by Lisa Jackson
Books by Lisa Jackson
Stand-Alones
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
WICKED GAME
WICKED LIES
SOMETHING WICKED
SINISTER
WITHOUT MERCY
YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW
CLOSE TO HOME
Anthony Paterno/Cahill Family Novels
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
ALMOST DEAD
Rick Bentz/Reuben Montoya Novels
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
SHIVER
ABSOLUTE FEAR
LOST SOULS
MALICE
DEVIOUS
Pierce Reed/Nikki Gillette Novels
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
TELL ME
Selena Alvarez/Regan Pescoli Novels
LEFT TO DIE
CHOSEN TO DIE
BORN TO DIE
AFRAID TO DIE
READY TO DIE
DESERVES TO DIE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LISA JACKSON
CLOSE TO HOME
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Books by Lisa Jackson
Title Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
EPILOGUE
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
October 31, 1924
Blue Peacock Manor
Help me! Dear Father in heaven, please!
Angelique’s heart was pounding, fear spreading through her bloodstream as she raced barefoot up the wide staircase. She had to find a way to save herself and her children. For the love of God, she had to save them.
Frantic, she gathered the torn hem of her tattered, grass-stained skirts in one hand, her legs wet and covered in mud.
And semen.
Proof the bastard had raped her.
Her stomach roiled at the thought as upward, ever upward she ran. Downstairs, near the parlor, her grandmother’s ancient clock was ticking off the seconds of her life. Grasping the polished banister, she propelled herself upward, past the second floor still bathed in lamplight, its long carpets running down the corridor and onto the stairs leading to the upper stories of this monstrosity of a house, a home in which she’d once felt such pride.
Fool!
Run! Run! Run!
Don’t let him catch you again!
Lure him away from the children,
Her breath was coming in short gasps, her lungs burning, her body heavy, the stays of her corset stretched. She reached the landing and thought she heard heavy footsteps below.
One of the children?
Or him?
Oh, God,
Sweat running down her back, she climbed to the third floor, where, gasping, she turned down the darkened hallway. Images of the children—the innocents—filled her head.
Help them! Mon Dieu, please . . . HELP ME!
If she were to die, so be it, but not the little ones. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of sweet Monique and chubby little Jacques and the others, older and yet suffering as well. Stalwart Ruth, sweet Helen, and Louis with the sad eyes . . . Her throat closed. This was all her fault, and the innocents would suffer, die hideously, because of her.
The woman who’d sworn to protect them.
She looked down the dizzying, curving staircase into the shadows below. Flickering lamplight gave off an eerie glow at the landing of each floor, and the darkness on the steps between made her blood run cold.
But she couldn’t give in to the fear. Not yet.
Come on, you bastard, Follow me, Leave them be! Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew he wouldn’t let them go untouched. She knew that as well as anyone, didn’t she? It wasn’t his way. Didn’t she have the scars to prove how cruel he could be, this man she’d once loved?
She heard the front door creaking open, then bang shut with a heart-stopping thud. She nearly tripped on her skirts as terror enveloped her. Stay calm, You can outwit him, You must, Oh . . . God . . .
His boots rang loudly across the wooden floor of the foyer to thud on the first step.
Her skin crawled, and she bit down hard on her lip.
Le monstre hideux was coming.
Just as she’d known he would.
She clutched the silver cross swinging from a small chain around her neck and dared look over the railing. His menacing shadow, a huge, elongated umber stretching to the ceiling, moved inexorably forward. He was carrying something in his hand. And then she recognized the axe for what it was.
Her insides shriveled at the thought of him swinging the sharp, heavy blade, his intentions to hack her to death all too clear. What chance did she have against his brute strength?
Belatedly, she realized she should have run to the stable. She’d discarded the notion as there wasn’t time to ride her mare into the town five miles away through the fog and rain and muck of the road, across fields or through woods, to reach the gaslit streets of Stewart’s Crossing. Even if she had reached the town, how could she possibly convince the sheriff that she hadn’t gone stark, raving mad and return in time to save them all? Impossible. Recklessly, she’d run through the house and now regretted she hadn’t veered to the stable, where not only the horses were housed, but in the attached shed a variety of tools—hatchets, hammers, and scythes—were stored.
She waited.
Her only hope was that when he followed her to the rooftop, she’d have a chance—a slim one, true—but at least a risky opportunity to turn the tables on him. If she couldn’t save herself, at least she might be able to take the bastard with her.
And what of the baby? Can you sacrifice that new unborn life as well?
Tears burned her eyes.
Again she looked over the curved railing, catching a glimpse of him, now on the second floor, climbing to the third.
