“How did it get out?”
“I suspect Elias’s mother had something to do with it,” Alexandra said. “When I visited with her recently, I told her I was writing a memoir about my life.”
“Why did you tell her about me? She didn’t need to know.”
“I’ve asked myself the same question. I’m not sure why I did it. You’re grown now. The woman looked like whatever life was left in her was trickling out. Surprise was on me though. She knew about you already. She’d always known. Before Elias died, he told her.”
“How did he know?”
“I told him.”
“Wait ... what about Dad? Does he know?”
Alexandra nodded. “Your father found out when you were a little girl. I hadn’t planned on telling him either. He happened upon some information, and there was no denying it. I may not love him, and he may not love me, but he loves you, and I love you. Nothing else matters.”
“Why didn’t he tell me? Dad never keeps things from me.”
“He had his reasons.”
Chelsea snatched her phone off the sofa cushion. “This isn’t fair! I’m calling him. I’m calling him right now!”
“Put the phone down, Chelsea.”
“No!”
“Put the phone down. Your father doesn’t know I’ve talked to you about this yet.”
“Why, Mother? Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Because I threatened him. I told him if he did I would divorce him and fight for full custody. He would have never seen you again.”
Thinking the effort she’d gone to all these years to shield Chelsea from the truth would mean something to her daughter, she expected understanding and appreciation. Instead, it backfired.
“What’s wrong with you?!”
“What’s wrong with me?” Alexandra asked. “Nothing is wrong with me. I protected you by keeping the secret. I kept it from you because I love you. You’re the one who’s being irrational now. This isn’t just about you. This doesn’t just affect you. It affects me too. You think I wanted this to happen? You think I wanted it to come out? I’m not proud of it. If I had my way, it would stay buried forever.”
“Stop saying you protected me! You only protected yourself. It’s what you always do. You’ve ruined my life.” Chelsea snatched a figurine of a bird off the coffee table and threw it across the room. It smashed to pieces against the wall.
“That’s quite enough,” Alexandra said. “Do you understand?”
“I hate you for this!”
Alexandra raised a hand, striking Chelsea across the face. The slap was firm and hard, echoing throughout the room. “I could have had an abortion and been done with it. Believe me, I thought about it multiple times.”
Chelsea stood. Running from the room, she said, “You should have had an abortion. I wish you did!”
CHAPTER 53
Chelsea Wells
Five Minutes Later
Enraged, Chelsea ran upstairs, locking herself inside her room. She stared into the mirror, horrified to see the imprint of her mother’s hand on her face. Days like today she hated her. Really, really hated her.
It was around age nine when Chelsea had first felt abandoned by her mother. While other girls whined about their own mothers being “too involved” in their lives, Chelsea was jealous of the relationships they all had. Her friends didn’t know how lucky they were. Her mother may have been around a majority of the time, but she wasn’t really there, not in the way a mother was supposed to be.
Their relationship was routine. Her mother asked if she had a good day at school. Chelsea said yes. Her mother smiled, and then returned to her office where she buried herself in whatever book project she was working on. Over time, Chelsea felt alone. If it hadn’t been for the love of her father, a man who wasn’t even her own flesh and blood, she wouldn’t have had any parental support in her life.
The neglect from her mother over the years had left a gaping hole inside her, a void that wasn’t filled until the day she met Bradley Claiborne. If his parents ever found out who her real father was, she knew they wouldn’t approve of the marriage, and their approval had always been important to Bradley. She leaned back on the bed, weighing all possible outcomes.
They would marry just like they planned, and her mother’s secret would stay buried.
She’d finally found real happiness, and nothing was getting in the way.
CHAPTER 54
Present Day
The shot rang out with a loud crack, the bullet whizzing by me in surreal slow motion. It was a crap shot fired with a pistol loosely gripped inside a shaky hand, and yet, it still connected with Finch’s chest. Undeterred and unwilling to allow something so small to take him down, Finch shoved me behind him and lunged forward, swiping at the gun.
The gun cracked again.
This time, Finch went down.
I screamed.
Using the gun like it was an extension of his hand, Porter shifted his body, aimed at me. “Don’t even think about moving.”
Red liquid soiled Finch’s shirt. I dropped to his side, my emotions clouding the rational thought I needed in this moment.
“I said don’t move!” Porter barked. “On your feet. Get up. Now!”
I was unarmed and outmatched, but not outwitted.
“Fuck off!” I replied.
“I’ll shoot you. I’ll shoot you right now.”
“No you won’t. When I walked through your door, I told you I had something you needed. Something you’ll never get if I’m not alive to give it to you.”
“Where is it?!”
I turned toward Finch. “Don’t move. Please. Stay where you are. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He coughed through his words. “No ... I’m sorry ... I should have done a better job of protecting you.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “Hang on for me, okay? Just hang on.”
“Save your breath, kid,” Porter said. “Stand up, Joss. Move away from him.”
