by Lisa Jackson
So many years of work.
So much time invested.
Almost finished ... and now she was going to ruin it? No fucking way!
Furious, he kicked a trash can and sent it reeling, the plastic buckling as it bounced off a wall and spilled its contents of papers that he had intended to burn, empty cartons, and a burned-out lightbulb onto the slick tile floor.
He had to do something.
He had to stop her.
His cell phone jangled, and he gnashed his teeth, seeing on the screen that it was his damned sister. She called at the most inopportune moments. It was almost as if she could see him, read his frustration, and had to let him know it.
She’s only trying to help you fit in. You should be thankful.
He wasn’t. Because every single person in his family realized he would never be like the rest of them. He couldn’t. From the beginning he was different, and they all knew it.
In the mirror he caught his reflection, handsome, but no longer calm, his face flushed, the white scar at his temple seeming to pulse with his frenzy.
So like the rest of them, but so different.
How could he have let this happen?
The phone rang again.
Calm down. Take the call. . . . Sister is an ally, though she may not know it.
He tried to force his blood pressure into the normal range.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.” She was breathless as usual, probably dealing with “that moron of a contractor,” which was her usual excuse for being in a bad mood.
“Something up?” He didn’t want to pressure her, but he didn’t have time for idle chitchat.
“A lot, actually. It’s Mom and Dad. . . . They ... are resistant to change, and, well, you know that Dad’s not as strong as he once was, and Mom isn’t about to move or put him in an assisted-care place, but he needs more care than she can give. . . .” She went on and on, as she always did about this particular topic, one that made his blood run cold.
She was lamenting their parents’ stubborn streak when he broke in. “So what do you want me to do about it?”
“Talk to Mom.”
“I have.”
“Again. Be firm. She listens to you, for whatever reason. You’d think since I’m the oldest, my opinion would carry some weight, but oh, no—”
“I will,” he said, cutting off the next part of her no-one-values-my-opinion pity party. “I’ll drive over ... by this weekend.”
“The sooner, the better.”
“I have a life, you know. A job. A highly stressful job.”
“Okay, okay, just let me know.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and a final warning. Mom has someone picked out for you.” He inwardly groaned. “And get this,” his sister added, her voice elevating a fraction in excitement. “It’s a nurse. Can you believe it? After all the things she’s said about that particular profession? I guess she met this woman when she was taking Dad to his annual physical.”
“It doesn’t matter what she does.” He wasn’t in the mood for a potential romance, especially not someone his meddling mother had discovered. Not when there was just so much to do.
“Just be prepared. Her name is Karalee Rierson, a redhead.”
He froze. The little worry that had been with him since he’d overheard Acacia’s phone call was growing, squirming, wriggling through his brain. He glanced down at the pile of photographs he’d collected over the years, spreading them out until he saw the driver’s license picture of Karalee Winters. No . . . it couldn’t be! He swallowed hard, started searching through the old documents. He should remember this. Wasn’t her maiden name Karalee Falcone . . . Yes, he found it. “What do you know about her?” he asked in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.
“I think she lived in Oregon when she was married, but I’m not sure. And then there was something about a brief, like ten-minute marriage, which Mom will gloss over.”
Hence the surname of Winters.
“But she doesn’t have any kids. I’m sure Mom will have all the details and will regale you with them when you see her.”
His stomach seemed to drop to the cold tile floor. Everything was crumbling apart. “No doubt,” he said. “Look, I’ve got to run.”
“Okay, okay. Always busy, I get it. But after you see Mom and Dad and convince them to move, give me a call.”
“I will,” he promised and hung up. He stared at the photo of Karalee Falcone Winters Rierson. He’d messed up. Somehow missed that important tidbit of information. And now she knew his parents ... so, so dangerous. He crushed the copy of her driver’s license in his fist and told himself he had to up his game, move faster.
And he’d have to start with Acacia freakin’ Lambert, then zero in on Karalee, with all her last names.
He didn’t have a choice.
CHAPTER 22
Not only had Riza come through, but Kacey had gotten some information from the hospitals as well. Armed with her new, sketchy details, she drove to Helena. Riza, who also had a way to get into the DMV files, promised more information to come, birth and death notices, pictures, whatever she could find. “I could get fired,” she warned Kacey.
“Or we might both end up looking for a good defense attorney.”
She barked out a laugh. “Doesn’t matter. I love this stuff. I watch CSI and Bones and all those crime shows. I’ll see what I can come up with, but just keep everything on the down low.”
“I will,” Kacey promised but wondered how long she could keep that vow. She hung up and started to dial again, then replaced the receiver, figuring another phone call with her mother would be useless. Whether she liked it or not, she had to see Maribelle face-to-face.
It was nearly dusk when she cruised into Helena, down familiar streets where the asphalt was bare, the sidewalks shoveled, and new snow was falling softly. She guided her Ford past the Cathedral of St. Helena, its Gothic facade bathed in lamplight. Twin spires rose, seeming to pierce the darkening sky. This was the town in which she’d grown up, where she’d felt secure, and now, with twilight lurking, she felt somehow betrayed by it. Something wasn’t right.
