All That Lies Broken (Ashmore's Folly Book 2)

by Forrest, Lindsey

  “So say I. One thing.” Richard fixed a hard look on him. “Three ladies are named in this. This doesn’t concern them. I do not want them dragged into this little drama.”

  In that second, Laura reached her limit. She held out her hand to Richard for the report.

  The table waited in silence while her eyes scanned down the pages. Most of the financial information scarcely registered, but two figures leapt out at her: Julia Tremaine Ashmore Trust (est.): $20 million. Ashmore Park yearly expenses (est.): $1 million.

  Halfway down the second page, Jennifer Melton. Two names she didn’t recognize.

  The third page held a list of clients, mostly names she had found online during the spring. She finished the report and sat for a moment, thinking.

  “Well, Laura?” Mark prompted. “See? You’re a beautiful woman, but, believe me, that’s not the attraction here. He needs that money.” He looked over at Richard. “Except you can’t marry her, can you, Ashmore? You’ve already got a wife. At least I’m willing to marry her.”

  “Why? Why do you want to marry a whore?” Her throat hurt from screaming. “At least, your brother wanted to marry me. He wasn’t just willing to make the supreme sacrifice.”

  “Yeah, my brother,” said Mark bitterly. “What a piece of work he was. He rutted like a bull, and you’ll screw any good-looking bozo with a smooth line. What a pair. You were made for each other.”

  Richard held up a warning hand.

  “I guess we were.” She stared across at Mark. “No, he wasn’t always faithful, that’s no secret. But not once, ever, did he talk to me the way you have. Not once did he ever call me names or put rough hands on me.” She looked down, exhausted. “Get out.”

  “Laura, please—”

  Slowly, deliberately, she tore the report into pieces.

  “Goodbye, Mark.”

  She crossed the entrance hall into the library. She closed the doors between the library and the music room and sank down on the piano bench.

  After a minute, she roused herself. She had to play. She had to focus all her raging energy on the music. She flexed her fingers and then launched into Ride of the Valkyries, unconcerned that she shook the rafters.

  Apocalypse, indeed.

  Her fingers flew across the keys, stabbing, attacking, in her need to drive away the sound of Mark’s voice. Impossible to believe that the man who had flung such coarseness at her was the same man who had comforted her at the memorial service, or the man who, in years past, had always spoken kindly to her, asked her how her music was going, complimented her on her lasagna.

  He’d always been something of a prig. She’d listened to him moralize at a family dinner while his father rolled his eyes and his siblings told him to get a life. Emma’s second husband had once referred to Mark as “the eunuch.” Cam had speculated, with the contemptuous pity of a man secure in his sexuality, that Mark was still a virgin. Even Kate, his mother, had confided that she wasn’t sure Mark liked women.

  Well, no one could doubt it now. She’d recognized the sexual jealousy raging behind his eyes, the furious impotence against the man who’d effortlessly dominated the room and, he thought, her. Feverish imaginings – her skin crawled. Let Cat Courtney star in men’s fantasies; Laura St. Bride wanted one man, and one man only, to dream about her.

  It was her fault. She’d brought this on herself. She’d stupidly told him about last weekend, fueling a rage that must have lived behind the kindness for years.

  She played for a full five minutes before she heard the doors open behind her. She managed not to flinch when Lucy touched her shoulder. “Laurie.”

  She kept on playing.

  “Laurie, I need to talk to you. Right now.”

  She was sick to death of people talking to her. She’d had a lifetime of being told what to do, what to think, what to say, culminating now in being told who and what she was. No one was ever going to dictate to her again, as long as she lived.

  “Listen to me. You need to listen.”

  Lucy’s eyes were gentle and concerned. And this was her sister, after all, who had helped her cut the ground out from under Mark. Her hands dropped into her lap.

  “Good.” Lucy nodded. “I know you need time to digest all this, but this is important. You need to neutralize that man.”

  Laura said wearily, “Hasn’t he left?”

