Don't Ask, Don't Follow

By Mary Keliikoa

Murder, dark family secrets, and the unwavering bond of sisterhood— regardless of the cost

Beth Ralston, a paralegal in Portland, Oregon, would rather be racking up billable hours than mingling at an office party— especially when her sister Lindsay, aka her plus one, is a no-show.

After making her obligatory rounds, Beth returns to her office to find that her boss, who she' d talked with moments before, has been murdered. She sees a woman fleeing the scene. Wait— was that Lindsay? Unable to catch up to her in time, Beth waits for the police to arrive and notices that Lindsay has left her phone behind with an unsent text message to Beth displayed on the screen: “ Don' t ask. Don' t follow.”

Lindsay is unreachable for days, and when Beth starts to come under suspicion for the crime, she decides that waiting is impossible. While retracing Lindsay' s steps, determined to bring her home, Beth uncovers what her sister, an investigative reporter bent on changing the world, was trying to expose— corruption, secrets, and betrayal on an unimaginable level. Revealing the truth might bring back the one person she' s desperate to find— but it could also destroy the only life and family Beth' s ever known.

Perfect for fans of Gregg Olsen and Karin Slaughter

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
• Release date: Jun 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9781608096107

Mary Keliikoa

Mary Keliikoa is a Pacific Northwest native and the multi-award-nominated author of the Misty Pines Mystery Series, the PI Kelly Pruett Mystery Series, and Don’t Ask, Don’t Follow, her latest novel. Her short stories have appeared in Woman’s World and in the anthology Peace, Love and Crime. When not in Washington, you can find Mary with toes in the sand on a Hawaiian beach.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

present day

Ipreferred things black or white. Fact or fiction. Fact: I hate office parties. Also, fact: had I kept my butt in my chair, head down working, the night would have ended differently.

Gray—or the unknown—happens when you let others influence you. That’s what happened when instead of sticking to what I knew, I got sucked into the holiday spirit.

My closest office friend, Mandy Perkins, had everything to do with that. She was another paralegal at Ralston, Higgins & Schroeder, my father’s Portland-based law firm.

She bumped my shoulder. It was after office hours and we stood at the edge of the lobby that resembled the Four Seasons with its marble floors, maple and glass fixtures, and waitstaff drifting about, their trays filled with mini quiches and bacon-wrapped scallops. The pre-holiday holiday party had begun.

This must be killing you, but you can’t hide in your office forever.

The open bar flowing with hot-buttered rum and mixed drinks would help with my social anxiety, but Mandy was only half right on the other. Working endless hours without a break was one of my superpowers. I have a ton to do. Don’t you have a stack yourself? I fought the urge to run and dig back in.

She wrinkled her mouth in a quit making up excuses sort of way. It’ll be there Monday, Beth. One drink won’t hurt. It might even make you more fun.

Fun doesn’t pay the bills. Or get you ahead in life. Or a better interior office with a view of the Willamette River. An office I’d coveted since Day One at the firm, even if snagging the view required the attorney’s door be open.

That part wasn’t up to me though. The associate I worked for, Craig Bartell, had to make senior partner first. My hard work could help him get there. Besides, I said, my plus one was a no-show.

Another something I had little control over. My older sister, Lindsay, had blown me off without a reason. She’d never exhibited the same obligatory pull that I was cursed with, but it still stung that she hadn’t bothered to text.

I’m your plus one. Mandy smiled, cheesy as hell and showing teeth. I just wish you’d dressed for the occasion. After all, Ms. Ralston, I do have a reputation to maintain.

My gray chinos and a black cardigan made the appropriate statement: up and coming, serious about being a lawyer, someday. But I’d ditched the ballet flats for strappy sandals and taken an extra twenty minutes to straighten my shoulder-length brown hair.

What’s wrong with this?

Mandy’s twinkling red sweater screamed Ho Ho Ho at me.