I stood. I didn’t step away. “I thought you said you were moving out of Alexandra’s house? And yet, here you are, in your pajamas no less. Did you pop back for one last sleepover, or were those boxes I saw the other day all a part of the lie?”
No reply.
“Where’s Chelsea?” I asked.
“She’s eloping with Bradley, then taking an extended honeymoon. She won’t return for a month, at least. When did you know it was me?”
“I saw you earlier tonight at the hotel, standing behind the crowd, watching the fight between Paula and Sandra. Your fake beard and hat was a mediocre disguise; I could tell it was you.”
“You think you’re such a clever girl, don’t you? I knew the moment you recognized me tonight. Your eyes doubled in size. You looked nervous. I knew you’d come for me tonight. And, as you can see, I was fully prepared for you to come through that door.”
“I’m a lot more clever than you think.”
“You? You spent the entire week running in circles when the person you were searching for was in front of you all along.”
“Did I really? Are you certain what you’re saying is true?”
There it was. My confidence. His fear.
I’d rattled him.
“I see you switched from poison to a classic, old-fashioned gun,” I said.
He shrugged. “You two gave me no choice. I offered you a drink the other day. You accepted. Your sidekick refused. I realized if I needed to kill you both, poison wasn’t the answer. I had to get through him to get to you. A pistol provided the best solution.”
“Would you like to know something? For days I’ve been thinking about something Roland Sinclair said to me after Alexandra’s funeral.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“He didn’t believe you were capable of killing Alexandra,” I said.
“He was jealous. I had her—really had her. The ball and the chain. He didn’t.”
“Jealousy had nothing to do with his reason
ing. Besides, if we’re talking about who had her heart, I’d say Roland wins that category. He said you weren’t smart enough to pull off her murder. At the time, I disagreed. Anyone is capable of murder, even the simpleminded ones like you. I am curious about one thing though. Why poison?”
“It was the easiest method.”
To administer, yes. To acquire, no.
“Where did you get it?” I asked.
“I paid someone to get it for me. Money will get you anything these days.”
“How did you get it into Alexandra’s coffee?”
“It doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s dead.”
“How much did you give her?”
He laughed. “Enough to kill her.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He pulled the hammer back, aimed, prepared to fire. “What do you have that I need?”
“Alexandra’s flash drive, the one with her memoir on it.”
He dug into his pants pocket, pulled out a small piece of plastic. “You mean this flash drive?”
I reached into my own pocket, pulling an identical storage device. “No, I mean this flash drive.”
He looked at mine, then looked at his. They were both the same.
“No. No. You’re lying.”
“If you truly believe you have the right one, try it out.”
“Don’t move.” Keeping the gun on me, he sidestepped to the desk, stuck the flash drive into the portal in the desktop computer. Waited. “It’s blank. There’s nothing here. Where is it?”
I shook my hand back and forth. “I told you. It’s right here.”
“Give it to me!”
“The other night when someone broke into your house, you assumed it was Barbara Berry,” I said. “It wasn’t. It was me. I’m guessing that’s why you killed her—to get what you thought she had. Only she didn’t have it. I did.”
Palms sweaty, he gazed once more at the plastic stick in his hand. “I don’t understand. This came from Barbara’s purse.”
“When did you take it from Barbara’s purse? Earlier today when you killed her?”
He stuck out his hand. “Toss it to me right now. You’re dead anyway.”
I tossed it over. Fearing he would shoot now that he had what he wanted, I said, “You might want to check it first.”
He yanked out the other stick, stuck in the one I’d thrown to him. “There’s nothing on this one either!”
Shaken, he struggled to make sense of what was happening, “It must have been the wrong ... no, it couldn’t be. She said it was the same one. She was sure it was the same one. If these are both the wrong one, then ...”
Realization.
“Barbara asked to see me today,” I said. “She was dead by the time I arrived. One of the employees said she saw a woman leaving Barbara’s room. Not you, Porter. Not a man. A woman. A young woman. Chelsea. And you just confirmed it when you said she told you the book was all there on the flash drive.”
He swallowed hard with the realization that the night wasn’t going as planned. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll find no trace of Chelsea in Barbara’s room. It’s like I said before, Chelsea’s gone now. It’s too late.”
“Tonight, when I saw you in the crowd, you saw what you wanted to see, just like you’re seeing what I want you to see now.”
“Enough! You’re dead. You’re both dead.”
A dark shadow appeared behind Porter. A shadow he didn’t see, but I did. Finally, he was here.
“What a shame,” Detective Murphy said. “All this for a couple of wiped flash drives.”
Porter whipped around, his eyes zeroing in on the team of officers who had entered the room, guns pointed at him.
Murphy looked at Finch, then at Blunt. “Call 9-1-1.”
Blunt nodded.
Murphy placed a hand on Finch’s shoulder. “Where’d he hit you?”
“Chest. I feel okay. I’ve been through worse.”
“I bet you have, son,” Murphy said. “I bet you have.”
Murphy turned to me. “Great work.”