NOW!
She leaned over the railing and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Run!”
“What the bloody hell?” he snarled, glaring up at her, his eyes gleaming a malicious blue above his beard.
“Ruth! Helen!” she screamed desperately, hoping to warn the children. “Get the babies and run away as fast as you can!”
“They’ll never get away,” he warned, a smug look twisting the lips she’d once kissed with such ardor. How had she been such an imbecile? He laughed again, and the acrid smell of alcohol reached her nostrils. He was too clos
e!
Whirling around, she dashed along the runner to the attic stairs at the end of the hall. The door was locked, as always.
“Harlot!” he yelled after her. “Goddamned whore, come back here!”
Never!
She sent up a silent prayer for the dear, sweet souls of the little ones.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . .
The clock in the lower hallway began to chime, counting out the hours in reverberating peals.
Hallowed be thy name,
His footsteps quickened, and she reached into the pocket of her voluminous skirts for the keys. She fumbled in the dark with the massive key ring, the metal clinking as she struggled to find the right one for the attic door.
Hurry!
Her pulse was pounding in her brain, her fingers slick with sweat, keys clanking. She dropped the ring only to retrieve it quickly.
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven,
The clock continued to strike off the hours, and along with the familiar peals came the heavy, determined tread announcing that he was following.
Her heart froze. Her breath stilled in her lungs for the briefest of seconds. She inserted another key.
Nothing!
“You think you can run from me?” he bellowed, his words echoing to the rafters, chilling her soul. “You really think you can get away?” His laughter was obscene.
Her throat closed in fear.
Hands trembling, she forced the key into its lock and twisted frantically. A glance over her shoulder confirmed he’d made the climb and was now smiling, walking slowly, unhurried, savoring these last few minutes when he could terrorize her for one final time.
Click!
The lock sprang!
She hurriedly shouldered open the door to the attic.
Let him come,
She was a clever woman and far from dead.
Yet,
Someway, somehow, with just an ounce of luck, she would save her children, if not herself. The air was thick and dank, smelling of dust. She slammed the door behind her, twisted the lock, then scrambled up the narrow, steep flight in all-consuming darkness.
She heard the unmistakable squeak of a bat and a flutter of disturbed wings, but she hardly noticed as she reached the attic floor.
Think, Angelique, think, Do not let him get the better of you! Her mind raced as quickly as her bare feet scurried across the cold floor. This was her chance to even the odds, to grab a weapon to protect herself. She didn’t have much time. Up the last, winding stairway she ran to the small, glass-encased cupola.
Rain drizzled down the windows of the tiny room, and her trembling fingers worked feverishly on the latch of the door. Please, please, please! The lock gave way with little effort, but the tiny door to the roof was stuck, its sodden wooden frame swollen shut.
Gritting her teeth, she tried again, throwing her shoulder into the door and feeling the damp wood hold tight before finally giving way. He was closer now. She heard him at the base of the attic stairs, rattling the doorknob.
No!
Desperately she flung her weight into the door, and it finally gave way, opening in a whoosh as it was caught by the wind shrieking down the chasm of the river far below.
Frigid rain spit from the sky, clouds obscuring the moon, but she didn’t pause to look, just quickly returned to the attic. If she could somehow lure him onto the roof, alone, and lock the door behind him, he’d be trapped.
Except he has an axe, He can chop his way back inside,
Damn!
Craaaack! Bam!
The door from the third floor gave way, splintering and crashing loudly against the wall.
She bit back a scream.
Noiselessly, she stepped farther into the darkness of the north wing. All the while, she searched the cold space by feel.
The attic stairs groaned under his weight. He was taking his time, either because he was afraid of an attack or because he was savoring every moment of the hunt.
Frantically, she made the sign of the cross over her bosom and forced her mouth shut so that he couldn’t hear her panicked breaths. Calm down, You can outsmart him, He’s an oaf, Don’t fall apart!
Inching backward, her fingers scraping along the wooden walls and bare rafters, splinters catching beneath her fingernails, she bit hard on her lower lip, refusing to make a sound, even when the sharp points of the nails holding the roof shingles in place scratched her head.
Don’t let him hear you,
Crouching, she eased backward, through an icy pool of water where the roof had leaked, her arms outstretched, searching for something, anything to protect herself, but she touched nothing that would help her.
She smelled him now, the odor of alcohol reaching her nostrils. She knelt, frantically feeling the floor and the crates stacked upon it. She touched an old picture frame, a trunk, a forgotten basket of needlepoint and moldy crates, but nothing hard or sharp, not even a damned rock. Scouring the area blindly, she prayed for some kind of weapon or shield.