She shook her head. You need a drink worse than I thought.

With no escaping my fate, I scanned the guests. Two of the attendees were my parents: Frederick Ralston III, drink in hand and with his usual ramrod posture, semi-retired as of last year, and my mother, Shelby. My father hadn’t seen me yet, and I avoided eye contact to delay the inevitable.

Judge Evelyn Johnson, who’d come up through the ranks of the law firm before her election to the bench, stood next to my father and laughed at everything he said. She glanced up, flashing me a quick smile before stepping away and becoming engrossed in another conversation with a few lawyers—about Oregon Revised Statutes and compelling arguments, no doubt.

I should have chosen to hide instead of focusing on her because the inevitable became reality. My father motioned me over to his group that included several unfamiliar faces. I turned to Mandy and dropped my voice to a whisper. This is why I should’ve kept working.

Just do your daughterly duty and get back here. I’ll nab you a martini.

Make it a double. I stuck my tongue out at her. See, I can be fun.

She laughed as I swooped a bite-sized quiche from a passing tray, shoved it into my mouth, and started across the room.

My boss, Craig, intercepted me before I got two steps. Beth. We need to talk. His green eyes bore into mine with a huge dose of seriousness.

Most of the secretaries thought my very single associate was quite handsome. The fact he was great to work for, most of the time, meant more to me. Can it wait? My presence has been requested. I tilted my head in my dad’s direction.

Craig raked a hand through his dark wavy hair. I didn’t realize he’d be here. His eye twitched and his ever-present smile was MIA. Droplets of sweat covered his top lip. The same thing happened to me when I was nervous.

It wasn’t an odd reaction to the great Mr. Ralston being in the house—he made most associates quiver. Even when he’s fully retired, he won’t miss a party. Have to make sure the firm’s profits aren’t wasted on frivolities, he liked to say.

Craig frowned harder as he gripped my arm tight. About that, you could use more billables this month. Being out here won’t accomplish that.

Whoa. Did he expect me to blow off my father? Not that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

Matching Craig’s serious look with one of my own, I stepped away enough to make his hand drop from my arm. That deposition summary you wanted will be finished over the weekend. And I’ve already crushed this month’s required billables.

He nodded and forced a smile that didn’t look right on him. Sorry. Of course, you have it handled. More surprising, that perspiration had progressed to his forehead.

You feeling okay? I asked.

Yeah. Go ahead. We’ll talk later.

I squeezed his upper arm. Wish me luck.

Still thinking about Craig’s off behavior, I approached my father and his fan club. Dad.

My father wrapped his arm around my shoulders and introduced me to his inner circle, lingering on the people I hadn’t recognized. Turned out they were city councilmen. Word on the street was Dad was vying for political office and had formed an exploratory committee to begin early stages for a mayoral campaign.

Mom hadn’t said much at the mandatory family brunch last Sunday—not so mandatory, it appeared, since my sister hadn’t attended the last three and was a sporadic guest before that. But the way Mom had taken to chatting with Dad’s longtime paralegal at the far corner of the room instead of being at his side spoke volumes about what she thought of the idea.

I’d like to introduce you to my new campaign manager, Ericka Hough, Dad said, puffing his chest.

Guess it’s official then? I asked.

Ericka reached out a cold thin hand. Pleasure. She held my gaze with her cool blue eyes. I’ve heard about you.

All good, I hope?

Her lips-only smile response had me shifting my feet.

My father took a drink from his ice-clinking glass filled with scotch—that’s how he rolled—and cleared his throat. How’s my little girl? He gave me no time to respond. She’s a paralegal here, working for an associate by her own choice. She could have been through law school and practicing as a full-fledged attorney by now if she’d accepted my money. Determined to make it on her own or forget about it.

They all nodded. They either admired me or thought I’d lost my mind. But Dad’s money never came without strings, and while I worked at the firm to maintain peace, I was determined to control some portions of my life. A part of me resisted blazing the same path he did—and the mountain of debt that loans brought held no appeal. Even more true, with no idea what I wanted yet, staying buried in work made it easy not to decide.

