by Nora Roberts
She slept for an hour in dreamless exhaustion. Then reality began to creep into her defenses, shooting her from sleep to full wakefulness. Biting off a cry of alarm, she sat up in bed. She’d been certain she would find herself back in the cell. Alone. Locked in.
Paul rose from the chair where he’d been sitting, watching her, and moved to the bed to take her hand. “I’m right here.”
It took her a moment to fight for her breath. “What time is it?”
“It’s early yet. I was just thinking I’d go down and make some dinner.” He caught her chin in his hand before she could shake her head. “You need to eat.”
Of course she did. She needed to eat and sleep and walk and breathe. To do all of those normal things to prepare herself for the abnormal. And there was something else she had to do.
“Paul, I need to tell Brandon.”
“Tonight?”
To fight off the weepy feeling, she looked away, toward the window and the roar of the sea. “I should have gone to him right away, but I wasn’t sure I could handle it. I’m afraid he might hear something, see something on television. I have to explain it to him, prepare him for it myself.”
“I’ll call CeeCee. Why don’t you take a long, hot shower, down a couple of aspirin? I’ll be downstairs.”
She plucked at the sheets as he walked to the door. “Paul … thank you. For this, and before.”
He leaned against the jamb. He folded his arms, lifted a brow. And his voice took on that oh-so-British and very amused tone. “Are you thanking me for making love with you, Jules?”
Uncomfortable, she shrugged. “Yes.” “Well then, I suppose I should say you’re quite welcome, my dear. Be sure to call on me again. Anytime.”
By the time she heard him starting down the stairs she was doing something she hadn’t been sure she’d be capable of doing again. She was smiling.
The shower helped, as did the few bites she could manage of the omelette Paul served. He didn’t expect conversation. That was something else she owed him for. He seemed to understand that she needed to think through what she would say to her son. How she would tell her little boy that his mother was being accused of murder.
She was pacing the living room when she heard the car drive up. With her hands gripped together she turned to Paul. “I think it would be best if—”
“You talked to him alone,” he finished. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t thank me again, Jules,” he said as she opened her mouth. “It might not go so easy on you this time.”
As he headed up the stairs, he let out one quiet, vicious oath.
Braced, Julia opened the door. There was Brandon, his backpack slung over his shoulder, grinning up at her. He managed to keep himself from bursting out with all the things he’d done that day. He remembered what she’d done. She’d gone to a funeral, and her eyes were sad.
From behind him, CeeCee reached out a hand for Julia’s. The unspoken sign of support, of belief, had the back of Julia’s throat stinging.
“You just call,” CeeCee said. “Just tell me what you need.”
“I … thank you.”
“Call,” CeeCee repeated, then gave Brandon’s hair a quick tousle. “See you, kid.”
“Bye. Tell Dustin I’ll see him in school.”
“Brandon.” Oh, God, Julia thought. She’d been so certain she’d been prepared. But he was looking up at her, his face so young, so full of trust. She closed the door behind her and led him around to the deck. “Let’s stay out here for a minute.”
He knew all about death. She’d explained it to him when his grandparents had died. People went away, up to heaven like angels and stuff. Sometimes they got really sick, or had an accident. Or they got all sliced up like the kids in the Halloween video he and Dustin had snuck out of bed to watch on the VCR a couple of weekends before.
He didn’t like to think about it very much, but he figured his mom was going to talk to him about it again.
She kept holding his hand. Tight. And she was looking out into the dark to where you could just see the white foam of water run up on the sand. The lights were on in the house behind them so he could see her face, and the way the wind caught at the long blue robe she wore.
“She was a nice lady,” Brandon began. “She used to talk to me, and ask me about school and stuff. And she’d laugh at my knock-knock jokes. I’m sorry she had to die.”
“Oh, Brandon, so am I.” She drew a deep breath. “She was a very important person, and you’ll be hearing a lot of things about her—at school, on TV, in the papers.”
“They say things like she was a goddess, but she was a real person.”
