by Nancy Bush
“About this.” John hated being redundant, but he was having a little trouble believing all this. Not once, in all her elaborate tales, had Denise mentioned Oregon as a place of past residence. Sure, there was that idiot who claimed to have fathered a child with her, but Denise’s lack of reaction to that story had made John discount it as just another nut searching for his fifteen minutes of fame.
Jackley nodded.
“You talked to her about living in Wagon Wheel and murdering her stepfather.”
“I told her Thomas Daniels was dead and that I was investigating,” Jackley agreed.
“And what did she say about that?”
“Is she living here, or not?” Jackley countered.
“That falls in the ‘or not’ category. She left.”
“Recently?”
“Yep.”
That seemed to get him thinking. Questions were racing through John’s mind, too. Like, did this have anything to do with Hayley Scott’s claims, or were the two stories coincidental?
“So you don’t think Denise did the dirty deed?” John asked.
“How long was she here before she left?”
“A month or two or three. You’d have to ask her.”
“She’s been living here for over a month?”
“What does it matter? You said the guy’s been dead for years.”
Did he really think Denise was capable of murder? No. No way. She was self-destructive, but she wasn’t a killer.
John had poured himself another scotch, bothered. The problem was, the idea had merit. Denise, damn her lovely eyes, was capable of anything.
“I had a different address for her,” Jackley muttered, frowning.
“Yeah? Where?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how to get hold of her sister.”
John lifted a brow. “So you buy the Hayley Scott story?”
“If the story is that they went to school in Wagon Wheel until their mother died, then lived with their stepfather, I know it’s the truth. But there are a lot of gaps.”
“You know it’s the truth.”
He nodded. “She and her sisters lived with Daniels until he disappeared. I think they know why he disappeared, and maybe who murdered him.”
“Did you say sisters?”
“Hayley and Dinah.”
John started laughing. He couldn’t help himself. “Hayley and Dinah. Okay, I’ve met Hayley. Did she give you this cockamamie story, too?”
“The Deschutes County Sheriff, Gus Dempsey—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” John cut him off. “You told me about the sheriff. He filled you in?”
“He asked me to investigate Daniels’s death, and we both decided the best place to start was with his three stepdaughters. His wife, Nina, the girls’ mother, had died, and the girls were stuck together with their stepfather for a while before they left.”
“You know how many histories Denise has? I don’t believe any of this! You’ll have to ask her what the truth is, and good luck. I don’t even know if she knows anymore.”
“How can I reach her?”
“She checked into some motel.” John shrugged, remembering with a stab of regret their last acrimonious words. “At least that’s what she said she was doing.”
“She didn’t mention Lambert Wallace?”
John did a slow double take. “Lambert Wallace,” he repeated in a deadly voice. “What’s that bastard got to do with her?”
“You know him?” Jackley looked interested.
“We’ve crossed paths. There was a brief period when Wallace connected with my father.”
There was a hell of a lot more to the story than that, but John didn’t wish to elaborate. Lambert Wallace, craftier than a mongrel dog, had pushed all the right buttons with Sampson, setting himself up as the son Sampson deserved to have. Money and power were the lure, and Wallace nearly had Sampson eating out of his hand. Oh, they were going to make so many films together! With Lambert’s enormous personal funds and Titan’s powerful distribution and promotion—they couldn’t lose.
Sampson had nagged John about it. Thrown their relationship in his face. John would have liked to believe his own disinterest had finally made Sampson realize he was grooming Lambert Wallace for a position John neither wanted nor would ever take. But the truth was, the cracks in Lambert’s personality began to show and Sampson’s own shrewdness rescued him from dire consequences. For dire they would have been, if Lambert had gained the upper hand. The man was made of money, but rumors abounded. He was morally bereft and corrupt. No amount of good looks and surface charm could make up for his basic emptiness.
Sampson had been lucky.
“Denise is involved with him?” John demanded, his words a staccato rap.
