Read Online Lowcountry Boneyard by Susan M. Boyer - Free Book Online Page B

you just fine.”
    “Really? Are we going to talk about Michael again? I haven’t even said so much as hello to him in months.” Michael was my college sweetheart. He married my cousin, Marci The Schemer, and I might have been a teensy bit obsessed with him for a while. But that’s a whole nother story and ancient history.
    “That’s not the point. You were content to live in Greenville and let the fate of this island rest on someone else’s shoulders for thirteen years. But when I need you there, well now, I’m just not as compelling as my brother and your college sweetheart, I guess.”
    I felt like I’d been punched. It hurt me that he would think I loved him less—that was lightyears from the truth. Things were just wildly damned complicated. “It’s not that.”
    “Well then, by all means, tell me how I’ve got it wrong.”
    “I was twenty-two and stupid. Just because I did stupid things when I was fresh out of college doesn’t mean I am required, for the rest of my life, to continue to make decisions on how and where I live for the wrong reasons.”
    I realized how that had come out in the instant I saw Nate’s eyes shutter.
    I stood and walked towards him. “I did not mean that the way it sounded. You have to know that.”
    “On the contrary. I think you said precisely what you meant. We all have our priorities, Liz. It’s painfully obvious I’m not one of yours.” His face looked like it might’ve been carved from stone, hard and emotionless. He’d retreated, erected a wall between us.
    “Nate—”
    “I don’t believe I’ll be staying for dinner after all.” He crossed the deck in a few long strides.
    “Nate, wait.” I dashed after him into the house.
    He continued with purposeful strides through the kitchen.
    I caught up with him in the hall, reached out and touched his arm. “Nate, please.”
    He brushed me away and strode out the front door without a word.
    He got into his dark grey Explorer and left and didn’t look back.
    I sank into an Adirondack chair and let the tears come. My heart was breaking, and I was mad as hell at myself and at him. Rhett ambled up the porch and lay down at my feet.

Five

      
    I parked in front of Phoebe’s Day Spa on Palmetto at 7:30 the next morning. Evan Ingle’s gallery was across the street and up a few doors. I hadn’t slept well, and my morning run and swim had done little to relieve my stress level. The picture-perfect day only served to make me crankier. I sipped my second cup of coffee from a travel mug and fought back the urge to call Nate. The image of me chasing him burned in my mind. Had he gone straight back to Greenville?
    I needed to focus. The gallery was in an old three-story brick building that had once been a furniture store. Brightly colored abstract paintings lined the front windows. Based on the few browsing trips I’d made, none of the artwork fit my budget. I wondered why Evan Ingle had chosen Stella Maris for his gallery. It was a nice addition to downtown, and likely plenty of folks on the island were proud to have his work on their walls. But he offered only his own paintings, none by other artists. Surely he would have sold more of them in Charleston.
    I hadn’t had a chance to profile Evan Ingle yet, but he was on my list. I needed to know everything about everyone whose life had touched Kent’s. There was just no way to know the critical from the irrelevant until I arrived at the truth.
    My phone dinged, announcing a text message. I looked at the screen: Send file passcode. What do you need me to start on?
    Nate was all business this morning, but at least he was communicating with me. And if he was working the Heyward case, he was probably still in the Lowcountry. Where had he slept last night?
    I texted back the passcode to the electronic case file: Please focus on voluntary relocation scenario. Phone call from Atlanta. CC charges.  Forwarding email with list of friends. No means of support w/o help.
    My fingers