by Nora Roberts
“The old bastard just couldn’t keep his zipper up, even into his sixties. My mother was young and stupid and she thought he’d ditch his ice bitch of a wife and marry her. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
To punctuate her feelings, she snatched up an agate paperweight from the occasional table and winged it over Miranda’s head. It boomed against the wall like a cannonball.
“She let herself be used. Let him get away without paying, never did one goddamn thing to make him pay, so we lived hand to mouth.” Her eyes glittered with fury as she shoved the table over.
Another Jones, Miranda thought frantically, another careless liaison and inconvenient pregnancy. She shifted to the balls of her feet, braced. But the gun swung back, its barrel aimed toward the center of her body. And Elise smiled beautifully.
“I watched you. I watched you for years. I planned for years. You were my goal as long as I can remember. I went into the same field. I was every bit as good as you. Better. I went to work for you. I married your useless brother, I made myself invaluable to your mother. I’m more of a daughter to her than you’ve ever been.”
“Oh yes,” Miranda said with perfect sincerity. “You are. Believe me, I mean nothing to her.”
“You’re the centerpiece. I’d have had your position sooner or later. You’d have been the one scrambling for scraps. Remember the David? That was quite a coup for you, wasn’t it?”
“So you stole it, had Harry copy it.”
“Harry was very enthusiastic. It’s so pitifully easy to manipulate men. They look at me and they think, She’s so delicate, so lovely. And all they want to do is fuck and protect.”
She laughed again, sliding her gaze down to Andrew. “I’ll say this for your brother. He had some good moves in bed. It was a nice side benefit, but breaking his heart was better. Watching him slide into the bottle because he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to turn me away. Poor, poor Andrew.”
Then her expression changed again, as capricious as the lightning outside and just as volatile. “I was going to reel him back eventually, after I’d finished everything. Finished you. What a beautiful irony that would be. I still will,” she added, with a smile blooming again. “That cheap little number he’s screwing now won’t even be a memory when I move back to Maine. That is, if I let him live.”
“There’s no need to hurt him. It’s not him, Elise. Let me call an ambulance. You can keep the gun on me. I won’t try to get away. Just let me call an ambulance for him.”
“Not used to begging, are you? But you do it well. You do everything so well, Miranda. I’ll think about it.” She cocked her head in warning as Miranda rose. “Careful. I wouldn’t kill you, not at first, but I’d cripple you.”
“What do you want?” Miranda demanded. “What the hell do you want?”
“I want you to listen!” She shouted it, waving the gun so that the barrel jumped from Miranda’s heart to her head and back again. “I want you to stand there and listen to what I say, to do what I tell you, to crawl when I’m finished. I want it all.”
“All right.” How much time? Miranda thought frantically. How much time was left before Elise snapped, before the gun went off? “I’m listening. The David was really only practice, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, you’re smart. Always so smart. It was backup. I knew I could put a chink in your reputation with it. But I’m patient. There was bound to be something bigger—with the way your star was rising, there was going to be something more important. Then there was The Dark Lady. I knew, as soon as Elizabeth told me she was sending for you, that there was an important piece coming in, I knew this would be the one. She trusted me. I made certain she trusted me. Kowtowing to her every whim for years.
“Standjo’s going to be mine too,” she added matter-of-factly. “I’ll be in the director’s chair by the time I’m forty.”
Miranda slid her gaze to the side, scanning for a weapon.
“You look at me! You look at me when I talk to you.”
“I’m looking at you, Elise. I’m listening. It was The Dark Lady.”
“Have you ever seen a more magnificent piece? Anything quite so powerful?”
“No.” The rain was pounding like battle drums against the window. “No, I haven’t. You wanted her. I can’t blame you. But you couldn’t do it alone. So you had Richard.”
