by Lisa Jackson
Settling herself into a chair, she read a few more passages, and then she asked suddenly, “Or is D. Janet’s father?”
Catherine just slept on.
Sunday dawned gray and cold, and Savvy turned toward the window, waking up disoriented at first, and then bang. She remembered everything in a rush.
She sat straight up in bed, felt muscles shriek in protest, and froze where she was in bed. A white world was unveiling itself in the patchy sunlight that filtered in after the storm. At least the snow had stopped, but the sky was still filled with scattered clouds, which looked like they might turn ominous.
There was a small overnight bag on the only chair in the room. She hazily recalled Hale coming back in and dropping it there. Gingerly, she stepped out of bed, walked to the chair, unzipped the bag, and reached inside, pulling out a neatly folded, clean, dark pink sailcloth blouse. Kristina’s. Savvy hesitated a moment, remembering the bag sitting in the backseat footwell in Hale’s car. Well, she really couldn’t put on her own soiled clothes, but the idea of putting on her injured sister’s garments felt wrong somehow.
Nevertheless, she slipped her arms down the blouse’s sleeves; there was no way she would even try on her bigger-chested sister’s bra, although if it was ever going to fit her, she supposed it would be now. She felt a poignant rush of love for her troubled sister, and she stood there a moment before pulling on the fresh underwear and dark brown slacks. There was no way she was going to be able to get that zipper over her distended abdomen.
She made a trip to the bathroom, then carefully arranged the hem of Kristina’s blouse over her gaping zipper. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she made a face at the horror show that looked back. Her hair looked like it had been through a blender, reddish-brown tufts sticking out like they were trying to escape her head, and the dark circles under her eyes were testament to the previous wild night.
Everything from the waist down was sore. No big surprise there. Though they wore the same shoe size, her sister’s slip-on leather mules were a little tight. Savvy’s feet had grown during pregnancy, and she wasn’t sure they were going to go back to their previous size.
Anxious to find out about Declan and her sister, she headed for the door but was met by Nurse Baransky, who clucked at her and said she would get Savvy a wheelchair.
“Don’t you ever go home?” Savvy asked.
“It’s been one emergency after another,” she said. “I’m leaving soon.”
“I don’t want a wheelchair,” Savvy said and walked out of the room before Baransky could stop her, albeit hunched over protectively a little bit as there was definite pain involved. But she didn’t care. The same kind of adrenaline rush that had overtaken her when she was ready to deliver was moving through her bloodstream again. She needed to know about the baby and her sister.
“Kristina St. Cloud is in recovery from surgery yesterday,” she said to a nurse at the first station she came to. “She’s my sister.”
The woman looked up at Savvy, who self-consciously ran a hand over her hair. Without a word to her, she placed a call and asked for someone named Patricia, then listened for a few moments. After she hung up, she seemed to be considering her words carefully, as she directed, “Take this hall to the ICU waiting area.” She pointed to the east. “Dr. Oberon will meet you there.”
“Oberon’s my sister’s doctor?”
She gave one terse nod, said, “Her surgeon,” then quickly went back to her work.
Her attitude turned Savvy’s heartbeat into a hard knock, the pounding increasing with each footstep. The nurse hadn’t wanted to talk to her. Hadn’t wanted to answer further questions. Had wanted to be rid of her as fast as possible.
Please . . . God . . . , she thought, reaching an intersection at the end of the hall and seeing the intensive care unit sign above a closed door with a small glass window. Savvy peered through one of the windows and saw Hale in the hall beyond, his head bent, listening to a man with wavy brown hair who wore a white lab coat and a grave expression. Oberon, she decided, her throat dry.
She pushed through the door, and Oberon looked up. Hale turned his head at the doctor’s sudden shift of attention, and in his eyes she saw the answer she was dreading.
“No . . . ,” she whispered.
“You’re Mrs. St. Cloud’s sister?” the doctor asked.
“Yes.” She could barely get it out as she read his name tag. Yes, Oberon. She glanced down, and the floor seemed to buckle and sway.
