by Andrea Kane
Lenny had to pause to control his sobs. “Jack lunged at me like a wild animal. We fought. I whacked him on the side of the head with the gun. The gun went flying off somewhere. But Jack and I kept fighting. I punched him hard in the face. At some point, we tripped over a bucket, and went down. Jack fell on his face. All I could think was that I had to stop him, to keep him from hurting Arthur. But I was a lot older than he was, and I was getting tired. I just knelt there, trying to breathe, trying to get past the shock of what I’d done.”
“What about Arthur?” Monty asked. “Where was he through all this?”
“First he rushed over to Lara. He checked her pulse to see if maybe she was still alive. But it was too late. She was gone. He looked lost for a minute, like a kid who didn’t know what to do. Then—” Lenny broke off, clearly aware that whatever he said next could do nothing but incriminate Arthur.
“Then he realized that the only way to save his ass—and yours—was to finish what you’d started,” Monty deduced. “So he found the gun on the floor. He picked it up and crossed over to where Jack was lying, facedown and dazed. He had to move fast, before Jack came around and reacted. So he convinced you that the only way he could protect you from the crime you’d just committed and to silence Jack’s lies was to kill Jack, too. You were so out of it by then, you didn’t even know which end was up. But Arthur did. He knew exactly what he was doing when he aimed that gun and fired two shots into the back of Jack Winter’s head. After that, the rest was pretty much as Lane described. Except that your son had two sets of fingerprints to wipe off that gun, not one.”
“God help me…” Lenny bowed his head.
“You shot my father in cold blood?” Morgan wrenched her hands out of Lane’s. Trembling with rage, she slapped Arthur across the face with every ounce of strength she possessed.
His head snapped sideways from the impact, and when he turned back, there were angry marks where her fingers had been. “Morgan…”
“Don’t say my name. Don’t even speak to me. Not now. Not ever. Lenny is pathetic. But you…you’re an animal. A cowardly, hypocritical, inhuman…” She sucked in her breath, still staring him down. “Who else knows?” she asked in that same odd, stony voice. “Does Elyse?”
“I have no answer for that,” Arthur replied tonelessly.
“You have no answers for anything,” Monty noted. “Just sick lies and an even sicker sense of retribution.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Arthur’s jaw was working. “What I meant was, Elyse and I never discussed it. It was better that way. Did she figure it out? I’m sure she suspected something. One thing’s for sure—she’s never been the same since that night.”
“And Rhoda?”
“My mother knows nothing. Neither does Jill. They wouldn’t have been able to live with it.”
“Jill,” Morgan repeated, a tremor in her voice. “This is going to break her heart.”
“It’ll mend,” Monty assured her gently. “Jill’s strong. And you’re stronger. Plus, she’s not alone. And this time, neither are you.” He watched as Lane came up behind Morgan, planting his hands firmly on her shoulders and easing her back against him. No words were necessary.
Satisfied, Monty whipped out his cell phone. “I’m calling the cops. Oh, and Arthur?” He shot the congressman a look. “Now would be a good time to call your lawyer.”
EPILOGUE
Six months later…
Morgan stared out the passenger window of Lane’s car, watching the sun reflect off the East River as they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and headed into Brooklyn.
It was hard to believe that half a year had passed since her foundation had been ripped out from under her, and her world had been turned upside down—again.
She glanced down at her engagement ring—a square-cut diamond, simple, classy, and elegant. Lane had slid it on her finger on the first day of spring. The perfect time for new beginnings, he’d said.
They hadn’t set a wedding date. Not yet. She wasn’t quite ready. Not when there was so much still unresolved, both emotionally and legally.
The charges against Arthur had yet to be filed. Monty was pushing for second-degree murder, but he had his work cut out for him.
The team of defense attorneys Arthur had hired was the best. Following their advice, he’d stayed totally silent while his attorneys’ motions were flying. Motions to dismiss. Motions to change venue. Motions to you-name-it—they were all flooding the court. Indicting him on anything more than covering up a crime was going to be tough, since all the physical evidence implicated Lenny, who was being charged with second-degree manslaughter. Between his age, his standing in the community, and his plea of self-defense, Arthur’s attorneys were confident they could keep Lenny’s sentence to a minimum, with no jail time. The story they were going with was that Lara had been killed by a bullet accidentally fired when Jack brutally assaulted Lenny, after which Lenny had shot Jack out of fear for his own life.