“Richard was in love with me. I was very fond of Richard,” she said almost dreamily. “I might have married him, for a while at least. He was useful, he could have continued to be very useful. We ran the tests at night. I had the combination to Elizabeth’s safe. It was ridiculously easy. All I had to do was arrange for you to be delayed. I did specify that you weren’t to be seriously hurt. I wanted to keep you healthy until I could ruin you.”
“Richard made the copy.”
“As I said, he was very useful. I did some of the work myself. We wanted it to pass basic tests, even to fool some of the more involved ones. You were perfect, Miranda. You knew when you saw it, just as I did. It was unmistakable. You could feel it, couldn’t you? The power of that piece, the glory in it.”
“Yes, I could feel it.” She thought she heard Andrew stir, but couldn’t be sure. “You leaked the project to the press.”
“Elizabeth is so strict about such things. Rules and regulations, proper channels, integrity. She reacted exactly as expected—it didn’t hurt that I gave her subtle little nudges, all the while claiming that I was sure you didn’t mean it. You’d just gotten caught up. You were so enthusiastic. I was your champion, Miranda. I was brilliant.”
The phone rang while they stared at each other. And Elise smiled slowly. “We’ll just let the machine pick that up, shall we. We have so much more to talk about.”
• • •
Why the hell didn’t she answer? Ryan fought his way through the storm, tires skidding on wet pavement as he pushed for speed. She’d left the Institute to go home. She wasn’t picking up her cell phone, or the phone at the house. Steering one-handed, he punched in information and got the number for the hospital.
“Elise Warfield,” he demanded. “She’s a patient.”
“Dr. Warfield was released this evening.”
Ice gathered in his gut again. He punched the accelerator, sending the car into a violent fishtail. Going against a lifetime of habit, he called the police. “Get me Detective Cook.”
“I’m going to need the copies, Miranda. Where are they?”
“I don’t have them.”
“Now you know that’s a lie and you lie so poorly. I really need those copies.” This time Elise stepped forward. “We want this all tidy in the end, don’t we?”
“Why should I give them to you? You’re going to kill me either way.”
“Of course I am. It’s the only logical step, isn’t it? But . . .” She shifted the gun and stopped Miranda’s heart. “I wouldn’t have to kill Andrew.”
“Don’t.” Quickly, Miranda held up her hands, a gesture of surrender. “Please.”
“Give me the copies, and I won’t.”
“They’re hidden, out in the lighthouse.” Away from Andrew, she thought.
“Oh, perfect. Can you guess where I was conceived?” Elise laughed until tears swam in her eyes. “My mother told me how he took her there—to paint her—then seduced her. How wonderful that it all ends where it really began.” Elise gestured with the gun. “After you, Niece Miranda.”
With one last glance at her brother, she turned. She knew the gun was aimed at her back. At her spine, she imagined. In a larger space she might have a chance. If she could distract Elise for just an instant, she could try. She was bigger, stronger, and she was sane.
“The police are closing in,” she told Elise, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “Cook’s determined to close this case. He won’t give up.”
“After tonight, the case will be closed. Keep moving. You always walk with such a purposeful stride, Miranda—let’s be consistent.”
“If you shoot me, how will you
explain it?”
“I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. But if it is, I’ll put the gun in Andrew’s hand, his finger on the trigger, and fire it again. It’ll be messy, but in the end the logical conclusion would be you argued over this business. You struck him, he shot you. It’s your gun, after all.”
“Yes, I know. It couldn’t have been easy for you to hit yourself, give yourself a concussion after you killed Richard.”
“A bump on the head, a few stitches. I got a lot of sympathy out of it, and it goes a long way to putting me in the clear. How could a fragile little thing like me work up the guts to fake an attack like that?”
She jabbed the gun into the base of Miranda’s spine. “But you and I know I can do a lot more.”
“Yes, we do. We’ll need a flashlight.”
“Get it. You still keep it in the second drawer on the left, I imagine. Such a creature of habit.”
Miranda removed the flashlight, flicking it on while testing its weight. It could be a weapon. All she needed was the opportunity.
