If it hadn’t been for Scott, she couldn’t have gotten through it.
He was a rock, as she had always suspected he would be in times of trouble.
After the first two days, when he barely left her side, he had to return to work, but he made sure she was never alone, although that meant his apartment—a big, airy, loft-style space on the top floor of a newly converted former downtown warehouse—always had people in it. Nola was there with her for hours at a time. In fact, it was because of Nola that she made a slightly unsettling discovery. Nola brought over some photo albums, and in looking through them in search of pictures of her mother to display at the funeral home, she found pictures of herself, at maybe two or three years old, sitting on the front steps of Grayson Springs while a dog lay panting at her feet. The dog was big and black, a dead ringer, she thought, for the dog in the picture with the Garcias, and the caption, written neatly in her mother’s hand beneath the picture, read Annalisa and Lucy.
So, there had been a dog named Lucy after all, although it had apparently belonged to her family and not to the Garcias. It was one more troubling coincidence, but almost as soon as she stumbled across it, she let it slide from her mind. All her energy had to go toward simply making it through the next few days.
Nola was not the only one to keep her company. Robin and Andy, nearly as riven with grief as she was, practically haunted the place, and paradoxically in attempting to comfort them she found some comfort for herself. Joel came, and for her sake he and Scott were perfectly civil. Barty stopped in with Jill and the boys, and stayed for the obligatory half-hour condolence call. For the first time ever Lisa was thankful for the existence of his second family, because their presence kept her from having to talk much to Barty, which she could hardly bring herself to do, given the terrible thing she was now pretty sure she knew about him. Not that he seemed to want to talk to her, either: Jill and her sons were left to carry the conversational load, while the few words she and Barty exchanged were as stilted and uncomfortable on his part as they were on hers.
Other friends visited, bearing flowers and cards and various other tokens of sympathy. Chase was in and out. So were the other kids, and Rinko and Jantzen. Scott’s brother, Ryan, who Lisa only vaguely remembered, came over several times. Martha’s friends were there in force, bringing with them full meals, soups, desserts, breads, so many that Scott soon ran out of room in his refrigerator, and every night devolved into an impromptu dinner party for whoever was over at that time. Most of the prosecutor’s office dropped by, which meant that any hope of keeping her and Scott’s relationship private had pretty much flown out the window by the end of the week. Not that she cared. She was too grief-stricken to care about much of anything, and Scott gave no indication that having everyone who worked for him know that they were a couple bothered him.
If it was going to be a problem, it was a problem that could be dealt with later. After the funeral, after the media hoopla had died down, after the police had found and charged the hit-and-run driver. What they were going to charge him with was still up in the air. The obligatory autopsy (which Lisa could hardly bear to think about) had revealed that Martha had not drowned, as Lisa had feared. Her heart had simply given out under the stress of the accident. Given Martha’s physical condition, the charge was more likely to be manslaughter than murder. Unless . . .
“What if it wasn’t an accident?”
The suspicion had been in her head almost since the moment the Jaguar had been struck, but it had taken days—until this moment, in fact—before Lisa felt strong enough to voice it. It was Sunday night, almost eleven-thirty, and the funeral was scheduled for the next day, Monday at five. She had spent most of the day at the funeral home, where Martha lay closed inside the beautiful bronze casket that Scott had helped her choose, where the line of people who had come to offer her a few words of condolence had stretched out the door and around the corner without letup for hours. At ten, Scott had taken her out of there despite the fact that some people still lingered, and she was now curled in a corner of his couch flipping channels as she sought anything to watch but the news, which featured regular updates on the accident that had claimed the life of the owner of the fabled Grayson Springs farm. The couch, like the matching chairs at either end, was black leather. The TV was a forty-two-inch plasma affixed to one of the exposed brick walls that was a feature of the combined living/dining/kitchen area. A number of steel-framed floor-to-ceiling windows, shades still open to the night because the height made it impossible for anyone to see in, looked out over Lexington’s sparkling skyline. Highly polished oak floors and chrome-and-glass tables added to the clean, contemporary look. There were two bedrooms, a master with a king-size bed, which she and Scott now shared, and another, which he had turned into a home office, and two and a half baths. It was all very sleek and modern, the perfect bachelor pad. To Lisa, it now felt like home.
“The crash?” Scott came out of the open galley kitchen where he’d been feeding the remains of their take-out dinner down the garbage disposal. They had both showered (separately, because sex, even phenomenal sex with Scott, was the last thing on Lisa’s mind these days, and he seemed to appreciate how she felt, and thus had made no moves even though she slept in his arms every night) and changed clothes since arriving back from the funeral home. He was wearing ratty gray sweatpants and a white tee that hugged his broad shoulders and clung to the muscles of his wide chest, while she had on a thin cotton summer nightgown covered up by his big blue terry-cloth robe, which she had borrowed and wore belted snugly around her waist. Her hair was loose; her legs and feet were bare. “It’s possible. But I checked, and your father was at a fund-raiser that night. A hundred people saw him there.”