Stubborn, this one, he added as an underscore.

Chip off the old block? one of the councilmen said.

My father chuckled.

He introduced me the same way every time, so what came next was no surprise.

Now her sister, Lindsay. She’s an investigative reporter bent on changing the world. It was subtle, but he rolled his eyes.

The group burst out laughing—my cue to bow out. Even though my father and Lindsay butted heads on environmental issues, he had an image to uphold as the ever-supportive father. My sister’s resume would now take the stage and, love or hate her causes, she had the ability to dazzle.

Except when it came to communicating.

I yanked my phone from my cardigan pocket and shot her off a text: You’re missing a great party. You really should be here. Dad’s speaking your praises!

My phone remained silent.

I was being petty. She was always busy out saving the world, as Dad said. Anyway, unlike her, I never stayed upset with her for long.

Tucking my cell back into my sweater, I found Mandy holding my double martini. Thanks. I took it and searched the room for Craig. You see my boss anywhere?

He disappeared after you left for your chat. You guys are clearly Virgos—never stop working. You’re perfect for each other.

Our birthdays were a day apart, and the rest might be true, but I shrugged and took a long sip of my martini with a wince. Did you triple this?

She giggled. Nice dodge.

Over the next hour, I finished my drink, mingled with a few of the staff, gave my mom a hug goodbye as she ducked out because one of those horrific migraines is coming on, and avoided getting caught by Dad or his campaign manager. In an effort to be more fun, I even let Mandy talk me into another dirty martini instead of generating billable hours.

When Mandy headed to the bar for her third—or fourth—drink, I snuck out to the bathroom. On my return, I used the rear entry that led to the hall near my office and keyed in my security code. The introvert in me had hit a socializing wall, and I hadn’t gotten back to Craig, whose door had been closed when I passed by. I’d circle back in a few. He’d appeared a little maxed himself and I’d touch base with him on my way out.

In my office, I gathered a couple of depos in the wrongful death case going to trial next month that needed to be summarized and shoved them into my bag. The CEO’s deposition had been on my desk when I left for the party. Shoot. Craig must have grabbed it. Guess we’d chat sooner rather than later.

As I stepped out of my office, a woman with a jean jacket, electric blue tennis shoes, and straight red hair darted out of Craig’s office and sprinted to the back door at the end of the hallway. The woman looked like my sister, especially with those signature bright-colored shoes.

She turned her head as her hands smacked through the exit bar.

It was my sister.

Lindsay, I hollered, wondering why she’d been in Craig’s office. More to the point, why hadn’t she texted if she’d planned to make an appearance?

Maybe she’d tried to find me instead. Between Mandy dragging me around and that second martini, we might’ve missed each other.

Lindsay? I called again as the door latched shut.

The least she could do was offer an explanation. I ran to the end of the hall and shoved open the exit door. An elevator dinged in the lobby. By the time I rounded the corner, the doors had closed.

I caught the next car down and sent another text. Saw you. Wait up.

Lindsay would park in the underground lot where the firm-paid stalls were located, but she hadn’t responded by the time I stepped out of the elevator. The dim lights on the low ceilings did a poor job of illuminating the concrete cavern. It reminded me of the building’s dungeon—at least that’s what I called the firm’s basement, where archived files and wills were kept. No one went to that floor voluntarily, often leaving the task to the administrator. This area gave off the same tomb-like sensation. Unlike the basement, exhaust hung in the cool air. A shiver ran through me.

During the day, every stall would be filled. Now, half the cars remained, which accounted for the partygoers upstairs, and none included Lindsay’s white Prius. I scanned the lot one last time to see if she’d caught a ride with someone else.