“She died early this morning. There was too much pressure,” the doctor said, but any other words coming from his mouth were buried under a buzzing in her ears and the edges of blackness creeping into her peripheral vision.
“Savvy . . .” She saw Hale say her name more than heard it. He came to her and swept her into his arms in a crushing embrace. She leaned into him and closed her eyes. Her throat burned. She couldn’t think. It was all too much.
Kristina was dead? Dead?
She’d thought she was spent of emotion. But the feel of Hale’s arms around her sent up a well of tears. “My sister . . .” she said.
“I know.” His voice rumbled in his chest, a comforting feeling.
And then the tears spilled over, and she clung to him, letting them silently fall onto his shirt collar.
CHAPTER 20
Catherine woke up as if she’d had an undisturbed night’s sleep, blinked several times, and said, “I can’t see.”
Ravinia, whose chin had dipped to her chest for a moment, snapped awake, her mother’s journal sliding to the floor. “Let me turn on a light.” She quickly got up and walked to the light switch, pressing the toggle.
The room flooded with light, but Catherine blinked and blinked. “Ravinia?”
Ravinia walked to the edge of the bed. “I’m right here.”
“I can’t see you.”
Ravinia stared down at her aunt, whose blue eyes were focused somewhere far away, searching. “What’s wrong?”
“Where am I?” Then, “It smells like a hospital.”
“I need to get the doctor.”
“No, don’t leave,” Catherine ordered. “Please.”
Ravinia regarded her with worry. “But if you can’t see . . .”
“It’s probably temporary,” she said. “What happened?”
“I don’t really know. You were out at the gate, talking to Earl, and then you never came back. Why can’t you see? What do you mean, it’s probably temporary?”
“It’s happened before. Where’s Isadora?”
“At the lodge.” Ravinia quickly brought her aunt up to date on the events of the night before, finishing with, “Earl brought me here with his son, Rand. He went back to Siren Song last night to get Isadora, but he hasn’t shown up again. Nobody wanted Isadora to leave. That’s why I’m here instead,” she added a bit uncomfortably.
“Isadora should stay with them,” Catherine said.
“Yeah, well . . .” Ravinia cleared her throat. “Why did Earl come to Siren Song?”
“Why didn’t he bring Ophelia?”
“Because I’m the one who went over the wall for help!” Ravinia snapped. “What the hell happened? Why can’t you see?” She heard the hysterical note in her voice and clamped it down. She wanted to wring Catherine’s neck. If they had a phone or could drive or . . .
“Sometimes stress brings it on,” her aunt said, but there was something evasive in her tone.
“Did you know Ophelia has a disposable cell phone?” Ravinia asked. “She called nine-one-one while I was out looking for help. She may have saved your life.”
Catherine shook her head, seeming a bit overwhelmed.
“Why did Earl come by?” Ravinia asked again. Though he was the lodge’s all-around handyman, he rarely came at night. In fact, though he was the only man allowed inside the gates, she couldn’t remember a time he’d ever stayed past evening.
“We had some business to take care of.”
“Oh, business. That’
s real specific.”
“What do you want, Ravinia?” she asked tiredly.
“Answers! Who’s Janet?”
Catherine blinked. “What?”
“Who’s Janet?” Ravinia grabbed up the journal from the floor, quickly thumbed to the first entry she’d seen, and read, “‘Janet deserves what she gets. You know she took him on purpose. It’s a game with her, but I’m the better player. He’s mine now, and I can feel the baby already.’” She looked up at her aunt. A flush had crept up Catherine’s neck. “And then it says, ‘You can’t keep him. I’ll have him, too. J.’s husband and father.’”
“You took that journal from my room,” Catherine accused angrily.
“Yes, I did. Because you won’t tell us anything. And last night, when I found you in the snow, I wasn’t going to wait anymore. None of us can afford to wait anymore.”
“How did you get in my room?”