  “He’s gone. Richard threw him out.” Lucy put a hand on her arm. “He’s reeling right now, but in an hour he’s going to get back on that plane, and he’s going to get over the shock of you going at him, and he’s going to feel humiliated and defeated. Then he’s going to want to turn that into action. That sort always does. So you need to take action of your own.”

  Her own reaction was setting in. She was starting to feel ill from the rage that had boiled through her. “What do I do?”

  “Here.” Lucy thrust a paper in front of her. “I made some notes. Look, I’m not your attorney, understand? I’m just your sister who knows about the law. I’m not giving you legal advice.”

  “The law?” Alarm washed through her. “You think he’ll try something?”

  “Count on it. You need to tell Jay about this right away. He’s got to know about this. But, Laurie – under no circumstances must Meg go back to Texas.”

  The heat of fury was dying under the chill of fear. Lucy was dead serious. She asked, “Why?”

  “Jurisdiction.” Lucy settled back. “Family law – custody – is a state matter. You can’t let her go back where Mark can get a friendly judge to grant a TRO preventing you taking her out of state. A judge can do that, you know, order you not to remove her, and you’d be breaking the law if you do.”

  Her blood did freeze now.

  “I know you were talking about buying a house, but you have to do more than talk. You have to establish residency here, fast.”

  Her lips felt numb. “To shift jurisdiction?”

  “Right.” Lucy looked approvingly at her. “You change Meg’s residency by changing your own. That immediately shifts the fight up here. I can help you on Monday – or Jay’s office can. They’d probably prefer to do it. If Mark goes after you, you need the fight on friendly ground, where the judges know Tom and me. We’re an established presence in the community. And Jay knows everyone who matters, and they know him. You need all the advantages you can get.”

  “Oh, my God.” How could this be happening? She raked her fingers through her hair in distraction. “Can he make a judge believe I’m an unfit mother?”

  Unfit mother. The words echoed bizarrely around the room.

  Lucy dismissed that with a shake of the head. “In this day and age, having sex with a man doesn’t make you an unfit mother. You’re single, and he practically is. But you don’t want to have to use that as a defense. You want to make it hard for Mark to even make a case.” They heard the front door opening and closing, Richard moving in the entrance hall and then coming towards them through the library. She turned around. “Is he gone?”

  “Gone. Thanks for staying, Luce.” He came around the piano.

  “Any time,” said Lucy. “Laurie and I were discussing what she needs to do next.”

  Laura buried her face in her hands. “I think,” her voice muffled, “Meg and I should leave.”

  She expected Lucy to agree, but her sister surprised her. “No. This is the best place for you. It’s isolated, secure – if he sends another PI out, it will be much tougher to spy on you.”

  Richard said quietly, “Stay. You’re safe here.”

  “But,” Lucy looked at him, “that staircase into the master suite?” She paused to make her point. “Don’t use it.”

  The blood rose in Laura’s face. Richard said only, “Understood.”

  “Good. One more thing.” Lucy took a breath. “I know how unpopular this will be, but – if Julie can reschedule her camp, she needs to stay here until Laura and Meg go back to London.”

  Oh, no. If Julie had forgotten her hostility in the need for
solidarity against Mark, this would negate all us-against-the-enemy progress. Laura said, “I don’t want Julie to miss out on camp. She’s really looking forward to it.”

  “Tough,” said Lucy. “She can go to a later session. She’s your best armor right now. Everyone knows Richard Ashmore is not going to carry on with a woman in front of his daughter.”

  Silence in the face of that logic. Richard said, “I’ll give her the bad news.”

  Laura whispered, “She’ll be so upset.”

  He said only, “She’ll live.”

  What a day from hell this had turned into – her words from the past, Mark trashing them both, that confession still to come. She still had to find the strength to talk to him.

  Laura felt the first flickering of pain behind her eyes.

  “Laura?” He had learned to read her. “Are you in pain?”

  She nodded. Lucy said, “I’ll get some aspirin for you. You two can use a few moments alone.” She paused. “Did he leave that? What is it, another report?”

