Shards of Betrayal, page 16
“Did he say anything about it?”
“Just that he’d seen a wrong that needed setting right.” She walked back to the window, burning cigarette forgotten between her fingers.
“The couple, do they still come here?”
“No. The visits stopped—”
“When? After Sydney died?”
“Before that.”
“How long before?”
She thought about it. “Right after he gave me the movie set tour.”
“That was the day I met you?”
“The lights, the noise, the people. The whole place jumping like a live wire. It all fit him. He belonged there.” She let out a quiet breath. “Wanted to show me his world, he said. But I think he was hoping I’d recognize something—and I did.”
“You saw them, the couple?”
“Just her.”
“The woman?”
“Took me a minute to recognize her without the get-up. No wig, no paint. Looking proper as Sunday.” Sadie’s laugh was dry as autumn leaves. “Funny how different people can look when they’re not pretending.”
“Did she notice you?”
“No. She was too busy to notice anything. Probably wouldn’t have recognized me anyway. People like me, we’re invisible. People look right through us.”
Being invisible. She wasn’t bitter about it. This was just the way it was in her world. It made me think of mine—how most of the people I knew, including reporters like Selena, spent every waking minute scheming to be noticed, clawing for the spotlight like their lives depended on it.
“Did Westbrook tell you who she was?”
“He didn’t offer and I didn’t ask. Some things, you’re better off not knowing.”
I couldn’t disagree with her there. For some, knowledge is power. For others, it’s deadly.
“What about the man?”
Sadie frowned. “Didn’t see him. He wasn’t there.” She crushed out her cigarette.
“Do you think he was wearing a disguise when he came here?”
“Probably. His mustache was crooked half the time. I guess he didn’t care—or didn’t think he needed much of one.”
I paused, reflecting. Finally: “What about the names they signed in under?”
She rattled them off and later showed me the register. The names meant nothing. Neither did the handwriting.
But none of that mattered. By then, I had an inkling as to who they were.
And why Westbrook ended up dead.
CHAPTER 37
I left Sadie’s hotel and stepped into a late-afternoon haze thick with exhaust and regret. The sun had dipped low, but the air hadn’t cooled. A man whistled for a cab that never came. A woman dragged a cranky child across the street, each step a battle.
I kept walking.
Sadie’s voice still rang in my ears. He was looking forward to seeing me ... There was no sign—of anything. The pain of not knowing. The way it ate at her. The way it always would.
I’d told her that kind of love doesn’t disappear, even when the story ends ugly.
But what I hadn’t said—what I couldn’t—was that I understood.
Not because of Westbrook. But because of Hamp.
Because I still didn’t know what he’d carried in those last months. What fears he’d kept hidden. What truths he’d buried for my sake. And maybe that was easier—for him. Maybe silence was the only kindness he had left to give.
But it left me with ghosts. And questions. And guilt.
Sadie missed her moment. She’d found something real and she never got the chance to live it. I was on the verge of doing the same. Sam had offered me a key, a life. I turned it down. Told myself I needed more time. But how much time did I really have?
Sometimes the door doesn’t stay open.
And sometimes you don’t get the chance to knock again.
I didn’t know what I was going to say when I got there. I only knew I had to ask. I had to know the truth.
The heat lay heavy on Lenox Avenue, making the air shimmer over the blacktop. Even the shade under the awnings felt stale. I crossed the street, skirted a busted hydrant that was spilling a thin stream into the gutter and turned the corner.
The old sign came into view: Russell Free Clinic—hand-painted and peeling.
Nothing like the fresh, hopeful place Hamp had proudly shown me years ago. Back then, everything gleamed with promise.
Now it just looked beaten.
The two had met in medical school. After graduation, Hamp had gone back to Chicago, Lionel to New York, but they stayed in touch. Years later, both seasoned and restless, Lionel wrote Hamp to say he was giving up his prestige post at Harlem Hospital. Was Hamp interested? Hamp was.
They were thick as thieves from the moment we arrived. They talked about the clinic, about what it could be. It had been Lionel’s dream, one of many and it became Hamp’s, too. Turned out to be the only dream Hamp had time to make real.
My husband had family money. He became one of the main backers. After he died, I avoided the clinic. Walked past it a hundred times and kept going. Told myself it brought back too many memories. But standing there now, looking at it from the outside, I knew better. It was guilt.
I took a deep breath, braced myself and went inside.
The waiting room hit me like a furnace. Windows cracked open. Fans buzzing uselessly. Bodies packed tight. Sweat and medicinal alcohol filled my nose. Exhausted mothers fanned crying babies with church bulletins. An old man dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief that had seen better days. A young fellow slumped in the corner, head in hands.
Cracked tiles. Battered chairs. Exposed pipes running along water-stained walls. This wasn’t a clinic. It was a last stand against TB, hunger and cheap hooch. Outgunned and running low on ammunition.
It was clear Lionel hadn’t found a way to replace the money Hamp had brought in. I wished I could have stepped in, but the truth was, I couldn’t. The house and a modest allowance had come to me. But the family money—the real money—had stayed locked up in Chicago, right where it was always meant to.
