, which she found both embarrassing and infuriating. What was wrong with her?

Probably better not to ask that existential a question at this juncture.

Taylor rounded a corner and looked up at the Shaded Pines nursing home. It was a large gray building, with a front façade that looked homey. On a long porch that wrapped around the outside, there were plenty of chairs and even a few folks sitting in them with blankets piled high. It had once been the vacation home of a city developer, built sometime in the early 1900s. The family had lost their fortune eventually and it had been converted to a rest home in the eighties. Back when Taylor was a girl, it had been a lot less friendly looking, with weeds everywhere, cracked paint, and the lingering smell of mothballs, even from outside.

Whoever owned it now it had definitely made improvements. There was a well-tended garden, though most of the flowers were dormant this time of year. Plenty of shrubbery. The paint job was gray, but the trim was a crisp white and there were blue accents on the windows. A lot of effort had been made to make sure this place didn’t look dreary and depressing anymore. She hoped the inside was as welcoming.

She opened the metal gate and strode up, wondering how she’d get access to Mrs. Keeper. They’d know she didn’t have family anymore. But maybe they’d be lax if she really didn’t get many visitors. Everyone needs company now and then.

The residents on the porch at least looked comfortable, with books and thermoses next to them as they sat outside and enjoyed the brisk fall weather. An old man waved at her cheerfully, and she waved back, then stepped in.

Inside was yellow and bright, with a lot of white furnishings and framed posters with cheerful, uplifting quotes. Taylor took in these details, along with the wicker furniture and the lemon-fresh scent. All the rooms had a lot of healthy sunshine streaming in. It was a far cry from the depressing home she’d been expecting.

The front desk was manned by an older woman with gray hair cut short and large-rimmed glasses. She was organizing papers of some kind as Taylor walked up.

“Hi, welcome to Shaded Pines. Visiting one of our guests?” she asked. Taylor thought the word “guest” was a little odd, but it probably made folks feel a little less like this was their final resting place. Even if it was.

“Yes. I’m here to see Mrs. Keeper. I’m not a family member but—” she began, but the woman waved her off.

“That’s all right, dear. We don’t worry about that so long as visitors are nice and respectable and don’t upset anyone. Lots of our guests don’t have family anymore. Who should I tell her is visiting?” she asked.

“I’m not sure she’d remember me, but my name is Taylor Harlow. I used to spend a lot of time in the library. Mrs. Keeper was always…tolerant of my presence,” she said. The receptionist smiled.

“Well, I can tell you really know her, describing her that way. I’ll warn you, she’s usually…persnickety these days. Still got most of her marbles, though,” she said, voice sounding a little regretful about that. She took out a large book.

“Would you just sign here? We like to keep track of visitors,” she said, handing Taylor a pen. She signed and waited. The receptionist left the book open on Mrs. Keeper’s page.

“I just wanted to stop by and say hi, thank her for letting me read everything I could get my hands on back them. I’m a writer now, and I owe it to her,” Taylor said, fudging how much influence Mrs. Keeper had really had a little. It was strange, thinking of Mrs. Keeper as retired. The librarian had let her sit in the stacks and read all summer when she was a teen. She wasn’t unkind, but she hadn’t been warm, either. Idly, she looked at the visitor list and something caught her eye.

“Well, let’s see what we can do, dear,” the receptionist said, and turned her back on Taylor to phone Mrs. Keeper’s room. Taylor took a good look at the visitor names under “Keeper” and confirmed what she’d seen. Suddenly her interview with the old librarian was looking a lot more interesting.

“Hello? It’s May, up at the desk. You’ve got a visitor. Yes, really. Name of Harlow. Said she used to spend a lot of time in the library.” There was a pause. “Alright, I’ll send her back.” And she put down the receiver. “Room thirty-three. Just take a left at the rec room, it’ll be on your left.”

“Thank you.”

Taylor continued to take in details about Shaded Pines and wondered how on earth Mrs. Keeper, a nearly lifelong single woman with no family, could afford such a place. Even if she’d saved every nickel and dime, this kind of retirement home was not for your average book stacker. The rec room was large and jovial, with several TVs, even computers, state of the art. There seemed to be an outside garden, and the staff was attentive and kind. You expected to find wealthy widows in a place like this, not cranky former librarians. Then she thought about the last visitor name again and wondered.

Like a lot of things about Sweethollow, something was off.

Mrs. Keeper’s room was small but homey, with a large quilt in yellows and oranges on the bed, a rocking chair, TV, and a little writing nook. It looked like something out of a movie, everything was so neat and tidy.

The old woman herself sat in the chair, rocking and knitting, the needles clacking a staccato rhythm. Her fingers flashed and whatever she was making got longer and longer as Taylor stood in the doorway. It was like frothy yarn was spilling from her lap.

“Well, come on in, Ms. Harlow. I remember you, if that’s what you’re wondering. Though…” The woman squinted up at her, pursing her thin, lined lips. “You look a lot better than the old days. Those braces were a fright.”

Taylor smiled and walked in, holding out her hand. Mrs. Keeper looked at it like Taylor was trying to hand her a dead fish. She put it in her pockets instead.

