“You know that sweepstakes ticket you gave me?”
Keegan lowers the sandwich. “What about it?”
“That charity is bogus.”
“No way.” The food he just swallowed churns in Keegan’s stomach. “Are you sure?”
“Yup. I’m telling you, these crooks are all over the city.”
“Bud, Jennie’s out on Tide Island for the weekend, courtesy of that bogus charity.”
“Yeah, you told me that before. At least whoever put this scam together awarded the prize. They usually don’t.”
“Why would they?” Keegan asks, trying to ignore the chill that’s creeping through him.
“I don’t know—probably to keep people from being suspicious. You know, they probably figure that whoever wins will tell people about it, which means those people will be more likely to buy tickets for that same so-called charity the next time around.”
“I guess . . .”
“Listen, Keegan, do you know the name of the place where Jennie’s staying on the island? I’m going to call the management there and see what they can tell me about whoever made the arrangements.”
“I don’t know the name of the inn, but I’ll find out for you. Her sister Laura will know.”
“Good. Give me a call back when you get it.”
“I will.” Keegan puts the sandwich aside, rewrapping it, then shoving it back into the Subway bag. He no longer has an appetite. “Hopefully, Laura will be home now. If not, I’ll keep trying tonight until I get her.”
“No big rush.”
Maybe not for you, Keegan thinks, saying goodbye to Buddy and hanging up. But he can’t help feeling a sense of urgency. The sooner he tracks Jennie down, the better.
With swift but fumbling fingers, he begins dialing the familiar number of the Back Bay town house.
Trembling from head to toe, Sandy tears her eyes away from Stephen Gilbrooke’s strangely expressionless face.
For the first time, she looks into the room behind him, the one beyond the French doors. What she sees there is puzzling, so puzzling that she glances at him again, wondering if this is some kind of joke.
“What do you think, Sandy?” he asks in a low, crooning voice. “Isn’t it lovely?”
She stammers that it is, then takes an involuntary step backward when he reaches for her arm.
“What’s the matter?” he barks. “You don’t want me to touch you? You don’t want me near you? Just like before?”
“I’m sorry,” she says helplessly, forcing herself to remain still as his fingers close over her wrist.
“Come with me, Sandy.”
He propels her through the doors, then stops and sweeps a hand through the air. “This is for you. I did all of this for you.”
She nods, afraid that if she tries to speak, she’ll sob.
The room is enormous, with a delicate crystal chandelier hanging in the center. It must have been a ballroom once, Sandy thinks vaguely as she takes in the scene before her.
The music wafting from the portable stereo on a table—“Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof.
The rows of white folding chairs.
The white runner stretched along the center aisle.
The vases of red roses that are everywhere, filling the air with a floral scent so overpowering that Sandy feels dizzy.
Stephen lets go of Sandy’s arm, and she glances wildly about, looking for a place to run.
But then he’s grabbing onto her again with one hand and waving something at her with the other.
Puzzled she can only gape.
It’s a hanger . . .
On it is a white dress . . .
A wedding dress.
“I had this made for you,” Stephen is saying.
His words aren’t sinking in.
Sandy stares at the dress, her mind racing.
He’s crazy. I have to get out of here.
“I said, put it on,” Stephen shouts, pinching her arm painfully.
“I’m sorry. . . . I didn’t hear you.” Sandy winces as he thrusts the dress at her with a rustle of silk. Her fingers automatically close around the fabric.
“Good. Now wear it.”
“But—”
“Now.” Stephen steps back and folds his arms, watching her. “It should fit perfectly.”
“But how . . .”
“I had it made just for you. It wasn’t hard to do. All I had to do was find out your size, and that was easy. Your co-worker at Greenbury Gal was very cooperative.”
Greenbury Gal. The store where Sandy bought the outfit she has on right now, the special outfit for her date with Ethan Thoreau . . . who doesn’t even exist.
“Andrea told you what size I wear?” Sandy asks incredulously, staring at Stephen Gilbrooke’s smirking face. “Why would she do that?”
“Why does anyone do anything? Money. And I’ve got plenty of it. But then, Sandy, you already know that, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just put the dress on. And the veil.”
Sandy glances down and sees the layer of illusion netting that’s fastened to a headpiece looped around the top of the hanger.
Then she looks up at Stephen again.
“I don’t want to wear this,” she says resolutely, hoping he’ll back down. He always was a wimp.
For a long moment, he just stares back at her and she fights not to let herself break the eye contact.
Then he reaches into the inside pocket of his black tuxedo coat and pulls something out.
It’s a butcher knife.
“If I were you, Sandy,” he says in a quiet, lethal tone, “I’d put on the wedding gown.”
Laura sits on Shawn’s rumpled twin bed, bouncing impatiently as he unpacks his luggage, tossing nearly everything into the blue plastic laundry basket on the floor.
“I can’t believe you went away for over a month and didn’t make your bed before you left,” she says, leaning back against the pillow.
“Well, not everyone is as good a housekeeper as you are.” Shawn holds a folded T-shirt up to his nose, sniffs the sleeve, makes a face, and tosses it into the basket.