“Yes, she was a real person. Real people do things, make decisions, mistakes. They fall in love.”
He shifted. She knew he was at the age when talk of love made him uncomfortable. Ordinarily, it would have made her smile. “Eve fell in love a long time ago. And she had a baby. Things couldn’t be worked out between her and the man she loved, so she had to do what she thought was best for the baby. There are a lot of good people who aren’t able to have babies of their own.”
“They adopt them, like Grandma and Granddad adopted you.”
“That’s right. I loved your grandparents, and they loved me. And you.” She turned, crouching down to cup his face in her hands. “But I found out, just a few days ago, that the baby Eve gave away was me.”
He didn’t recoil in shock, but shook his head as if trying to shake her words into order. “You mean Miss B. was your real mom?”
“No, Grandma was my real mom, the person who raised me and loved me and cared for me. But Eve was the woman who gave birth to me. She was my biological mother.” With a sigh, Julia brushed a hand through his hair. “Your biological grandmother. You became very important to her once she got to know you. She was proud of you, and I know she wishes she’d had time to tell you that herself.”
His lip quivered. “How come if you were her baby she didn’t keep you? She had a big house and money and everything.”
“It isn’t always a big house and money, Brandon. There are other reasons, more important reasons, for making a decision like that.”
“You didn’t give me away.”
“No.” She laid her cheek on his and the love was there, as strong and steady as it had been when he’d been growing in her womb. “But what’s right for one person isn’t always right for another. She did what she felt was right, Brandon. How can I be sad about it when I got to belong to Grandma and Granddad?”
With her hands resting on his shoulders, she sat back on her heels. “I’m telling you all this now because there’s going to be talk. I want you to know that you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be sorry for. You can be proud that Eve Benedict was your grandmother.”
“I liked her a lot.”
“I know.” She smiled and led him over to the bench that was built into the rail. “There’s more, Brandon, and it’s going to be very hard. I need you to be brave, and I need you to believe that everything’s going to be all right.” She waited, her eyes on his, until she could be sure she could say it calmly. “The police think I killed Eve.”
He didn’t even blink. Instead, his eyes filled with hot anger. His little mouth firmed. “That’s stupid.”
Her relief came out in a laugh as she rested her cheek on his hair. “Yes. Yes, it is stupid.”
“You don’t even kill spiders. I can tell them.”
“They’re going to find out the truth. It may take a little time though. I might have to go to trial.”
He buried his face at her breast. “Like with Judge Wapner?”
When he trembled she began to rock him, as she had when he’d been just a baby, restless with colic “Not exactly. But I don’t want you to worry, because they will find out.”
“Why can’t we just go away? Why can’t we just go home?”
“We will. When it’s all over, we will.” She wrapped herself around him. “I promise.”
I
n his bedroom where he’d crawled away to drink and sulk, Drake prepared to make a phone call. He was damn glad the bitch was up to her neck in trouble. Nothing could please him more than having his cousin going to the block for murder.
But even with her out of the way, there was Paul standing between him and all that money. Maybe there was no way for him to break the will, no way for him to rake in the inheritance he’d worked for.
But there was always an angle. He’d been saving this one.
He sipped Absolut straight and smiled when the connection rang through. “It’s Drake,” he said without preamble. “You and I need to get together.… Why? Well, that’s simple. I have some information you’re going to want to pay me for. Like what you were doing sneaking into the guest house and searching through dear Cousin Julia’s notes. Oh, and another matter the police might be interested in. Such as the fact the security system was shut off the day Eve was murdered. How do I know?” He smiled again, already counting the money. “I know all sorts of things. I know Julia was in the garden that day. I know someone else went into the guest house where Eve was waiting, then came out alone. All alone.”
He listened, smiling at the ceiling. God, it was good to be in charge again. “Oh, I’m sure you have lots of reasons, lots of explanations. You can make them to the cops. Or … you can convince me to forget all about it. A quarter million would go a long way to convincing me. For now. Reasonable?” he said with a laugh. “Shit yes, I’ll be reasonable. I’ll give you a week to come up with it. One week from tonight. Let’s make it midnight. It has such a nice ring. Bring it here. All of it, or I go straight to the D.A. and save my poor cousin.”