  “What?” Laura glanced up and saw the manila envelope tucked under Richard’s arm, and the rage flooded back. “Oh, now what? Did he take telephoto pictures of us at Monticello?”

  She wouldn’t put it beyond Mark. He’d used that GPS signal to find her here. She had to assume that he had tracked her all along.

  Richard shrugged and opened the envelope. A single page this time, not a photo. She watched him as he read, wondering what dirt Mark had dug up this time. She couldn’t imagine what else he could have found on a man whose modus operandi was discretion. But what was Richard thinking, seeing his life laid open on paper like this? Was he wishing for the peace and quiet of his life before she had come back? Was he remembering when a weekend away with a woman didn’t turn into a cause célèbre? Was he thinking that she was more trouble than she was worth?

  But, no, he’d seen something else. His fingers tightened; his eyes changed.

  Slowly, she reached for the report. Slowly, he put the paper on her upturned palm.

  Not a private eye’s report this time. A faxed document from the medical examiner in New York City. Phrases swam before her eyes: north quadrant – fourth finger of left hand – extensive charring – blunt force trauma – Fresh Kills – DNA.

  The room swayed around her.

  Over the high pitch in her ears, she heard Lucy say, “Laurie? What is it? Richard?”

  His quiet reply. “They’ve found him.”

  Chapter 19: Breaking the Rules

  THAT NIGHT, TOM MAITLAND LISTENED TO HIS WIFE as she recounted the scene at Ashmore Park, her voice rising in indignation, her hands flying to make her point. While he was inclined to take phrases like dangerous enemy and insane with jealousy with a grain of salt, he knew his duty. He made comforting husbandly noises and decided, privately, to err on the side of caution. When the courts opened on Monday morning, along with that TRO, he’d move to seal the papers of the Ashmores’ divorce.

  Just in case.

  ~•~

  That night, Mark St. Bride broke the rules.

  No sooner did he board the Gulfstream than he headed towards the galley and flung open the compartments, looking for alcohol. Not for St. Bride Data execs the typical airline-size bottles; the company maintained the equivalent of a full bar aboard. He didn’t care what he drank; he wanted only to dull the memory of the last few hours.

  He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and headed to his seat.

  For every thought of his brother’s widow, blazing back at him, tearing up that report, making it clear with every word and look and gesture that she preferred a moral degenerate to a man who had loved her respectfully for many years, he took a huge gulp, the whiskey burning its way down his throat.

  For every thought of that bastard Ashmore, towering over him, flaunting his height and his good looks and his prowess in bed, dismissing him with the contempt due a bug, he took two.

  By the time the plane landed in Addison, Texas, he had finished off a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of tequila and had thrown up a great deal of both. Still, he was drunk enough that the corporate pilot radioed ahead to have a town car meet the plane. Between the pilot and the steward, they managed to pour Mark into the Lincoln, with instructions to the driver to deliver him to his sister in Plano. Mark was in no position to argue – he had passed out after falling face down into the leather seat.

  The pilot then headed home, thinking that Cameron St. Bride would never have behaved so disgracefully in front of his employees.

  No one answered the door at the Plano mansion. Thus, the driver found himself in the unenviable position of having to fish through his unconscious passenger’s pockets for his keys. He managed to get his charge into the house and up the stairs to the master bedroom where he deposited Mark unceremoniously on the bed. On his way out, he looked around the mansion and wondered what on earth a man who owned all this had to drink about.

  A woman, most likely. Wasn’t it always a woman?

  ~•~

  That night, as he ran to burn off the stress of the day, Richard saw Laura walking ahead of him towards Ashmore Magna.

  She wasn’t taking in the sight of the setting sun, or lifting her face to the evening breezes blowing away the humidity of the day. She seemed oblivious to the beauty around her, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around herself.

  She was far ahead of him, and she didn’t indicate that she heard the slap of his feet against the road. He did not disturb her, but he observed, as he came around the lake, that she had reached the mansion and was walking around the side towards the gardens in the back.

  She had a lot to think about. She needed to be alone.