“When I interviewed her, I got the impression she was living with him.”
“When was that?”
“A couple weeks ago.”
John stared. A couple weeks ago he and Denise were sharing a bed together. His skin crawled.
Something was sliding around inside his head. Some piece of information that made no sense. Something he’d meant to ask about earlier. He tried to draw it to the surface, but before he could, Jackley reminded him of what it was.
“Do you have Dinah’s address? I haven’t got hold of her yet.”
The words formed though he knew he was going to sound stupid. “Who’s Dinah?”
Jackley’s look was sharp. John watched him, could practically see the calculations taking place inside his head, knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
“Dinah is Denise’s identical twin sister.”
And for the second time John threw back his head and laughed, half sheer amusement, half hysterical reaction, and then the doorbell pealed through the house.
He had exactly thirty seconds to digest Connor Jackley’s bombshell. Thirty seconds to put together information so sharp, it cut. Thirty seconds to understand that Denise, his lovely, lying ex-wife possessed a twin whom she’d neither spoken of, nor alluded to in any manner. Thirty seconds before he threw open the door and came face-to-face with her. He knew it was Dinah, as he’d known in some deep awareness of his soul, since he’d first encountered her sleeping in the guest room.
Now her lips parted in shock at his mocking, faux-friendly tone. And suddenly he truly believed and understood. He’d been sleeping with a stranger, and she’d never once uttered one word of truth.
The writing. The Corolla. The lack of makeup. The quirks of her humor.
It felt like a blow to his solar plexus. He could scarcely breathe.
“John . . .” she murmured.
Abruptly, he turned back to Connor Jackley who now stood in the archway, his expression grim as he gazed at the blond woman slumped in the doorway.
“Dinah?” he questioned, and she gazed at him blankly.
John couldn’t look. Couldn’t speak. He strode straight to the bottle of scotch, poured himself another more-than-healthy shot, then sank down at the kitchen table. He was worse than numb. He didn’t exist. It was unreality—and he welcomed it.
Jackley returned, and behind him, Dinah.
After a moment of silence, Jackley said, “I’m afraid Denise must still be with Lambert Wallace. I’m going over there now.”
“I’m going with you.” Dinah erupted into action.
The landline rang and all three of them jerked, as if caught in some nefarious act. John reached for it. “Hello?”
“Hey, you’re impossible to catch at work,” Susan Markson’s voice said easily. “I half expected voice mail. Guess what? I checked out that audition video you sent. Looks a lot like Denise, doesn’t she? She’s dynamite, John. I say go for it. You’ve found your Isabella.”
“Is it Denise?” Dinah whispered anxiously.
He glanced at her. Even in her current disarray—hairs falling loose from her ponytail, eyes dilated with fear, mouth quivering—she was an aphrodisiac too powerful to ignore. He hated himself. He hated her.
/> “John?” Susan queried into the silence. “Is this a bad time?”
“Send the DVD back to my office,” John managed to answer.
“Sure.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He wanted to laugh. Tomorrow. Work. The process of filmmaking. Hayley Scott as Isabella, John Callahan’s latest discovery.
Connor Jackley and Dinah—beautiful, lying bitch that she was—waited.
“We’ll all go,” John said, sliding the almost untouched glass away. He would deal with all of this later. That decent, chivalrous part of himself, which was only slightly tarnished, still recognized priorities. Lambert Wallace was scum and Denise was in his clutches—maybe where she wanted to be, but if there was a rescue squad, he was going to be a part of it.
Lambert Wallace’s house was brightly lit, squares of light illuminating the grounds from nearly every window. John and the private investigator, Connor Jackley, strode up to the front door but Dinah lagged behind.
She was in a cold trance. Everything felt sharp and dangerous. Memories danced of another time when she’d saved her sister. Only then no one knew. Then she could hide.