Glancing into her rearview mirror, she got a jolt when she saw a dark truck, one similar to the pickup that had hit her and sent her spinning a few days earlier.
The huge, weird grille was similar, but she couldn’t catch a glimpse of the license plate, not even to note if it was from Montana or somewhere else. Her throat went dry as she watched the vehicle’s reflection in the mirror, and then she let out a sigh of relief when it turned, heading off in the opposite direction.
Don’t be so paranoid.
No one’s following you.
Just because Elle Alexander was forced off the road according to the latest reports, you’re not a target.
“Yet,” she said, still nervous.
With a final glance telling her there was no truck with a massive grille tailing her, she relaxed a little. Before she headed out of town, she took one more side trip, slowing for a stoplight near Valley Hospital, a few blocks off Broadway. The sprawling glass and steel structure rose four stories, its windows reflecting the city lights as they winked on. As the light changed and she stepped on the gas, Kacey wondered what part Valley Hospital, where at least three women who resembled each other had been born, played in her own private mystery.
She would have to follow up on that later, however, she thought as she drove through the heart of the city and on toward Rolling Hills Senior Estates, where Maribelle and all her lies resided.
Trace had waited for Eli to get off the bus, then had driven him into town, where they picked up Sarge, complete with one of those cone things to keep him from licking his wound or tearing out his stitches. The dog was improving, thank God.
“He looks like an alien!” Eli said as he scared up a smile for the dog, and Sarge, running on three legs, nearly knocked the boy down in the reception area of the vet’s office.
“Now you
both have extra equipment on,” Trace teased, lifting an eyebrow at Eli’s blue cast. There were a few names scrawled on the surface and some grime near the edge that he hadn’t been able to scrub off.
“I’d say it was a raccoon, maybe more than one,” Jordan Eagle said as Trace paid the bill.
“I’m just glad he’s going to be okay,” Trace said. “Thank you.”
Jordan patted Sarge’s head and then Trace whistled for him and the dog raced after them in his ungainly way. Trace helped him into the truck, and they were on their way.
At the house, though his spirits had lifted upon retrieving Sarge, Eli crashed on the couch. He’d complained of feeling crummy from the minute he’d gotten off the bus, and though usually he was up for doing the afternoon chores, today he was spent. He fell asleep on the couch almost instantly, with Sarge curled up on the floor at his feet.
It was a bit of a worry as the boy was usually so active, but then he was still fighting the cold or flu or whatever it was, dealing with Jocelyn’s death, and healing from the playground incident. At least he hadn’t brought up Leanna for a few days.
Maybe the couch wasn’t such a bad idea.
He let the kid sleep, but Sarge did deign to come with Trace for the afternoon rounds of feeding. He’d let the animals out during the day, but now, as the sky began to darken, he fed and locked them inside.
By the time he returned to the house and scrounged up a skillet dinner, Eli was awake. They ate in the kitchen, but Eli picked at his food and ignored the apple juice his father had poured and insisted he drink.
Afterward Trace stacked the dishes in the sink; then together he and Eli tackled a little bit of homework. They gave up when Eli, coughing and listless, just wanted to go back to the television. Trace took his son’s temperature, which was still hovering around a hundred. He ran him through the shower, then allowed him a soda with no caffeine and put him to bed. The boy didn’t protest, even though the digital clock on the bedside table read 7:15. Usually Eli would have protested loudly. Tonight he zonked.
It was definitely a worry.
And his son’s health was just one issue, one of many.
It wasn’t until he’d returned to the downstairs that he noticed the light flashing on the answering machine.
Listening to the one call, he heard Kacey’s voice as she asked about Eli. “Nice,” he thought aloud and played the message a second time, as much to hear her voice as to commit her number to memory. He thought about calling her just to talk, but as he picked up the phone, he stopped.
What are you going to talk about? The weather? Your kid’s blue cast? The woman you dated, the one that looks like her? Jocelyn’s death? Or are you going to admit to dreaming about her last night and waking up hard as hell?
He thought of Leanna. And Jocelyn.
Then put the receiver back.
“Acacia! What in the world are you doing here?” her mother asked, a hand flying to her chest.
Maribelle had opened the door to the hallway and, from her expression, clearly hadn’t expected to find her daughter waiting for her on the other side.
“I thought we needed to talk.”
“And the phone wasn’t good enough?” Maribelle’s voice was cautious as she stepped out of the entry. She allowed Kacey into the inner sanctum of her three-bedroom unit, but Kacey defitely felt the chill: she wasn’t welcome.
Well, too bad, she thought, walking across thick white carpet toward a muted blue couch placed in front of a gas fireplace that burned softly. Few of the pieces of furniture were reminders of Kacey’s youth. Most of the artwork, chairs, lamps, and tables were new, bought after her mother had sold the house where she’d grown up and had put what the new owners didn’t want in the garage, where she had organized her own estate sale.
“I needed to see you face-to-face.” Kacey’s heart was knocking more than a little; she’d never been one to confront Maribelle, but then few had, and then there was the continuing problem of her slightly upset stomach, which felt like it had turned into a hard fist.