“I just like to keep things in order,” Laura lies, toying with the frayed edge of his beige comforter.
What would Shawn say if he knew she’s a bigger slob than he is? So far, she’s managed to fool him, cleaning her room every time she knows he’s coming over. The rest of the place always looks fine . . . as long as Jennie’s around.
At the thought of her sister, Laura sits up again and checks her watch.
“In a rush to get someplace?” Shawn asks, glancing up at her.
She pins on a sexy smile and purrs, “Yeah. Home. With you.”
“In that case . . .” He crosses over to the bed and leans down to give her a long, lingering kiss. “Why bother going back to your place?”
“For one thing, I have a double bed.”
“The smaller the cozier,” Shawn says, patting the mattress.
“And you have three roommates. Not to mention paper-thin walls.”
“So? Eddie’s over at Lisa’s apartment, and Craig and J.C. never hang around at home on Saturday nights. They’re probably getting ready to go out as we speak.”
“In this weather?” She looks toward the rain-spattered window. “It’s crappy out there.”
“Right. All the more reason for you and me to stay here.”
“But—”
Shawn silences her with another kiss. This time, his expert hands slide down over her shoulders and up under her shirt. The moment his warm fingers encounter her bare skin, Laura moans and leans back helplessly.
“I kinda thought you’d change your mind,” Shawn murmurs, trailing hot kisses along her neck.
Jennie looks around the rose-papered room and tells Liza, “It’s nice.”
“Get serious. It looks like it was decorated for someone’s Sweet Sixteen.”
Jennie sighs. “Some people, including me, like a
ntiques and floral prints.”
“And some people, including me, like grown-up stuff. . . . Oh, God, Laura, I’m sorry.”
Jennie raises an eyebrow at Liza, who sinks onto the edge of the bed and rakes her manicured nails through her hair. She looks exhausted all of a sudden.
“I’m just stressed,” Liza says, “and when I’m stressed, I get bitchy.”
Jennie nods, thinking that Liza’s pretty bitchy all the time. But right now, she’s all Jennie has, and sitting here with Liza is better than sitting in her own room, alone.
She suddenly hears a creaking sound above and looks at the ceiling, wondering if Jasper Hammel is on the third floor. There has been no sign of him since dinner.
Liza, too, glances up, then at Jennie. “We probably should have just gotten out of here—gone with that guy.”
“Who?”
“Patrick Gerkin—who else?”
Jennie shrugs. “It’s too late now.” The man had left after telling them again where the Congregational church was and that, if they were evacuated, they should bring blankets and pillows with them.
“He seemed normal, at least. Although anyone who lives on Tide Island year-round can’t be all that normal.”
“Some people say the same thing about people who live on Manhattan Island,” Jennie quietly points out.
“True,” Liza says, and to Jennie’s surprise, she grins. “You know, Laura, I’m really glad you’re here. I’d hate to be stuck alone . . . or with Sandy. She’d drive me nuts with all her chattering.”
Just when I thought she was being nice, Jennie thinks.
“I wonder where she is?” Liza asks then, sobering. “You think she’s in some kind of trouble?”
“I have no idea.”
“If she is in trouble, Jasper Hammel must have something to do with it.”
“Unless Sandy lied to him about leaving,” Jennie points out.
“Why would she do that? And anyway, we know he lied. About the ferry schedule.”
“Maybe he was just telling us what Sandy told him.” Jennie wants desperately to believe that.
Liza shakes her head. “Wouldn’t you think he’d know there’s no late Saturday ferry? After all, he’s been on this island for a while.”
“Not that long. Maybe he doesn’t know.”
“You want to believe that he’s not up to anything.”
Jennie hesitates, then nods. “I guess I do.”
“Well, so do I. But, Laura . . .” She pauses to yawn, then continues, “I’m positive something’s going on. And, to tell you the truth, I’m a little rattled. I thought it just had something to do with me, but—”
“What do you mean?”
Liza pauses, then exhales heavily and says, “When I kept missing Yates, I started to think someone got me out here to this crazy place as some kind of practical joke.”
“Who would do that?”
“I have no idea,” Liza says quickly. Too quickly. “But anyway, now that something’s up with Sandy, I wonder if maybe . . .”
She trails off, and after a few moments of silence, Jennie says, “You wonder if what’s going on with Sandy—if anything is going on—has anything to do with you?”
“Something like that.”
“But she’s a total stranger, isn’t she?”
“Of course she is.”
“Well then . . .”
Liza throws up her hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling. . . .”
You’re not the only one, Jennie thinks.
“Laura, what should we do?” Liza asks, looking frightened and vulnerable—not Liza-like at all.
“What can we do?” She shrugs. “I mean, there’s no way to leave the island now—and anyway,” she adds, catching herself, “why would we? Nothing has really happened.”
Maybe if I keep saying that, I’ll start believing that there’s nothing strange about this place. That it’s just my own stupid paranoia getting the best of me . . . again.
“You’re right,” Liza says abruptly, standing and stifling another yawn. “I’m really tired . . .”