She opened the back door and stepped out into the driving rain. She thought of running, of taking a leap into the gathering fog. But the gun was still pressed into her back. She’d be dead before she took the first step.
“Looks like we’re about to get very wet. Keep going.”
Hunched against wind and rain, she walked steadily toward the point. Distance was imperative now. She could hear the waves crashing wildly, stirred by the storm. Every slash of lightning threw the cliffs into sharp relief.
“Your plan won’t work out here, Elise.”
“Keep going, keep going.”
“It won’t work. If you use that gun on me now, they’ll know there was someone else here. They’ll know it couldn’t have been Andrew. And they’ll find you.”
“Shut up. What do you care? You’ll be dead anyway.”
“You’ll never have everything I have. That’s really what you want, isn’t it? The name, the pedigree, the position. It’ll never be yours.”
“You’re wrong. I’ll have it all. Instead of just being ruined, you’ll be dead.”
“Richard kept a book.” She used the circling stream of light from the tower on the point to guide her now, shifting her grip on the flashlight. “He wrote it all down. Everything he did.”
“Liar!”
“Everything, Elise. It’s all recorded. They’ll know I was right. Dead or alive, I’ll still have the glory. So everything you’ve done is for nothing.”
“Bitch. You lying bitch.”
“But I lie so poorly.” Teeth gritted, she swung around. The force of the blow struck Elise on an upflung arm and sent her sprawling. Miranda leaped on her, grabbing for the gun.
She’d been wrong, she realized. Sanity wasn’t an advantage. Elise fought like an animal, teeth snapping, nails gouging. She felt hot pain on her throat, a spurt and trickle of blood as they rolled over the rocky ground toward the edge of the cliffs.
Ryan shouted her name as he ran into the house, shouting it again and again as he pounded up the stairs. When he found Andrew terror squeezed his heart into a hot ball.
He heard the crash of thunder, then the echoing blast of gunshots. With fear drenching his skin, he shoved through the terrace doors.
There, silhouetted by the fire flash of lightning, he saw two figures tangled on the cliffs. Even as he offered up the first prayer, as he climbed over the rail to leap down, he saw them go off.
• • •
Her breath was sobbing, burning her throat. There was pain everywhere, the stench of blood and fear. She gripped the slippery butt of the gun, tried to twist it away. It bucked in her hand, once, twice, and the fury of sound punched pain in her ears.
Someone was screaming, screaming, screaming. She tried to dig her heels in for purchase and found her legs dangling in space. In the blasts and jolts of light, she could see Elise’s face over hers, contorted, mouth wide, teeth bared, eyes blind with madness. In them, for one horrified second, she saw herself.
From somewhere she heard her name, a desperate call. As if in answer, she twisted, shoved viciously. With Elise clawing at her, they tumbled over the edge.
She could hear a woman laughing, or perhaps it was weeping as she tore at rock and dirt with her fingers, felt herself dragged down.
A thousand prayers babbled in her mind, a thousand jumbled images. Rock bit at her skin as her body fought to cling to the wall of the cliff. Panting, wild with fear, she looked over her shoulder, saw Elise’s white face, dark eyes, saw her even now release her hold on rock to aim the gun—and then she fell.
Trembling, sobbing, Miranda pressed her cheek against the cold face of the cliff. Her muscles were screaming, her fingers burning. Below her, the sea she had always loved crashed impatiently and waited.
Her stomach shuddered, spewing a dizzying nausea into her throat. Fighting it back, she lifted her face to the pounding rain again, stared at the edge just a foot above her head, watched the shaft of light from the old tower slice through the dark as if to guide her.
She would not die this way. She would not lose this way. She kept her eyes focused on the goal and fought to find some small purchase with her feet. She clawed her way up one sweaty inch, then another before her feet slid free.
She was dangling by bloody fingertips when Ryan bellied over the edge.
“Jesus. Sweet Jesus, Miranda, hang on. Look at me. Miranda, look at me, take my hand.”