He hung up, then decided to pick a name out of his little black book. He felt like celebrating.
Rusty Haffner was looking for an angle of his own. Most of his life he’d been playing the odds, and though in a final count he’d lost more than he’d gained, he figured he was still in the game. He’d been bullied into the Marine Corps by his father the day after he’d graduated from high school. He’d slipped and slithered through his enlistment, avoiding dishonorable discharge by the skin of his pearly whites.
But he’d learned how to pump out the ‘Sir, yes, sirs,’ how to kiss whatever ass was most important and wriggle out of trouble.
He’d been bored with his current job, and would have ditched it. If the money hadn’t been so good. Getting paid six big ones a week to watch a woman had been hard to turn down.
But now old Rusty was wondering if there was a way to butter his bread a little thicker on the other side.
Over a late night snack of blueberry yogurt, Rusty watched the eleven o’clock news. It was all there. Julia Summers, the classy babe he’d been shadowing for weeks. And wasn’t it a kick in the head to discover that she was Eve Benedict’s daughter? That she was the prime suspect in the old broad’s murder? And, most interesting of all to Rusty P. Haffner, she was about to inherit a large chunk of an estate rumored to be over fifty million.
A classy babe like Summers would be very grateful to someone who could help her out of her mess. A lot more grateful than six hundred a week. Grateful enough, Rusty figured as he licked his spoon, to set a man up for life.
Could be his current client would be pissed enough to cause some trouble. But for, say, two million—cash—Rusty could deal with trouble.
Sweaty, invigorated, and pleased with the world in general, Lincoln Hathoway breezed into the kitchen from his morning jog. The Krups coffeemaker was just beginning to brew, and he checked his watch. Six twenty-five. On the dot.
If there was one thing he and Elizabeth, his wife of fifteen years, agreed on, it was symmetry. Their life ran along very smooth lines. He enjoyed being one of the most respected criminal lawyers on the East Coast, and she enjoyed being the wife and hostess of a successful man. They had two bright, well-mannered children who had known nothing but affluence and stability. A decade before they’d run over a little rough ground, but had smoothed it out again with barely a ripple. If the years had settled into a routine that edged toward bland, that was just the way they wanted it.
As always, Lincoln took down his mug that read LAWYERS DO IT IN THEIR BRIEFS—a gag gift his daughter, Amelia, had given him on his fortieth birthday. He would drink his first cup of the day alone, catching the morning news on the kitchen TV before going up to shower. It was a good life, Lincoln thought as he switched on the set. The newscaster was announcing a surprise development in the Eve Benedict murder.
The mug Lincoln held slipped out of his fingers and shattered. Hot black Columbian coffee ran like a river over the glossy white tiles.
Julia.” Her name whispered through his lips as he groped for a chair.
She sat alone, curled into a corner of the couch. The notepad she’d tried to write on was held limply in her hands. She’d told herself to make a list, her priorities. What had to be done.
She needed a lawyer, of course. The best she could possibly afford. It might mean taking out a second mortgage on her home. Even selling it. Eve’s money—had she wanted to consider it—couldn’t apply. As long as she was suspected of causing Eve’s death, she wouldn’t be allowed to benefit from it.
Death benefits. She’d always found that an awkward term. No more so than now.
She had to arrange for Brandon to be taken care of. During the trial. And after, if … It wasn’t time to think of if. She had no family. There were friends, many of whom had tried to reach her already. But to whom could she possibly give her child?
It was there her list had stopped, because at that point she could go no further.
Every few minutes the phone would ring. She would hear the machine click on, and Paul’s voice would inform the caller that no one was available. Interspersed with the reporters were the concerned. CeeCee, Nina, Victor. God, Victor. When she heard his voice, she shut her eyes. Did he know? Did he suspect? What could they possibly say to each other now that wouldn’t cause more pain?