“Door’s open,” Jackley said tensely. He’d rung the bell and pounded hard on the door panels to no avail. Now, after the briefest of hesitations, he let himself in, John at his heels. Dinah followed at a discreet distance, every hair on her body standing on end.
The place was hollow, empty. She had no feeling of life. The men made a cursory examination of the main floor then headed upstairs. John never once looked at her. She couldn’t blame him.
Eight years ago she’d felt this same robotic oddness. Eight years ago she’d done what she had to do. She never dwelled on it. It was the past. She was the caretaker, and she’d done what she had to do.
Now she heard the muffled imprecation. John’s, she reckoned, for she was certain Connor Jackley rarely reacted to anything less than world annihilation. Denise, she thought fearfully, her steps quickening.
At the threshold to the master bedroom she stopped short, a gasp caught in her throat, choking her. Blood everywhere. Smears of it across the bed and carpet. Covering the head of the man who lay facedown atop the rumpled, brownish-red stained covers.
“He’s alive,” Jackley muttered tersely, his fingers at the man’s neck. Reaching for his phone, he called 911. Quietly relating the address, he shot a look Dinah’s way. She stared back silently. Where was Denise?
John was grim, surveying the scene as if he were too horrified to speak. Maybe he was.
On the floor, nestled in the folds of the sliding comforter, a familiar blood-encrusted object caught Dinah’s eye. The thunder egg, she realized with a jolt of her heart. The crystals were dulled brick-red and brown with sticky blood and hair.
A shudder ran through her from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. John gazed at her, his eyes dark pits of emotional hell.
Maybe if he didn’t see it. Maybe if she took the thunder egg and kept it safe, . maybe she could still save Denise.
Denise was the thief.
The thought gave her cold comfort. Denise had sneaked into the house. Denise had felt compelled to spy and steal rather than talk to her sister. Denise had to know about her and John.
“Where is she?” John rasped out.
Connor gazed at him, then at Dinah whose white face and bloodless lips revealed her agony.
He thought of Hayley’s mysterious phone call. He knew.
The thin, distant wail of the ambulance was the only sound in the cloaking silence while each of them concentrated on their own private thoughts.
The showerhead sputtered and spit, soaking the back of Hayley’s blouse as she leaned over her sister. She scrubbed furiously, so hard and fast it was almost spasmodic. Blood ran in pink rivulets off Denise’s hands and body. She sat under the spray, teeth chattering, body twitching, silent and staring. Nearly catatonic.
“Stop it,” Hayley whispered in her ear. “Damn it, Denise. Get a hold of yourself !”
She shook violently.
Hayley stood up, watching the water run. Denise was still in her clothes. No time to strip her. No time.
“I killed him,” Denise said tremulously. “I killed him.”
Hayley ran to her bedroom and yanked out black sweat pants, a matching zip-up jacket, and some underclothes. No time. No time at all before they came looking for her.
“Wash up,” Hayley ordered. “Do it now! I’ve got some clothes for you.”
Thirty minutes later Denise leaned weakly against the cushions of Hayley’s couch. She was propped up, but sliding down, as if her insides had turned to liquid. “I need Stoner,” she whimpered.
“Who?” Hayley paced in front of her.
“Stoner . . . Dr. Stone.”
“For God’s sake, Denise!”
“He’ll help me, since Dinah won’t.” Her voice was little-girl naive.
“Give me the number,” she demanded, reaching for her cell. Her own fingers shook so hard, she thought she heard them rattle.
A recorded message. An emergency number. Hayley called the emergency number and was told Dr. Stone would call her back. Expecting nothing, she jumped in fright when her cell rang back almost instantly.
“I’ll be right there,” he stated firmly and when he disconnected, the cell drifted from Hayley’s hand.
Dinah, she begged silently. Help us.
The police were thorough and inordinately tactful. They thought she was Denise, were confused when Connor Jackley informed them she was Denise’s twin. John stood by, staring out the window, an integral part of the proceedings, yet as removed as the planets.