“I’m slipping.”
“Take my hand. You have to reach up, just a little.” He braced himself on the slick rocks and held both hands down to her.
“I can’t let go. My fingers are frozen. I can’t let go. I’ll fall.”
“No you won’t.” Sweat slid down his face along with the rain. “Take my hand, Miranda.” While his head screamed with panic, he grinned at her. “Come on, Dr. Jones. Trust me.”
Her breath came out on a wild, broken sob. She pried her numb fingers from the rock and reached for his. For a gut-wrenching instant, she felt herself hang, a fingertip away from death. Then his hand clamped firm over hers.
“Now the other one. I need both your hands.”
“Oh God, Ryan.” Blind now, she let go.
When her full weight locked his arms, he thought they might both go over. He inched back, cursing the rain that made their hands slip, that seemed to turn the rock into sheer glass. But she was helping him, boosting herself with her feet, her breath hissing with the effort as they worked.
She used her elbows on the ledge, pressing down, scraping them raw as he dragged her the last few inches over the top.
When she collapsed on him, he wrapped her in his arms, cradled her on his lap and rocked them both in the rain.
“I saw you go over. I thought you were dead.”
“I would have been.” Her face was buried against his chest where his heart beat in hard, jerky pulses. From somewhere in the distance came the high pitched whine of sirens. “If you hadn’t come. I couldn’t have held on much longer.”
“You’d have held on.” He tipped her head back, looked into her eyes. There was blood on her face. “You’d have held on,” he repeated. “Now you can hold on to me.” He picked her up to carry her into the house.
“Don’t let go for a while.”
“I won’t.”
epilogue
B ut he did. She should have known he would. The thieving son of a bitch.
Trust me, he said. And she had. He’d saved her life, only to carelessly leave it in shambles.
Oh, he’d waited, Miranda thought as she paced her bedroom. He’d stuck by her until her cuts and bruises were treated. He’d stayed by her side until they were sure Andrew was out of danger.
His arms had been around her, protective, supportive, when she related the nightmare she’d been through with Elise.
He’d even held her hand while they gave Cook Ryan’s slightly edited version of events. And she’d let him. She corroborated everything he said, am
ended pertinent details to keep him out of a prison cell.
He’d saved her life after all. The worm.
Then he’d vanished, without a word, without a warning. He’d packed up and left.
She knew just where he’d gone. He was the only other person who knew about the storage garage. He’d gone after The Dark Lady. She didn’t doubt he had it by now, that and the David. He’d probably already passed them along to one of his clients for a fat fee and was basking on some beach in the tropics, sipping rum punch and oiling some blonde’s butt.
If she ever saw him again. . .but of course, she wouldn’t. All the business they had—the legal end of business—was being handled by his gallery manager. The exhibit was a raging success. He’d benefited from that, and from his involvement in helping to solve several murders.
She had her reputation. The international press was raving about her. The brave and brilliant Dr. Jones.
Elise had wanted to destroy her, and in the end, had made her.
But she didn’t have the bronze, and she didn’t have Ryan.
She had to accept she would never have either.
Now she was alone in a big, empty house, with Andrew being fussed over by his fiancée as he recovered. He was happy and healing, and she was glad of it. And she was miserably envious.
She had her reputation all right, she thought. She had the Institute, and perhaps finally, the full knowledge of her parents’ respect if not their love.
She had no life whatsoever.
So, she would make a new one. She dragged an impatient hand through her hair. She would take the advice everyone was peppering her with and go on a long, well-deserved vacation. She’d buy a bikini, get a tan, and have a fling.
Oh yes, that’s going to happen, she thought with a scowl, and shoved open her terrace doors to step out into the warm spring night.
The flowers she’d planted in big stone urns filled the air with scent. The sweetness of stock, the spice of dianthus, the charm of verbena. Yes, she was learning about some small and lovely things, taking the time to learn. To enjoy.