“What baby was Mary feeling?” Ravinia asked. “Which one of us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does Isadora know?” Ravinia asked. “What else is in here?” She lifted the journal up, as if Catherine could see it. “If I spend enough time, I’ll figure it out, but it would be nice to have some help.”
Catherine’s blank gaze flew toward her. “You’re holding the journal?”
“Yes! I’ve been reading it all night! It’s right here.”
Catherine’s eyes flooded with water. It made Ravinia feel bad, but she held her ground. Eventually, Catherine looked away, staring straight ahead, her hands folded over one another, the fingers of one hand squeezing the other. “You had no right.”
“If you would be honest, I wouldn’t have to resort to stealing. Now, who the hell is Janet?”
“Janet Bancroft was Mary’s nemesis. They went through school together, and Mary hated her.”
“Is she the ‘J.’ in the journal?”
“Yes,” Catherine said tautly.
“Why did Mary hate her?”
“Because Janet was beautiful and boys liked her. This is all so silly. They were high school classmates, and it was a silly jealousy.”
“What happened to Janet?”
“She got married. Then I heard she was divorced. I don’t know. It’s ancient history, and it has nothing to do with us.”
“You’re lying,” Ravinia asserted. She’d looked into Catherine’s heart, and for just a moment she’d sensed her fear. Fear that Ravinia would learn something she shouldn’t.
“I am not lying,” Catherine insisted with her old spunk.
“Then you’re not telling me the whole truth. What is this about J.’s husband and father? Who are they?”
“I don’t owe you any more explanations.”
“That’s where you’re wrong! Things are falling apart, Aunt Catherine. Don’t you get it? This fake world you’ve created is over. It didn’t really save us from Justice, and it’s not saving us now. Be honest for once in your screwed-up life!”
“Janet is Janet Bancroft. Declan Bancroft’s daughter and the ex-wife of Preston St. Cloud. Mary wanted them both, but she only got Preston,” she said in a rush of fury. “She took Preston away from his wife and son, and that’s why Janet divorced him.”
Ravinia’s mind whirled. “What happened to Declan?” Ravinia said.
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t she ‘get’ him, too? She acts like she could get anybody, any man. She seemed to think . . . Oh. He’s the D.!” Ravinia thumbed through the journal again and read the second entry. “‘C., I can take D. from you. Don’t think I can’t. Be smart about him, or I’ll prove my power to you. Give him up now, before you make me do something I don’t want to.’” Ravinia lifted her gaze to Catherine’s obdurate face. “She was talking about Declan. Your lover. She wanted you to give him up, or she would take him from you.”
Catherine didn’t respond, but she didn’t deny it, either.
“What happened to Declan?” Ravinia asked.
“I gave him up,” she said with forced lightness.
“Where is he now?”
“He’s alive and well and running Bancroft Development with his grandson, Hale St. Cloud. He was a widower, and . . . your mother and I were both attracted to older men. I saw him on the beach and . . .” She left the thought unfinished.
“You shouldn’t have given him up,” Ravinia said.
Catherine turned to glare blindly at her. “Your mother was a powerful force. She had a sexual energy that she could lasso men with. I couldn’t have her do that to Declan. Couldn’t. I wouldn’t.” She blinked several times. “Oh, there . . . there . . . I’m beginning to see again,” she said in relief. “But none of this matters, don’t you see? It’s just a piece of Mary’s past. It doesn’t have any bearing on anything! Get me Isadora. Please. Ravinia. I need her. And Earl,” she added as an afterthought.
“Why did Earl come to the gates?”
Her aunt eyed her carefully for several moments, but then she said, “Because he saw a fire on Echo Island, when no one should be there.”
Ravinia’s lips formed “Who?” but she didn’t utter it.
Catherine, however, answered her as if she had. “The man from the bones.”
Nurse Baransky caught up with Savvy while she was looking through the window at the babies in the neonatal center. “Ms. Dunbar, we have further information we need to get from you. Mr. St. Cloud gave us as much as he knew last night, but we need your insurance card, and also there are some practical considerations that need to be addressed, as well.”