A young woman stood behind the desk, sorting a stack of dog-eared files. Maybe a nurse. I was about to walk up and ask for Lionel when he entered from the back room. Despite the heat, he looked crisp. Reminded me of Hamp that way. Cool, no matter how high the temperature.
I used to tease him about it. He put up with it for a while, then he gave me an answer that shut my mouth.
“People deserve to feel they’re being treated by a professional, Lanie. Even if—especially if—they’re poor. They need to feel respected. That’s all I’m doing, is showing them a little respect.”
Lionel’s hands were always steady. Only once did I see them shake—just for a second—at Hamp’s graveside, when I told him I wished my husband had lived long enough to finish everything he’d started.
He hadn’t changed much—lean and sharp-eyed, though the lines at the corners of his mouth dug in deeper now. He was checking a file when he looked up and saw me. His face broke into a smile.
“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Hampton Price.” He set the papers down, came toward me, arms wide. “Come here, girl.” He pulled me into a quick, rough hug.
“Got a minute?” I asked.
He glanced at the busy waiting room.
I felt guilty about taking up his time. But still. I’d be quick and I needed an answer. “It won’t take long.”
He hesitated, then nodded. Turned to the woman behind the desk. “I’ll be right back.”
We slipped down the hallway past the tired stares and restless feet. His office was a closet of a room stuffed with secondhand furniture and yellowing medical books. A battered desk fan pushed hot air around like it was doing somebody a favor.
He gestured toward a chair next to his desk and we both sat. He gave me an affectionate once-over. “It’s good to see you, Lanie. Heard you’re doing well.”
“Well enough. And you? And the clinic?”
He shrugged. “Me, I’m fine. The clinic?” A wry smile worked his lips. “It has definitely seen better days.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. His eyes lingered on me. I’d always sensed he had feelings for me. He was a lovely, handsome man. But those were feelings I couldn’t return. Maybe that had also had a hand in why I’d stayed away.
He inclined his head. “But you’re not here to see about me—or the clinic, are you?”
There it was—the little edge, small but sharp, like a blade he couldn’t keep buried. I remembered now. It had always found its way out, sooner or later.
“I’m sorry, Lionel. Sorry I didn’t keep in touch. I—”
He cut the air between us with a hand. “Doesn’t matter.”
His mouth said one thing. His tone said another. “What can I do for you?”
I drew a breath. “It’s about Hamp.”
“Of course.”
The blade flashed sharper. I let it pass.
“Did he know?”
A loose sheet of paper lifted and fell on the desk from the fan’s lazy push. Somewhere out front, a baby started to cry.
Lionel sighed. “I figured you’d come and ask sooner or later.” He thought a second, then nodded. “Yeah. He knew.”
My fingers tightened around my clutch. “He didn’t tell me.”
“No, he didn’t. He didn’t tell me half of it either. Thought he could outrun it.”
The fan squealed on its stand. Feet impatiently shuffled in the hallway.
“He thought he was protecting you.” Lionel’s voice grew quieter, like the words cost him. “He thought if he just kept moving, he could give you a few more good years.”
Now, it was my turn to give a slow nod. My tone that took on the bite.
“Well, it didn’t work out that way, did it?”
“No, m’am. It did not.”
I stood. I’d learned everything I wanted to know.
He rose with me. Opened his mouth, like maybe he meant to say more. But settled for: “You ever need anything. You know where to find me.”
I nodded. That was all I could manage.
The waiting room was thicker now, the air loaded with sweat and perfume and cigarette smoke. I didn’t look at anybody as I slipped out the door. The sun hit like a hammer. The city smelled of tar and roasting garbage. I walked into it without a plan, my shoes striking hard against the pavement, the heat sinking deeper with every step.
CHAPTER 38
The building creaked with night sounds—the radiator’s sigh, the soft rattle of wind against the windows. Sam’s office door was cracked open. I could see the light on. He was still here.
I didn’t knock.
He was standing by the window, one hand resting on the frame, looking out at nothing.
“I thought you’d gone home,” I said.
“I thought you had.”
We stood in silence for a moment. Then I stepped inside and shut the door.
“I found her, Sadie Wilkins, the woman who loved Westbrook.”
That got his attention. He turned from the window. “And?”
“She said he finally figured something out. Something he shouldn’t have.”
“About the sabotage?”
I nodded. “She thinks it got him killed.”
“And you?”
“I think she’s right.”
He came back to his desk but didn’t sit. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“You okay?”
I considered lying. Then shook my head. “No. Not really.”
Sam watched me for a long moment. Then he pulled a chair out and gestured for me to sit. I did. The silence between us settled like dust—soft, but everywhere.
“I keep going back over it,” I said. “All of it. What Sadie said. What Westbrook must’ve known. He cared about that picture, Sam. About getting it right. And now he’s dead and the story’s trying to write itself without me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the official version is already forming. That he was unstable. Obsessed. Maybe guilty. That the pressure broke him. That’s what management wants. That’s what Seth probably wants. And the police? They’re happy to call it suicide and be done.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.” I met his gaze. “Because I think he was murdered. And if I don’t push, no one will.”