There’s nothing for Jennie to do but stand and say, “Me, too. I’m going back to my room.”
Even though she isn’t tired.
Even though she knows she won’t sleep a wink tonight.
“Okay. G’night,” Liza says, stretching. Her eyelids already seem droopy.
“Night.” Jennie pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “If you . . . you know, want to talk or anything, you can knock on my door.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Jennie nods and slips out into the hall, then freezes when she hears another creak from above. She glances at the stairway that leads to the third floor, wondering what’s up there. For a moment, she contemplates finding out.
The wind suddenly picks up outside, slamming into the house with a high-pitched howl, and Jennie shivers.
No, there’s no way she’s going to go sneaking around this place, taking a chance of bumping into Jasper Hammel . . . or someone else.
Instead, she hurries down the hall to her room.
She locks the door firmly behind her.
There. You’re perfectly safe now.
But somehow, she can’t quite convince herself of that.
“It fits perfectly, doesn’t it?” Stephen croons, staring at Sandy as though he’s mesmerized.
She’s trembling uncontrollably as she stands before him in the white wedding dress, the veil perched precariously on her head so that a layer of illusion falls over her face.
She hopes that he can’t see how frightened she is, can’t see the tears that keep rolling down her cheeks to land on the white silk gown.
“It’s not too tight in the waist, is it, Sandy?”
She shakes her head mutely.
“Is it?” he bites out, and she cringes.
“No,” she says in a small voice, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.
“Good. Because you’re fat, and I’d hate to have that pot belly of yours bursting through the dress. I paid a lot of money to have it made just for you.”
“Th-thank you.”
“I have shoes for you, too. Here you go.” He holds up a pair of rhinestone-encrusted, white-satin slippers. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
She nods.
“Just like Cinderella,” he says, crouching before her and helping her slide her stockinged feet into the shoes. The heels are impossibly high. “A perfect fit. Just like Cinderella,” he repeats, standing again and looking at her, “and I’m your prince.”
“Yes, you are.”
Just keep talking to him, she tells herself, trying to ward off the panic that threatens to overtake her. Just act as though this is normal.
As though you aren’t the least bit alarmed at having been kidnapped by a psycho from your past.
As though you didn’t mind undressing while he stood there leering at you.
As though you don’t think he’s out of his mind, forcing you to put on this wedding gown and veil.
As though you aren’t terrified of what he’s going to do next.
“This,” Stephen says gallantly, presenting a bouquet with a sweep of his arm, “is for you. I know how you love roses. Red roses . . . the color of blood,” he adds in a faraway voice.
“Th-thank you,” she whispers raggedly, taking the flowers in her trembling hands.
“Now it’s time, Sandy,” he says, taking her arm firmly and leading her to the end of the white runner on wobbling ankles, her skirt rustling along the floor as she moves. “I’m going to walk to the front of the room and wait, and I want you to come down the aisle when your music starts.”
Bile rises in her throat, gagging her, and she forces it back, unable to speak.
“You know which music I mean, Sandy, don’t you?”
She shakes her head, her mind whirling.
I have to get away. I have to get out of here before he . . .
Before he hurts me
.
Or worse.
“The wedding march, of course. You know . . . Here comes the bride . . . dum dum da dum,” he sings cheerfully. “You’ll recognize it. It’s coming up next. Now,” he adds, letting go of her arm and giving it a pat, “don’t start walking until your music starts.”
“I won’t,” she promises, and braces herself.
It’s now or never, she thinks as he turns his back and starts walking up the aisle, careful to step on the floor at the edge of the runner.
When Stephen is almost at the first row of seats, Sandy tosses the bouquet aside, kicks off the satin pumps, grabs her skirt, and runs.
Back through the French doors and into the parlor, then the foyer, and then, because she knows the front door is locked, up the stairs.
Up the stairs? What are you doing? she screams at herself frantically as she reaches the second-floor hall. How are you supposed to escape now? There’s no way out!
She hears him cursing and chasing after her, approaching the bottom of the stairs. After a split-second pause, she turns and runs down the long hall. She has to hide someplace . . .
In one of the bedrooms.
And then what?
He’ll find you! her mind shrieks. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll find you!
Blindly, she throws a door open at the end of the hall and finds herself in a study. She closes the door behind her, then flattens her back against it and tries to catch her breath without making a sound.
His running footsteps have come to an abrupt halt, and she hears him coming down the hall. “Lorraine? Where are you?”
Lorraine? Whom is he talking to?
“Come on out, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you,” he says plaintively. “I’ll never hurt you again. Why did you run away? You were going to be my bride, Lorraine. We were going to get married and live happily ever after. Come out, Lorraine. Please.”
He’s sobbing now, and Sandy holds her breath, praying that he’ll just go away.
But Sandy hears him opening doors along the hallway, looking into the rooms, trying to find her.
He thinks I’m someone else . . .
“Please don’t leave me, Lorraine. I’ll give you anything. . . . I’ll give you everything. Everything you want. Please stay. Don’t leave like the others . . .”
He’s insane.
Dearly Beloved Page 16