And that’s when I saw him. A man slunk low behind the steering wheel of a black sedan, dark hair his only distinguishing feature. The lighting made it hard to tell anything else about him except that he seemed to be watching me. The hairs on my arms raised.

I listened again for footfalls or the sound of an engine turning over. Nothing. Either Lindsay hadn’t parked here, or she’d left before I’d made it down.

When I turned back to the elevator, it had closed. Looking paranoid might offend the guy in the car if he was a chauffeur waiting for one of the bigwigs upstairs. Offensive or not, I refused to be too comfortable in this setting. I glanced at the black sedan once more.

The man was gone.

My heart kicked into a hard knock while I searched the area and punched the up arrow like I was sending Morse code. When it arrived, I hustled in and slapped the CLOSE DOOR button.

Once inside the safety of the elevator’s walls, I balked at my paranoia, until the sound of heavy footsteps gaining speed grew louder. I squashed the impulse to hold the ride and willed the closing doors to hurry. My jaw remained clenched until the metal pressed together.

It took ten floors before my breath released. One martini would be my limit in the future. The guy in the car could have dropped something and bent over to pick it up, and anyone could have been running to catch the elevator.

Even so, my skin had not stopped tingling, and I was relieved to be back upstairs.

The party had started to clear when I came through the front doors this time, and that included Mandy, and my father and his entourage. Only a handful of hangers-on remained at the bar. Guests had been going downstairs while I was coming up. The footsteps I’d heard must have been one of those partygoers rushing to their car.

I started in the direction of my office and kept walking toward Craig’s. He might know why Lindsay had stopped by, and I’d yet to retrieve the CEO’s file.

Craig’s brown leather chair was turned away when I tapped on the door. Sorry to interrupt. Coming for the Graham depo. I promise to have it done first thing Monday.

He didn’t respond.

The files were stacked on the credenza against the wall in front of his desk. About earlier. I headed that way. I apologize for not making time right then to talk. My dad has a way of throwing me off when he’s here. I swooped the files into my arms. But hey, I saw my sister. Was she looking for me?

Craig still didn’t respond. If he had his headset on, he wouldn’t hear me. Mandy was right about one thing—we were both workaholics.

To avoid startling him, I stepped to the side of his desk. Craig’s head was at an odd angle. God, he’d passed out, and I’d been rambling on.

Wake up, sunshine. Party’s over. I touched his chair. His head fell forward, his chin bouncing on his red shirt.

I clutched the files to my chest.

That shirt was pale blue an hour ago.

Now it was soaked in blood.

CHAPTER 2

Alone in my office, head between my knees, I sucked in air. My rib cage constricted with every breath to the point I worried my bones might crack. My throat was raw, my jaw hurt, my heart ached.

Time blurred as I’d stood in Craig’s office screaming. The firm administrator, Phil Garrett, dashed past me at some point, shock creasing his face at the sight of my boss drenched in blood.

Dead.

Mr. Garrett’s steadying hand on my back had guided me into my office. He’d been with my father since the firm’s inception, but I doubted he’d ever come across anything like this. Still, he remained calm as he led me to my chair.

Stay put until the police arrive, he’d said.

I must have nodded because he disappeared down the hall again to join the few lawyers who’d run past my office in the meantime. Thank goodness no party guests remained on the floor at that point.

Craig.

My right leg bounced at the memory of him in that chair. His throat had to have been slashed to explain that amount of blood. Had he been surprised from behind? Or … My stomach acid stirred, threatening a comeback. I couldn’t think about the blood or how he’d died. The question was why? Were any of us safe with a killer on the loose? The police were on the way …

Someone needed to notify his parents. Although he’d never spoken of them. Once he’d mentioned not having siblings. His immediate family consisted of Murphy, a gray tabby he’d adopted as a kitten.

I sat upright. My parents. Mr. Garrett hadn’t called them, or my phone would be exploding. That’s if my mom hadn’t taken her pills and already gone to bed. Or if my father hadn’t continued the party elsewhere.