Part truth. Part lies. Altogether believable.
It didn’t matter what Arthur said. Morgan knew the truth. So did the rest of the family. And they each fought to cope in their own way. But Lenny was a broken man. It was Rhoda who held him together. She kept the deli open and running—for his sake, for her own sake, and for their customers’ sakes. It kept her hands busy, her mind occupied, and her customers happy. Besides, Jonah was working longer hours now that summer vacation was here, and it did Rhoda a world of good to spend time with her grandson.
Jonah valued the relationship building as well, particularly the one with his biological mother. His parents fully supported his efforts, and did everything they could to make Karly feel like a welcome addition to Jonah’s life.
Despite everything that had happened or maybe because of it, Winshore was thriving, since the unintended publicity of the current scandal brought in new clients by the droves. Hard work was the best medicine Morgan could ask for. It kept her focused and gave her a sense of purpose.
So did Lane.
He was the one who ultimately convinced her that while the past would always be part of her, it didn’t have the power to control her—not unless she let it. Life, as he taught her, was like art. Rarely black-and-white. Mostly shades of gray.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Lane observed now, accelerating slightly and turning onto Atlantic Avenue.
“I’m wondering what this meeting is all about.” Morgan shot him a questioning look. “Are you sure Barbara didn’t say why she wanted to see us?”
“Positive.” He kept his eyes on the road. “She sounded rushed. When I told her you were in the shower, she just asked if we could run over for a half hour. I knew you’d say yes, so I said it for you.”
“But we told your parents we’d be up at the farm in time for lunch.”
“We will be. Besides, I wouldn’t worry about being missed. Devon and Blake are already up there. My parents will be hovering over Devon like EMTs, making sure she’s eating, taking it easy—the works. Monty will probably have the truck engine idling, in case the baby decides to show up three weeks early. Believe me, they’ll be plenty busy.”
Morgan smiled. “You’re about to become an uncle. That’s pretty exciting.”
“Yup. I can’t wait.” Lane slowed down and made a right, then another, until he swung onto Williams Avenue.
“This isn’t the way to Healthy Healing,” Morgan observed in a wooden tone.
“I know.” He continued driving toward the very building she most dreaded and had avoided revisiting all these years.
“Lane…” she managed.
“It’s okay.” He reached over, squeezed her hand. “Trust me.”
She’d opened her mouth to reply, when he pulled up in front of their destination—and her mouth snapped shut, her eyes widening in astonishment.
The three-story brick building had been totally restored, its white plaster-trimmed windows numerous and expansive, its twin banisters flanking a bluestone path and stairs,
and its fence enclosing a small playground/ backyard. The front door was solid cherry, and over it hung a brass plaque that read: THE LARA WINTER WOMEN’S CENTER.
Morgan stared. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” Lane pressed a key into her hand. “It’s a gift from me to you.”
She glanced from the key to Lane, comprehension slowly dawning. “You bought the building?”
“Good guess.” A crooked grin. “It worked out well all ways around. The thrift-shop owner relocated a few blocks away, and the landlord liked my offer enough to accelerate the transfer of title. I hired the construction workers; Barbara hired the staff. The doors open in a week. We just need your final okay. Which is why we’re here—to get it.” Lane got out of the car and walked around to offer her a hand. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”
She did as he asked, placing her fingers in his and walking up the front steps. It took her three tries to unlock the door, her fingers were trembling so badly.
Stepping inside, she sucked in her breath, taking in the parquet floors and soothing aqua walls. There were three distinct sections—a semicircle of chairs that was clearly the women’s conversation center, a small room filled with toys and books for child care, and a card table, set up with jars of Snickers and Milky Ways in the center.
On the wall just inside the front entranceway was a framed photo that Morgan knew like the back of her hand—the beloved and final photograph she’d taken with her parents, dated November 16, 1989, with the words Jack, Lara, and Morgan calligraphied at the bottom in her mother’s hand.
It was just like the original. Only better. Because it had been enlarged and enhanced, cropped with absolute precision. It was as if her parents were right there in the room with her—and with all the other women who’d now walk through these doors for support and camaraderie.
Tears glistened on Morgan’s lashes. “I…I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” Lane replied. “Spend a few minutes alone with your parents. I’ll be waiting outside.” He turned to go.
“Lane.” Her voice was watery. “I love you.”