“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Keeper. You’re right, I didn’t think you’d remember me. In all your years, you must’ve seen a lot of kids like me come and go.”

“I did. But none of them managed to read all the Oz books and the autobiography section in one summer. And your hair looked like a little fuzzy poodle,” she said.

Taylor kept the smile on her face, inwardly acknowledging that while Mrs. Keeper certainly hadn’t learned how to be more tactful, her descriptions weren’t wrong. And she was quite old now. Her hair was wispy, curling sadly around her scalp, which was speckled with age spots. She still wore her cats’-eye-shaped glasses on a chain, too, though the lenses were thicker. But the eyes behind them were as sharp as ever.

“So, what can I help you with? Never got a visit from an old student before,” she said, looking at Taylor over her knitting, the whir of fingers and needles never stopping.

“Well, I’m up here working on a little story about Sweethollow, the legend, and the recent…deaths. A big part of the story has always been that, about every decade, there are a group of deaths and people always seem to attribute them to the Rider, whether it’s actually seen near the site or not. Sometimes it’s murders, sometimes just accidents. But it’s curious to me how quickly people link them to the legend. Until now,” Taylor said, pulling out the desk chair.

“Don’t see how I could help with that,” Mrs. Keeper said.

“Well, I was at the library today and I noticed some files were missing. Especially older stories about previous deaths around this time of year. I was wondering if you knew where they were and how I could get access to them,” Taylor said, all smiles.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mrs. Keeper said, voice tight. Her fingers continued to whirl, yarn pouring out in neat rows.

“Really? That’s odd. Because in the files, it showed that you were responsible for all the archiving. And for the removal of any documents,” Taylor said, blinking innocently.

“You made a mistake,” Mrs. Keeper insisted.

“I noticed that most of the removals were recent. Right around the time some of my old classmates met such an unfortunate end. Strange coincidence,” Taylor said, watching the old librarian closely.

“Yes.” The knitting needles continued to whirl.

“And then you retired and ended up…here. Lovely place,” Taylor said, crossing her legs.

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Mrs. Keeper said, not looking up. Her knitting had begun to get uneven, however.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m just asking a few questions. Some curious deaths, a librarian able to afford what I can only say is a very posh retirement facility. And your last visitor was Nick de Marco,” Taylor said, voice suddenly low and harder. Mrs. Keeper’s knitting needles rattled.

“How did you know that?” she asked, looking at Taylor with wide, fearful eyes.

“When the receptionist was calling you, I got a look at the visitor book. You’re not that popular, so the name kind of stood out. I don’t remember Nick being much of a library-type kid,” Taylor said. She wasn’t sure Nick had every willingly picked up a book of any kind.

“What do you want?” Mrs. Keeper asked, finally stopping her knitting and sighing in a deep, sad way.

“Not much. It’s just that something is clearly off about these recent deaths, and many of the ones before it. Sweethollow has been hiding something for quite a while now, I think. And I think you may know what it is. Or at least something about some of it,” Taylor said. She carefully reached into her pocket and flipped on the recording feature on her phone. Or she hoped she did; it was tough to do that by feel with these smartphones.

“I don’t know nearly as much as you think I do. I know a little. I’ve heard things. Things people would rather I didn’t know. But what’s an old woman, anyway? Nothing,” she said bitterly.

“Were you blackmailing Nick?” Taylor asked. Mrs. Keeper snorted.

“Your imagination is a bit too wild, Ms. Harlow. Nothing like that. He just asked me to get rid of some files. So I did. And then he wound up dead and I wound up…here,” she said.

“Lucky for you,” Taylor said.

“Depends on your point of view. At my time of life, very few things scare me. But that young man did,” she said, shuddering a little.

“Why?” Taylor asked, although she remembered Nick de Marco quite well herself, especially the calculating way he’d looked at many of the girls in school.

“There was always something…off about him. Something cold and not right. He more than scared me, if you want to know the truth. More like terrified. And he was police. So I did what he asked, though it wasn’t really asking. And I got a nice little room here for my trouble. And then he died. I didn’t expect that, I’ll tell you. He always seemed too…mean to die,” Mrs. Keeper said.

“I think I know what you mean,” said Taylor, thinking about that night with Anton and the laughing faces of the Saints. Nick’s had always stood out as being…wrong somehow. He wasn’t just a bully; he was capable of worse. But how much? The names of the two dead girls that same year a decade ago flashed in her mind.

“If you really want to know more about all of it, I’d look up something about the Coulsons. From about, oh, two years back, maybe. It might be what you’re after,” Mrs. Keeper suggested, then took up her knitting again.

“Thank you, Mrs. Keeper. I really do appreciate it. And all the time you let me just…be,” Taylor said. The librarian nodded, and Taylor began to leave. Mrs. Keeper’s voice, low and tense, stopped her at the doorway.

“You’ll want to be careful who you ask questions from here on out, Ms. Harlow. Not everyone is as…friendly as I am,” she said. “People have a funny way of…losing their heads in Sweethollow, as I’m sure you know.” And with that cryptic warning, Taylor left, goose bumps breaking out on her arms.