“Can I get you a cup of tea or a glass of wine? I’ve got a nice pinot breathing—”
“No, Mom. I just want to talk.” She warmed the back of her legs before the fire as Maribelle, in jeans, gold sweater, and worried expression, settled into a corner of the couch, where a paperback book lay facedown and a half-drunk glass of wine sat neglected for the moment.
Kacey extracted an envelope from her purse, opened it, and slid the contents on the coffee table toward Maribelle. Pictures of Shelly Bonaventure, Jocelyn Wallis, and Elle Alexander stared up at her.
“What are these?”
“Notice anything, Mom? These women all look alike. They bear enough of a resemblance as to be sisters.”
“So?”
“They’re all dead. Died from accidents within the last week.”
Her mother paled a bit. Reached for her wineglass.
“And they look like me, too, Mom. Don’t tell me you can’t see. It. Then there’s this woman.” She pulled out the brochure from Fit Forever Gym, already folded open to a picture of Gloria Sanders-O’Malley, and placed it near the others. “She’s a fitness instructor, still very much alive.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Kacey stared at her mother. “I just don’t think this is coincidence. I checked. Three of these women were born at Valley Hospital, here in Helena. Just like me. I’m not sure about Elle. Her background is a little murky, and unfortunately she’s not around to tell us what she knows. She claimed she always lived in Idaho, but still . . .”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at. You think women who look like you are being killed?”
“Women who look like me and are from the same damned hospital.” Her insides were twisting, but she had to know, and Maribelle, if she wasn’t specifically hiding something, was definitely worried.
“Lots of people look alike.”
“I know. I was willing to dismiss it. But the hospital, Mom. If I go there, what will I find out?”
“I don’t know. Nothing.”
“What would I find out with a sample of my DNA? And a sample from some of the other women?”
“What?”
Kacey didn’t answer; she didn’t have to. She saw the change in her mother’s eyes as she realized her daughter wasn’t bluffing. Her thin shoulders slumped beneath her sweater. Suddenly Maribelle looked as old as her years.
“Oh, Lord.” She twisted her hands and glanced away, toward the window and the night falling beyond.
“Tell me what I’m missing,” Kacey demanded.
She shook her head slowly. “I was afraid this day would come.”
“Why?”
Maribelle closed her eyes and let out a tremulous sigh. For theatrics? Or from her heart?
Oh, God, who could tell?
“I was hoping I’d never have to confide this,” she said.
Kacey clamped her teeth together, waiting, wanting to scream while her mother slowly processed each word.
“Stanley isn’t—wasn’t—your real father. You seem to have figured that out.”
“You mean, not my biological father,” Kacey clarified, heart beating heavily.
“Yes.” Maribelle was on her feet, the contents in her glass sloshing precariously. “No one knew, not even Stanley, at least not at first.” She glared at her daughter, as if this were somehow Kacey’s fault.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it would have killed Stanley,” Maribelle said, as if Kacey were dense for not catching on. “When you were around seven and it ... it was obvious that you didn’t look like anyone in his family or mine, he began to get suspicious and we argued. He threatened to have a paternity test and so . . . so I told him. From that moment on, our marriage, what little there was left of it, was a sham.”
There was a roar in her ears.
“We stayed together for you. He loved you,” Maribelle said with a trace of regret. “It didn’t matte
r that you weren’t of his blood. You were his little girl.” She had to clear her throat and look away. “We couldn’t divorce ... that was out of the question . . . or even separate.” She shook her head. “Things were different then in a town this size. My parents . . .” She fluttered her fingers. “It was better.”
Kacey wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t imagine herself remaining in a loveless marriage with Jeffrey. No way. But Maribelle’s jaw was set. Defensive.
“Dad’s gone,” Kacey said, pointing out the obvious, the ache in her heart painful when she thought of the man she’d known as her father. “You . . . you could have told me.”
“It was too late then.”
“It’s not too late now.” Kacey’s stomach ached. All the deception. All the lies. Her medical history compromised, her entire life a sham. And yet it all made a distorted kind of sense somehow. It explained so much, especially why she was close to her parents, even though they’d lost their bond to each other.
“Who’s my biological father?” Kacey asked.
Her mother finished the wine and left the empty glass on the mantel. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. In so many ways I can’t even begin to tell you. Women are being killed, Mom. Women I suspect might have my same DNA.”
“That’s the problem with all that ... science!”
“You were a nurse, for God’s sake,” Kacey said, cutting her off abruptly. “You believe in science.”
“Well, it’s gone too far. Become too invasive. There is no privacy anymore. If you ask me, people should leave well enough alone!”
“This is my life, Mother!”
Maribelle rubbed her arms as if suddenly chilled to the bone. “I really don’t want to talk about this.”
“You’ve avoided it for thirty-five years!” Kacey couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her whole damned life had been a lie. “And now women are dying.”
“In accidents!” Something flared in Maribelle’s eyes. “Do you really think someone’s out killing women who look like you because of some kind of DNA link? For the love of God, Kacey. Listen to yourself.”