And what about Lindsay?

If she went into Craig’s office and found him dead, why run? Why not come find me, call the police, tell someone? Unless … Dizzy, I dropped my bag on the floor to put my head between my knees again and dug out my phone.

I shot off another text to Lindsay. Call me. Now!!!

While I pulled up my FAVORITES list in contacts for Dad’s number, the ding of a cell phone echoed from deep inside my purse.

My gaze stuck to my bag like it contained a poisonous spider.

I owned one phone—the one in my hand.

The commotion continued down the hall. I reached into my purse and pulled out the source of the ding—a white iPhone wrapped in a zebra striped case. My grip tightened around it. Lindsay’s phone.

She’d long used her birthday for her passcode, and it opened on the first attempt, landing on the text screen. The text was written to me but not sent: Don’t ask! Don’t follow!

Don’t ask. I’d heard that a million times since we were kids. But don’t follow?

That was reserved for when she was up to something questionable.

My stomach turned again. Had she been in Craig’s office when I’d passed by a few minutes before? Why had she shut the door? And her phone—she had to have dropped it in my purse after seeing Craig … which meant she’d gone back in? How could she know I’d see her in the first place?

So many questions, and none of the answers hopping into my head were good. Including the worst of them—that she’d left her phone behind so the police couldn’t track her. It could be why she hadn’t sent the text. An unsent message couldn’t be tied to her contacting me at about the same time Craig was murdered.

That felt like premeditation … but I didn’t, couldn’t, believe that. Not about Lindsay.

Forcing my leg to stop bouncing, I clicked back to the main conversation screen and scrolled through the texts, desperate to find why she’d been here in the first place. Proof that she’d been looking for me when she’d gone inside Craig’s office. In shock at the sight of him, she’d run … that had to be the case, right?

That’s not what I found.

Earlier in the day, Lindsay had received a text from a 503 number. I’d texted that number many times myself—it belonged to Craig.

One message remained in the history: I have the information you wanted.

What information?

Excuse me. A voice came from my doorway.

I dropped Lindsay’s phone into my bag and bolted to my feet. Yes.

The man shadowing my office had detective written all over his somber face. His wire-rimmed glasses framed weary green eyes. The gray weaving around his short dark hair suggested he had ten years on me. Under different circumstances, like sitting next to him at the paralegal ethics class I’d enrolled in for next spring, I might find him attractive.

Are you Beth Ralston, the individual who discovered Mr. Bartell?

I am. I’m Craig’s … was Craig’s … paralegal.

His eyes softened. How long had you worked for him?

Five years. My voice shook remembering my first days at the firm. My father had insisted I be assigned to a partner and allow him to put me in a better office. I declined, insisting I start from the bottom and earn any promotions the way everyone else did—with hard work.

He relented and when an opening with Craig, a newer associate, became available, I applied. We hit it off right away. Our drive to succeed, coupled with neither of us having a social life, helped. But it was more than that. Unlike so many other lawyers, Craig had a heart. I’d seen it in the way he took interest in pro bono work. How he’d picked up elderly clients nervous about testifying so he could make them feel comfortable before court.

How he cared for Murphy.

You’re understandably in shock, the detective said, returning my attention to the room. But if you’re up to it, I have some questions. May I come in?

Okay. I eased into my chair and rested my elbows on the desktop. Using my foot, I guided my bag underneath the desk. My mouth became the Sahara Desert debating how much I could tell him. Not about the message from Lindsay. Not about seeing her run out the door. Now I suppressed a cringe at the thought of meeting this man in an ethics class.

He pulled a card from his waist-length jacket and handed it to me. Detective Troy Matson. Portland Police Bureau, Homicide.

I forced down a swallow. Have they removed Craig yet? The question sent a ripple of anxiety through me. But his being left in the state I’d found him bothered me.

No. The DA’s working to get a special master assigned before the medical examiner will release him.