Sam leaned back against his desk, crossed his arms. “You’re not sleeping.”
“No.”
“You’re not eating.”
“Coffee counts.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
Another silence.
Then, quietly: “You’re scared.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
He looked away. “I am.”
That stopped me.
“I’m scared for you, Lanie. You’re getting close. And the closer you get, the more dangerous this becomes.”
I didn’t answer right away.
“I used to think,” he said, “that the worst thing would be if they silenced your story. But now? Now I think the worst thing would be if they silenced you.”
The words hung there. No rescue in them. Just truth.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said.
My throat tightened. I looked down at my hands. They didn’t feel like mine anymore.
“I need to see this through,” I said.
“I know.”
He moved toward me. Not all the way. Just close enough.
“If you need help,” he said, “ask for it. Don’t pull the usual vanishing act. I don’t want to find out something happened to you in tomorrow’s paper.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He didn’t believe it. Neither did I.
But he nodded anyway.
I stood. We didn’t touch. Didn’t say anything more.
I left before the silence swallowed us both.
The bedroom I’d once shared with Hamp was dark except for a single candle flickering on the bedside table. I sat in my reading chair by the window with his photograph in my lap. Behind the cool glass of its silver frame, his face stared back at me.
I traced his jaw with my fingertip. Remembered how in those last months he’d pause at the top of our stairs, one hand pressed to his chest before continuing down. At the time, it seemed nothing—just a moment’s rest after a long day at the hospital. Now each remembered gesture was a witness against me.
I’d given away all his clothes after the funeral. Everything except his favorite sweater. I rose, the photo clutched in my hand and went to my closet. The box was where I’d left it, pushed far back on the top shelf. The wool was soft against my hands as I lifted it out.
“When are you going to get rid of that old thing?”
A smile. A chuckle. A one-word answer: “Never.” Then a pause. “And I’ll bet you a dollar that one day you’ll come to love it as much as I do.”
I hadn’t taken him up on that bet. But he was right. I had come to love it. In fact, I couldn’t part with it.
I buried my nose in it and inhaled deeply. Acqua di Parma. Citrus and lavender, amber and musk. Hamp had bought a supply during our first trip to Italy. The scent unlocked a door in my mind.
“Sometimes things aren’t as certain as we think,” he’d said one evening.
I’d been too busy selecting the perfect shade of cream for the nursery walls, imagining the cradle we would place beneath the window.
“You’re always worrying about nothing,” I’d told him and returned to my color choices.
I paced the floor, sweater clutched against my chest. Every evening we’d spent in comfortable silence—him with medical journals spread across the parlor sofa, me at my desk nearby. Not knowing how precious those moments were.
“Life can be unpredictable, Lanie.” His voice echoed in the empty room.
I’d always murmured agreement without looking up from my typewriter. We had all the time in the world.
Seth’s words from earlier hit me. “He tried to talk to me. More than once. But I was always so caught up in my dream that I wouldn’t listen.”
The truth of it twisted like a knife. Hamp had tried to warn me. Again and again, he’d tried to get through.
“Sometimes hearts don’t last forever,” he’d said one night, hand resting over his chest.
“Don’t be morbid,” I’d said and kissed him, tasting coffee on his breath, never imagining it was his way of saying goodbye.
I had been too invested in our dreams, too determined to paint a rosy fantasy to see the stark reality.
“Lanie, promise me you’ll take care of yourself.” His eyes had searched mine for understanding I’d never given.
“Always,” I’d assured him, thinking it just another of his endearing quirks.
My vision blurred and a sob tore from my throat. The photograph slipped from my fingers and struck the hardwood floor. Its glass splintered with a soft crack.
I bent to pick it up but sagged to the floor. Through the broken glass, Hamp’s smile seemed different now—not the confident grin of a young doctor with his whole life ahead, but something tender and sad. He’d known even then.
From somewhere down the street, Bessie Smith’s voice floated through my open window. I couldn’t make out the words, just the lament in her voice.
The candle sputtered and went out, leaving me in darkness.
“Maybe Sam is right not to trust me with his secrets,” I whispered to the empty room. “I didn’t even see the ones under my own roof.”
CHAPTER 39
“Lanie? This is Grace. Seth’s throwing a party on set tonight. Nine sharp. To boost morale.”
“A party? In the middle of all this chaos?”
“Seth’s always been one for grand gestures,” she said. A pause. “The jazz club set. Everyone will be there.”
“Everyone, huh?” I drummed my fingers on my desk at the newsroom. Parties meant people. People meant gossip. And gossip meant secrets to be discovered. “Count me in. I’ll be there. With bells on.”
Thunder rolled overhead as I entered the bustling party on the movie set that night. He’d called it a morale booster. I called it whistling past the graveyard. Not that I blamed him for trying. Sometimes you whistle because it's all you've got left.