Savannah had zeroed in on Declan, but her mind was in a fog. Kristina . . . God, Kristina. “Uh-huh?”
“Are you planning on breast-feeding?”
“Uh . . . no . . .”
“Then you will want to stop your milk from coming in. You’ll need to have a shot.”
Savannah turned to stare at the nurse. Kristina hadn’t wanted her to breast-feed; she’d been leery of Savannah bonding too much with her baby, though she hadn’t said as much in words. But breast-feeding was better for the child; everyone knew that.
“Maybe you should go back to your room,” the nurse said kindly as she witnessed fresh tears entering Savannah’s eyes.
“No, no. I’m okay. I do want to breast-feed,” she said now. “I do.”
“You’ll be giving the baby colostrum first, and it’s very important,” Nurse Baransky assured her.
Savvy nodded, unable to speak. How would Hale feel about it? she asked herself, then, as she followed after Nurse Baransky, decided she didn’t really care. She would ask forgiveness rather than permission. Maybe Kristina hadn’t wanted her to breast-feed while she was alive, but she also believed that her sister would want what was best for her child no matter what.
Hale drove carefully over the heavy snowpack on his way north from the hospital toward home. He had cleaned out his car somewhat at the hospital the night before and planned to do a better job later, but for now he just wanted to go home and sleep. He had some of Savannah’s clothes still in the vehicle, too, but it was the sight of her wearing Kristina’s pink blouse this morning that seemed burned on the back of his retinas.
He’d wanted to stay with her, but she’d pulled away from him upon learning about Kristina. He got it—she needed her space—but he felt like he could have held on to her forever. Now, as he drove the final miles, he was weighed down with exhaustion, his adrenaline store tapped out. The hospital was keeping both Savannah and his son till tomorrow at the very least. He needed to go home and get some energy back.
He’d expected Kristina to survive. He really had. He’d never imagined she would really die. She was resilient and tough and so alive. Once Savvy and Declan were safe, he’d been ready to fight for her and make their marriage work, no matter what it took. He’d been on such a high after seeing the birth of his son! Helping save him and Savannah . . . he was Superman! And Superman could fix the problems he and Kristina faced.
But now he was drain
ed, untethered, completely at sea. How had this happened? How could Kristina have died?
“Crime scene,” Officer Mills had said.
What the hell did that really mean? Who had killed her? Was it just random bad luck, her being inside the house at that time? Had Kristina run into a psychotic vagrant or thief at the Carmichaels’? Or stumbled into someone else’s rendezvous?
But why was she there in the first place? Why crawl in through a window?
Hale sighed, squinting against the dazzling whiteness all around him as the sun slid out from behind a cloud.
No . . . she met someone there herself. A planned meeting. There was no other explanation.
And that someone had killed her.
Hale just didn’t want to believe it.
By the time he was pressing the button to open his garage door, he felt as if he could sleep for a millennium, except his mind was buzzing. Buzzing and buzzing and making him feel slightly ill.
Walking into the kitchen from the garage, he threw his keys onto the island and beelined to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water. He drank half of it down, then reached into the cupboard above the microwave, which held the liquor. Grabbing a bottle of Scotch with one hand, he pulled out an old-fashioned glass with the other and poured himself a liberal dose. As he took a long swallow, he eyed the clock. Not quite noon on a Sunday.
Sighing, he sat down and pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. Text messages galore. He had no energy to answer them. Seeing his battery was almost dead, he crossed the kitchen and plugged the device into the charger on the small counter he and Kristina used as a desk.
He and Kristina.
He felt guilty every time her name crossed his mind. And sad. And boggled.
His cell phone suddenly trilled its default ring. He was still standing by it, so he picked it up and looked at the caller ID. It was Sylvie. “Hey,” he said by way of answering, aware how lifeless his voice was but incapable of punching it up.
“Hey,” she said back at him in a worried tone. “I saw on the morning news about Kristina. How is she?”