There’d been no hiding the thunder egg. It had been scooped up, bagged, and tagged. She could hear it now. Exhibit A. Denise Scott’s fate was sealed.
Connor Jackley drifted to her side. “We don’t know what happened,” he reminded her quietly.
Dinah’s smile was wan. “Yes, we do.”
Connor conferred with the detectives. Dinah and John were released, though they were reminded that they would be questioned again. Big surprise.
Connor dropped them off at the Malibu house. “I need to call Uber,” Dinah told John tonelessly.
He nodded. She followed him inside where he sat heavily at the kitchen table. His scotch was where he’d left it, ice cubes melted, but he didn’t reach for it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
Dinah scarcely had the strength to answer. “She wanted this house. She wanted you. And she wanted me to keep things in place for her while she got help.”
His glance was swift and cut like a knife. He was thinking of their lovemaking. Dinah blushed painfully and looked away. “I only made things worse,” she murmured.
There was a weighty pause, then he asked, “Where do you think she is?”
Dinah shook her head.
Another deadly silence, then he nodded to her cell. “You calling Uber?”
Wrapped in misery, Dinah called up the app for the car service. She watched John as she ordered the car, but he didn’t look at her. Almost as an afterthought he retrieved his drink. Neither of them said a word.
She was floating . . . floating on a sea of memory. Bad memories, all bleeding together. She’d killed before. She’d killed again. Whoever said things got easier was right. This time she was anesthetized, numb, her limbs asleep in that familiar, slightly uncomfortable sensation, a billion tiny little needle pricks underneath her skin.
She wasn’t alone. Hayley was here, she realized dimly. And someone else. A warm, male body, holding her.
“Stoner,” she mumbled, her tongue thick.
“You’re in shock.” His voice sounded as if it were under water. Again that sensation of floating. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Not now.” She snuggled into his arms, breathing deeply. He smelled goooooood. None of that clinical stuff, she half expected of him. His scent was clean and crisp and tangy. A man’s aftershave she was
unfamiliar with.
Blurred voices all around her. Snatches of conversation. “. . . call the police . . . Wallace dead . . . turn herself in . . .”
“No!” Denise shouted, surfacing. “I don’t want anybody to know.”
“You’ve got to tell me what happened,” Stone said gently. She could hear the reverberations in her chest, a rumbling she found comforting.
“I killed him.”
“She keeps saying that.” Hayley’s voice, annoyed and scared.
“But he was still alive.”
“Yes.”
“And you dialed 911?”
A hesitation. “No,” Hayley answered grimly. “I hope he dies.”
“For God’s sake!”
A scramble for a cell phone and then Stone’s terse voice, giving directions. Moments later, “Someone called for an ambulance already.”
“Who?” Hayley asked, her voice frightened.
“Whoever discovered his body . . .”
Drifting . . . swaying . . . rocking. Denise lifted an eyelid and realized Stone was across the room, eyeing Hayley in that stern, almost angry way he sometimes employed. Jealousy stabbed her. Stoner was hers and hers alone.
“Look at her.” Hayley pointed to her. “You think I’d lift a finger to help him?”
They both turned her way. Vaguely, Denise realized how fat and cumbersome her face felt. Lambert had hit her. Hit her hard. Groaning, she buried her face in the pillows, realizing how awful she must look. The rub of the velveteen against her flesh burned. Tears of pain filled her eyes.
Stone was back, his hand on her arm. “Denise?”
“Go ’way.”
“You can’t hide out here. Hayley says you’ve been living with Lambert Wallace. Your fingerprints have got to be all over the place. It’s only a matter of time.” Brief pause. “And you need a doctor.”
“No time,” Hayley muttered.
“He beat you. That’s self-evident,” Stone went on quietly. “You need to tell the police.”
Awkwardly, Denise reached for his hand, unable to lift her face from the sanctuary of the pillow. His firm palm clasped hers warmly. “Hold me,” she whispered.