I see. A special master would ensure that attorney/client privileged items were protected while the scene was processed. They’d taught that in one of my first criminal procedure classes.

Can you tell me your version of events starting with the last time you spoke with Mr. Bartell? he said.

We were in the lobby, I began, and recounted speaking with my father and not seeing Craig again until I’d gone to retrieve a file.

How did he appear during that initial interaction?

Stressed, but there’s a trial coming up and there’s always the pressure to bill around here. Time is money.

He nodded. Anything about that case that could have led to this?

We both knew I couldn’t talk about client business. Not that I know of.

He have problems with anyone? Outside of the case files. A co-worker perhaps?

Craig got along with everyone. I mean, I guess not everyone, but … Oh geez.

He tilted his head to the side. How so?

Nothing specific, but he’s a lawyer. I’m sure he’s upset the other side, a witness, a defendant.

Had he upset my sister?

True enough, he said, Where were you this evening at seven thirty?

I’d gone to the ladies’ room and came back to my office about that time.

How long were you in your own office?

I closed my eyes. The thought of Craig dead or dying at that point pushed me to the edge of tears. I didn’t check the clock.

When did you decide to go into Mr. Bartell’s office?

The blood rushed out of my face. From the time I’d seen Lindsay, chased her down, and returned upstairs couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. A couple more to get through the lobby.

Ms. Ralston? Detective Matson said.

Yes?

Approximates are fine.

I sighed. I’m sorry. It was probably twenty minutes before I decided to retrieve a file I planned to work on over the weekend.

And during that time, did you see or hear anyone in the hallway or around Mr. Bartell’s office?

I couldn’t implicate Lindsay. I wouldn’t. Because don’t ask, don’t follow implied another equally crucial directive—don’t tell. Anyone. As kids, that meant our parents. Until I knew more, it would now include the detective.

Everyone was out enjoying the festivities. Craig had disappeared, and I figured he’d gone to put in more work. I’d done all the partying I could handle—that’s why I came back here. If I’d known someone was attacking him … Tears stung my eyes now. If I could have done something to help him …

The detective’s eyes wrinkled. Warm. Understanding. It’s okay, Ms. Ralston. It’s going to be a long night here and you’ve answered my initial questions. You’re free to go.

Thank you. I lifted my purse and grabbed the workbag with the files, slinging it over my shoulder.

You’ll need to leave the files, Ms. Ralston.

Right. They could be relevant. Setting the bag on the chair, I followed him out of my office and headed for the lobby, desperate to leave.

Ms. Ralston, he called after me.

I held myself steady and turned back to him. Yes, Detective?

You planning any weekend escapes I should know about?

I shook my head, too hard.

Good. Might be best if you don’t.

Unsettled, I flashed an inappropriate smile and raced down the hall.

When I was twelve and Lindsay was fifteen, she’d snuck a boy into her bedroom on the second floor for a sleepover. The boy had broken my mother’s favorite crystal vase on his way to the bathroom during the night. The next morning, Lindsay begged me to take the blame. Otherwise, our father, a stickler for everything to be in pristine condition, would have grounded her from the next night’s Homecoming dance.

As I’d done countless times before, I covered for her and spent the weekend relegated to my room. Surrounded by my favorite books, I didn’t mind.

But we were no longer kids, and this wasn’t a boy in the bedroom. This was my boss dead in his office.

Covering for my sister this time could cost me everything—and I couldn’t let that happen.

Whether she liked it or not, I needed to get to the bottom of this.

CHAPTER 3

Craig’s cat, Murphy, met me at his door.

I smoothed the strip of fur on his head that stood up like a mohawk and Murphy’s chest rattled with a purr. I often watched Murphy when Craig traveled. The last time, Craig had been attending a friend’s funeral back east and I put gel in that mohawk and shot off a pic to him. By the amount of LMAO emojis that came back, it had done the trick to raise his spirits.

Halfway home, that image