She wished Paul would get back. She wished he would take longer so that she could just be alone. He had told her only that he’d had things to do. He hadn’t told her what they were, and she hadn’t asked.
He’d driven Brandon to school himself.
Brandon. She had to make arrangements for Brandon.
When the phone rang again, she continued to ignore it. But it was the urgency in the voice that had her listening, then recognizing, then staring.
“Julia, please, call me as soon as possible. I’ve canceled my appointments for the day and arranged to stay home. I just heard, on the news, this morning. Please get back to me. I can’t tell you how … Just call. The number here is …”
Slowly, hardly aware she had risen and crossed the room, she lifted the receiver. “Lincoln. It’s Julia.”
“Oh, thank God. I wasn’t even sure they’d given me the right number. I pulled all the strings I could manage at L.A.P.D.”
“Why are you calling me at all?”
It wasn’t bitterness he heard, but puzzlement. It made the shame almost unbearable. “Because you’re about to face a murder trial. I can’t believe it, Julia. Can’t believe they have enough evidence for trial.”
His voice was the same, she realized. Neat and precise. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, she wondered if he still had his underwear pressed. “They seem to think they do. I was there. My fingerprints are on the weapon. I’d threatened her.”
“Jesus Christ.” He ran a hand through his smooth blond hair. “Who’s representing you?”
“Greenburg. He was Eve’s lawyer. Actually he’s looking for someone else. He doesn’t practice criminal law.”
“Listen to me, Julia. Don’t speak to anyone. Do you hear me? Don’t speak to anyone.”
She nearly smiled. “Shall I hang up, then?”
He’d never understood her humor and plunged straight on. “I’m going to get the first plane out I can. I’m a member of the California Bar, so there’s no problem. Now, give me the address where
you’re staying.”
“Why? Why would you come here, Lincoln?”
He was already formulating his reasons and excuses to his wife, to his colleagues, to the press. “I owe you,” he said tightly.
“No. You don’t owe me anything.” She was holding the phone with both hands now. “Do you realize, does it even occur to you that you haven’t asked about him? You haven’t even asked about him.”
In the silence that followed, she heard the door close. Turning, she saw Paul watching her.
“Julia.” Lincoln’s voice was quiet, utterly reasonable. “I want to help you. Whatever you think of me, you know I’m the best. Let me do this for you. And for the boy.”
The boy, she thought. He couldn’t even say Brandon’s name. She rested her head in her hand a moment, struggling to get beyond emotion. Lincoln had said one thing that was perfectly true. He was the best. She couldn’t afford to let pride stand in the way of freedom.
“I’m in Malibu,” she said, and gave him the address. “Good-bye, Lincoln. Thank you.”
Paul said nothing, waited. He didn’t know what he felt. No, he thought, he did. When he had walked in and realized who was on the phone it had felt exactly like being shot. Now he was bleeding inside.
“You heard,” she began.
“Yes, I heard. I thought we agreed you wouldn’t answer the phone.”
“I’m sorry. I had to.”
“Naturally.” He rocked back on his heels. “He ignores you for ten years, but you had to answer his call.”
Unconsciously she rubbed a hand on her stomach where the muscles were beginning to knot. “Paul, he’s a lawyer.”
“So I’ve heard.” He walked to the bar but thought it best to stick with mineral water. A drink now would be like tossing gasoline onto a fire. “And of course he’s the only lawyer in the country who’s qualified to take your case. He’s going to streak out here on his silver briefcase and save you from the clutches of injustice.”
“I can’t afford to turn down help from any quarter it’s offered.” She pressed her lips together, needing to keep her voice calm. There was a terrible urge gnawing inside her to rush past him and fling open the door. “Maybe you’d think more of me if I’d spit in his eye. Maybe I’d think more of myself too. But if they send me to jail, I’m not sure I’ll survive it. And I’m afraid, I’m very afraid for Brandon.”