  Later, after an hour working on the library design at his desk, he stopped and listened. The house was unusually silent. Julie had spent the evening banging around in her room, furious about the change to her camp plans; he made a mental note to sit down with her to discuss her behavior. The sulkiness, the acting out – none of this was normal, and he intended to nip it in the bud before it got any worse. He wanted his daughter back, the one who thought of others besides herself, who rose to the occasion as she had today.

  Laura had not returned from her evening walk. And, he realized, he hadn’t heard a peep out of Meg all evening. He looked up at the second story and saw her bedroom door half open, muted light spilling out onto the landing.

  He mounted the stairs to check on her.

  She sat hunched over at the writing desk in the bedroom, the ubiquitous laptop open before her, her head cradled on her arms, tear tracks drying on her face. She had cried herself to sleep.

  He stood for a moment, watching her, willing her to sense his presence and wake up. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and uttered a little sniff, but she did not awaken.

  She had been asleep long enough for her screen saver to kick in. He came around behind her and watched as a slide show of the St. Bride family flashed across the screen. St. Bride at a computer, arms extended around a baby sleeping against his chest. St. Bride and Meg opening presents in front of a magnificent Christmas tree, waving in front of the Gulfstream, looking up from a game of chess. Meg en pointe, in filmy tulle, performing an arabesque while balancing her hand on her father’s arm, his hand over hers. Happy, relaxed, grinning at someone off camera. Laura, he thought. She had taken most of these pictures.

  But someone else had occasionally stepped in as photographer. A shot of Laura against a shore, dressed in a sarong, toddler Meg perched on her hip. A formal portrait of the three St. Brides, Laura and Meg in festive holiday finery; a touching casual shot against a mountain backdrop, Meg leaning against her mother, Laura leaning against her husband. A triumphant, if askew, photo of St. Bride with his arm around his college graduate wife. Laura and St. Bride relaxing in a den, standing in a kitchen talking, looking up in startled sleepiness from a king-size bed in early morning light.

  A couple. A family. Meg’s family.

  She gave another shuddering sigh.


  Carefully, he scooped her up. For all her athleticism, Meg weighed very little. He carried her over to the nearest twin bed, stooped to throw back the comforter with one hand, and laid her down on top of the sheets. She stirred briefly, never opening her eyes, and then turned her face into the cool cotton pillow.

  He switched off the light.

  He went back to her computer to turn it off, but as his fingers hit keys, the screen saver vanished, and he saw her most recent research on the Internet. The article on the screen – he scanned it quickly – was a technical analysis of the collapse of the World Trade Center. She had made notes on-screen: Pancake??? Secondary fire??? Richard – architect?

  My poor little girl, you’ve lost him again.

  But you haven’t lost me. And if all you need from me is architectural analysis, you’ve got it.

  He noted the URL of the article, and closed the door quietly.

  But, before any research of his own – and a call to Scott McIntire, who had gathered reams of material on the WTC – he needed to know that Laura was all right.

  It took him several minutes to walk up the road to Ashmore Magna, time that let his eyes acquire a natural night vision. He took the shorter route to the gardens, unlocking the front door and cutting through the house to the back portico. At the top of the marble steps he paused, scanning across the sections of flowers and shrubbery, searching for a lone figure wandering through the pathways.

  Nothing. She must have returned back to the Folly, and he hadn’t heard her. He turned to go, when a small silvery sound reached him through the dark.

  Running water.

  He threaded through the walkways to Peggy’s grotto.

  She had not heard him coming. She sat sideways on the stone bench in front of the Virgin, hugging her knees to her chest, her head buried against her arms. She had found the switch for the waterfall, and the falling water fell into the faint lonely whisper of the breeze.

  Not until he stepped closer did he hear the same shuddering breath he had heard from Meg.

  He did not want to disturb her, but he was not going to leave her alone. If this was the crash he had predicted to Lucy, he intended to catch her. If she needed time to recover from the shock, he would give her all the time and space she required. But she was not going to be alone.