“I didn’t get him to say everything you wanted him to say,” I said.
“Close enough.”
Porter looked at Murphy. “How did you know?”
“We’ve been tailing you and Chelsea ever since the day of Alexandra’s funeral.”
“So?”
“So, you and your daughter, you set this all up to make it look like Barbara did it,” Murphy said. “And when Chelsea ditched the officer I assigned to her this morning, it was obvious we had our killer. And hey, if it makes you feel any better, there is one thing I believe.”
“What’s that?”
“The day Chelsea called and said she was being followed, I believe she was telling the truth, only you were the one doing the following, Porter.”
Porter laughed. “How did you manage that theory?”
“When we processed the stolen car, the only evidence we found was a few hair fibers,” Murphy said. “Turned out, they were synthetic, just like the synthetic hair Joss found on the cushion of your couch when she dropped by yesterday.”
Porter was escorted out the front door, where I was waiting. I smiled as he passed me. “By the way, if you’re wondering about Chelsea, don’t worry. She’s safe. She didn’t make it too far before the cops grabbed her.”
CHAPTER 55
The next day, I sat across from Chelsea in a room reserved for police questioning. The more I stared, the more I noticed she’d never reminded me more of the photos I’d seen of her real father than she did today. She looked haggard and frail. Sleep deprived. Detectives had been through one round of questioning already, trying to get her to confess. So far she’d refused to speak. At present, she wasn’t speaking to me either.
“I’m flying home today,” I said. “I wanted to see you before I left.”
She responded with a shrug.
“Mind if I tell you a story?” I asked. “It’s more of a theory, but I’d like to run it by you anyway.”
Another shrug.
Tough crowd.
“I used to admire this writer. She was well known, respected. She was murdered one evening after a book signing, poisoned by her own daughter after the daughter discovered a secret her mother had been keeping from her all her life. At first it was hard for me to see the daughter as a suspect. I’d seen the agony in the daughter’s eyes after learning what happened to her mother, and I didn’t want to believe it was possible for her to do what she did. As the facts came out, I learned the writer was penning a memoir she hadn’t told many people about. When news of the memoir started getting around, those affected by what the writer might say about them in her book began to worry.”
I paused then said, “How am I doing so far?”
“How would I know? It’s your story. Not mine.”
“Like all good stories, this one has a twist. See, even after the police figured out the daughter was responsible for her mother’s death, the daughter still didn’t confess to killing her mother. The man who raised her said he did it, even though I knew he didn’t. But he loved her enough to do it anyway. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
She remained silent.
I layered in a dose of reality, made it personal.
“Here’s what I believe happened, Chelsea. You poisoned your mother with pesticide you stole from one of your fiancé’s parents’ ranches. The day he came with you to my hotel, I noticed he had a bit of hay stuck beneath his right shoe. I asked Detective Murphy to check out where Bradley’s parents’ wealth came from. Because of the Claibornes’s political affiliations, he didn’t need to check them out. They’re well known here. He told me the Claibornes own several ranches in this state. Turns out fluoroacetate is used to control the predators on their farms, so naturally, it would be easy for you to get your hands on it, and you did.”
She lowered her head. I kept going.
“Once your mother was dead, you must have told Porter what you did. Not at first
, I don’t think. I’m guessing you did it after I broke into your house looking for the flash drive. It scared you, and even though you were angry with him just like you were at your mother, you confessed, and he tried to help you cover it up the only way he knew how—by leading police to believe someone else did it, so the focus wouldn’t be on either one of you. He also wanted to contain the fact you were Elias’s daughter, and that’s why he wanted the flash drive. He didn’t know whether Alexandra wrote about you in her book or not, but he wasn’t taking any chances. And if he could get his hands on it before Barbara did, he could contain it. While I admire his love for you, his plan wasn’t well thought out.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she said. “You can’t prove anything.”
“But you did, Chelsea. You were angry. Not just because she lied, and not just because she wasn’t the kind of mother she should have been, but because if your secret got out, not only would the world see you differently, the people around you would see you differently. Bradley. Bradley’s parents.”
I reached across the table, grabbed her hand. “My story might not be one-hundred-percent accurate, but I’ll bet it’s close. Whatever happens now, I want you to know one thing. Even after what you’ve done, you’re not your mother, and you’re not Elias Pratt. One of the best ways you can prove that to yourself and to everyone else is to tell the truth.”
I slid the chair back, stood, and walked to the door.
“Hey.”
I turned back. “Yeah?”
“Interesting story. Too bad it’s not true.”
I shrugged. “What do I know? I’m just a writer.”
CHAPTER 56
One Week Later
I fidgeted with my skirt, fighting my inner urge to grab it, pull it down a couple more inches or find a pair of scissors and cut it off. I despised skirts almost as much as I despised dresses and all manner of dressy things. What fun was an outfit if it didn’t offer some breathing room, or the kind of fabric that could be washed in a regular old washing machine when it got dirty?
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