There had to be something! Even a small shard of glass. A nail. A hanger. An old iron. Anything!
Thud!
The rafters shook.
“Son of a bitch!” he snarled as if he’d hit his head on a low-hanging rafter. She became a statue, not moving a muscle.
Swallowing hard, still huddled close to the floor, she worked her fingers around her skirts in a wide circle. Her fingertips brushed against cold metal, a rod of some kind. Her heart soared. Maybe a forgotten poker from the fireplace or . . . no! A candlestick! She almost cried out in surprise and relief.
“Where are you?” he said, his voice soft. Cajoling. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Her fingers clamped around the cool metal. It wasn’t much in the way of weaponry compared to an axe, but it was hard and heavy. She grabbed it near the tapered end, so that she could swing it and strike with the base, hard enough to crack his skull. She heard him moving toward the stairs to the cupola. Please, she thought, sure she could lock him on the roof, then run downstairs and gather the children, leaving him up there as they took the wagon into town.
She sensed, rather than saw him start up the final short flight of stairs through the cupola to the widow’s walk outside. She hardly dared breathe.
But he hesitated. As if he sensed a trap.
No! No! No! Keep going, Just a little farther. Please, Only three or four more steps onto the roof outside!
But he turned back. She heard the door to the widow’s walk slam shut, then felt the vibration of the attic floorboards as he stepped into the garret once more.
“Angelique?” he called softly over the wind whistling around the gables. “I know you’re in here. Come on out. You cannot get away.”
Sick at heart, she knew there was only one sure way to get him onto the roof. She’d have to use herself as bait.
Ears straining, she heard his footsteps thankfully receding as he walked to the far end of the attic away from her. Dragging the candlestick from its resting place, she sprang, running up the steep, winding steps to the domed cupola again.
This time the door opened easily.
She tumbled outside, tripping on her own skirts and nearly dropping her weapon as she skidded across the slick, flat roof. A screaming wind tore at her hair. Rain lashed at her face, but here at least she had a chance.
Far below, the Columbia River churned, flowing swiftly westward, a wild dark ribbon cutting through the canyon walls on which this grand house had been constructed. Once it had been her pride and joy. Now it was a prison.
In her naïveté she’d named the imposing structure Blue Peacock Manor for the birds she so loved, but now the house was nothing but a death trap, perched high over the churning water, her lovely birds already slaughtered at his hand. Just this afternoon, she’d come across the body of the one she’d named Royal, his shimmering, sapphire-like feathers dripping in blood, an arrow’s shaft ju
tting from his chest.
But she couldn’t think of the senseless sacrifice now . . . not when the children’s lives were at stake.
Drawing herself to her full height, she waited near the doorway. Her plan was to lock him up here and run away with the children.
Not good enough, You need to set this house ablaze, Trap him on this roof and burn the house beneath him, What good is this repulsive prison to you anyway?
“Father forgive me,” she whispered, raising the candlestick high just as the top of his head appeared in the small opening. She didn’t think twice. Throwing all of her weight into the blow, she struck.
Craaaack!
The bones in his cheek shattered, and he stumbled slightly, howling like a wounded wolf.
She swung again, but he moved, and the candlestick glanced off his shoulder.
He grabbed it, stripping it out of her wet hands as he shoved his way onto the roof.
She backed up as he swung. In one hand the axe, in the other the damned candlestick. “Whore,” he said over the wind as he advanced with the infinite patience of a killer who knew he’d cornered his prey. “You think to hurt me? Kill me?” he said, his eyes narrowing as if he couldn’t believe she had had the gall to turn on him.
“Maman?” a frightened voice called over the hiss of another slash of lightning, and Angelique glanced to the doorway, where ten-year-old Helen was shivering, hiding under the portico. “What is . . . ?” Helen, a waif, turned her round eyes to the monster. “No, wait!”
“Go back down, Helen!” Angelique ordered.
“But, Maman—”
“Just go!” Angelique met the girl’s frightened stare for a split second. “And lock the door.”
“No!” He turned toward Helen. “Don’t lock anything!”
Angelique was desperate. “Run! Now!” She leaped forward, throwing her body against his and reaching upward, scratching his face and scrabbling for the axe handle.
“Whore!” he bellowed.
Somewhere behind them Helen screamed.
The axe glinted.
But his boots slipped on the tiles.
“Run!” Angelique shrieked to Helen as he started to topple. With all her strength, she kicked up swiftly, driving her knee hard into his groin and causing him to yowl and sway, the axe flying into the darkness.