“I know. I love you, too.” With a quiet click, the door shut behind him.
Morgan stood still for a moment, just staring at the photo and letting its impact sink in. Essentially, it was the same photo she’d been staring at night after night, drenched in sweat from her nightmares.
This experience was different. Hanging here, in this center dedicated to her mother, the photograph was no longer a prelude to death. It was a living testimonial. A celebration of her parents; a fulfillment of their dreams.
A way for them to endure.
This building was no longer the embodiment of a nightmare.
It was the embodiment of hope, a promise for the future—everything Lara had wanted and worked for.
Her throat tight with emotion, Morgan ran her fingertips over the wooden frame, the glass casing that protected the photograph beneath. A sanctuary, she thought, tracing every beloved line of her parents’ faces. This center was a sanctuary. Not only for the women in desperate need of refuge, but for her. It was a meaningful, tangible place for her to come and to be. To visit, to help out, to feel that precious connection to her parents.
They weren’t lost to her. Thanks to Lane’s gift, they never would be.
Turning, Morgan walked slowly around the room, feeling her parents’ presence with every step she took, and letting the memories flood back. She smoothed her palm over the card table, smiled at the candy bars that would soon serve as winnings, and felt a sense of inner peace that, until now, had eluded her.
That’s what Lane had brought to her life, she acknowledged. He’d taught her to accept and give love again—not half measure, but fully and without reservation. He’d taught her to trust. And he’d taught her that love meant risk. It sometimes meant pain. But a life without risk—worse, a life without love—was no life at all.
Finally, and for the first time, she could put the past to rest. Her parents weren’t gone. They were with her—always. And their legacy would live on at the Lara Winter Women’s Center.
On that thought, Morgan retraced her steps to the doorway. She paused to gaze at the photo again, silently acknowledging her feelings, saying good-bye and yet knowing it would never really be good-bye.
Then, with a tranquil smile, she left, closing the door behind her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With tremendous gratitude to those who generously shared their time and expertise, and whose efforts helped make the creation of Dark Room possible.
Maureen Chatfield, founder of M. Chatfield Ltd., for graciously allowing me a bird’s-eye view of the inner workings of running a boutique social agency. Special thanks to Karen Cooper for our “mock consultation.” I can see why M. Chatfield Ltd. has earned its well-deserved reputation.
Amanda Stevenson, for taking me “behind the camera’s lens” and introducing me to the art, science, and technology of modern photography and photo image enhancement.
Detective Mike Oliver, who never ceases to amaze me with his “day in the life of” an NYPD detective stories. There aren’t many people who can keep me riveted, make me cringe, and make me laugh all at the same time. It’s that very combination of qualities that made him a great cop, and helped me do the same with Monty.
Hillel Ben-Asher, M.D., who not only taught me all the medical information I needed to write this book (and there were countless examples as “the thick plottened”), but who helped me weave them into the story in precisely the right places and ways. After the medical school education he provided me—I may not be a doctor, but I’m pretty sure I could play one on TV!
Caroline Tolley, who jumped in the instant she was needed, made editing Dark Room her top priority, and invested all the time, care, and skill it took to make the book—and me—the best we could be.
Metamorphosis Image Consulting for an education in body language, style, and haute couture.
Lucia Macro for plunging wholeheartedly into the chaos with me, for seamlessly tightening without compromising character or plot, and for becoming my instant cheerleader.
And to my family—no words are enough to suffice. Fortunately, none are needed.
About the Author
Dark Room is ANDREA KANE's latest romantic thriller. Her groundbreaking foray into the genre, Run for Your Life, became an instant New York Times bestseller. Her bestselling success continued with No Way Out, Scent of Danger, I'll Be Watching You, and Wrong Place, Wrong Time. With a worldwide following and novels published in sixteen countries, she has also authored fourteen historical romances. Kane lives in New Jersey with her family, where she is learning how to shoot a Glock, resolve crisis situations like a hostage negotiator, and investigate like an FBI special agent. Between reloads, she is researching and writing her next novel.
www.andreakane.com
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ALSO BY ANDREA KANE
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
I’ll Be Watching You
Scent of Danger
No Way Out
Run for Your Life
Credits
Jacket design by Amy King
Jacket photograph by Alice Rosenbaum/Millennium Images, UK
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DARK ROOM. Copyright © 2007 by Rainbow Connection Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information
storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2007 ISBN: 9780061840043
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