His answer told her that he’d been suspicious, too, and acknowledged the fact that if the accident wasn’t in fact an accident, if the death of her mother was the result of a deliberate act, then the most likely reason would be because of Lisa’s connection to the Garcia case, which would make the most likely perpetrator their prime suspect, her father.
The thought tore at Lisa’s soul.
She could feel her heart start to thump with agitation. “I wouldn’t expect him to do something like that himself.”
“No, probably not.”
“If he was involved—he killed my mother.” Her voice shook. “If he did it—if he had someone do it—I want to go after him. For the Garcias and everything. I don’t care if he is my damned father.”
“If he did anything that led to Miss Martha’s death, all bets are off,” he agreed, stopping beside the couch to look down at her. “I’m already having that angle checked out, okay? You trust me to do that, don’t you?”
She nodded. The truth was, she would trust him with anything.
“Then stop worrying about it. I’ll let you know what comes up.” Scott dropped down on the couch beside her and took the remote out of her hand. “You want to watch a movie?”
She looked at him. One arm draped casually behind her, his legs sprawled out in front of him, and he was clicking through the On Demand listings. His hair was tousled, his jaw was unshaven, and he looked really tired. No wonder, she thought. He had a couple of big trials under way, plus the usual stuff that came through the DA’s office on a regular basis, and over the last week he’d been staying up half the night with her because without the sedatives, which she was no longer taking, she couldn’t sleep. When she did, she woke up screaming as the accident replayed itself in her mind.
Watching movies together late at night had become something they did.
Shifting positions, she curled against his side and rested her head on the now familiar pillow of his shoulder. Glancing down at her, he slid his arm around her and then smiled at her as their eyes met.
“You are so good to me,” she told him. “Thank you.”
“No thanks required.” His voice was a little dry. He looked back at the TV. “How about Independence Day?”
“Sounds good.”
She’d already learned that he had a penchant for action movies. Settling in comfortably, she prepared to pass the next two and a half hours in a state of near-mindless numbness that was preferable to the alternative.
By the time the final credits rolled, they were both stretched out at full length on the couch, and Lisa had fallen asleep.
She only became aware of it when she felt herself being picked up. Her eyes snapped open, she saw nothing but a whole lot of dark, and she stiffened in sudden panic.
“It’s okay. The movie’s over, you fell asleep, and I’m taking you to bed.” Scott’s voice provided instant reassurance. He was carrying her. She could see him as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and she relaxed against him, curling her arms around his neck. No harm could come to her if Scott was there: That was the thought that flitted through her mind as a week’s worth of exhaustion finally overcame her and she fell asleep again before he had even put her down on the bed.
Only to dream, terribly, of her mother’s white-faced body floating in the black depths of the river.
She woke up and sat bolt upright, shaking and gasping for air.
“Lisa?” Scott sounded sleepy. She glanced around at him. There was enough light coming through the windows to allow her to see, she discovered, although the bedside clock said it was three twenty-two a.m. and the room was dark. She had been sleeping in his arms, and he had rolled onto his back when she sat up. Now he lay there, his head on his pillow, the covers twisted around his waist—he slept in his boxers, so his chest was bare—blinking at her. Hands clenching, she fought to keep the hysteria that clutched at her out of her voice. There was no need for them both to pass sleepless nights.
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” She was proud of how steady her voice was.
He made a sound that was part snort, part unamused laugh, and caught her arm, tugging her down beside him. Craving the comfort he offered, she didn’t resist, letting him pull her against him, wrapping her own arm around his waist as his arms came around her. He felt warm and solid and wonderfully safe against her, and she gave up the fight to suffer alone and snuggled close.
“Bad dream?” he asked.
She nodded. Then she took a deep breath.
“I miss her.” She couldn’t help it. Her voice was wobbly. “All my life—she was there. She was the only real family I have.”
“Nah,” Scott said. “You’ve got me.”
Lisa closed her eyes. “She loved you.”
“She asked me to take care of you, you know. In her hospital room, one night when you were busy talking to Loverboy out there in the hall. I promised her I would.” He paused, and she felt him tense a little. “She knew I was in love with you almost before I figured it out myself, I think.”
Lisa’s eyes opened. For a moment she forgot to breathe. She stared at him, wishing there was more light so that she could see something of his expression instead of just the shadowy outline of his face and the gleam of his eyes.
“What did you just say?” she asked faintly.
“You heard me: I’m in love with you.”
“You’re in love with me.” Her tone made it a statement rather than a question. She was surprised—and yet she wasn’t. The connection between them that had always been there, the chemistry, even the friction and baiting and occasional bouts of intense dislike: What else could it add up to? “Oh my God, Scott.”
His body still felt tense against hers. “‘Oh my God, Scott’? What the hell does that mean?”
Lisa sucked in air.
“It means I’m in love with you, too,” she said, the words very clear, very sure. Then she slid an arm around his neck and slithered up his body and kissed him.
“I love you.” This time he said it against her mouth, in a husky murmur as she pressed her lips to his, and when she replied in kind, he kissed her back and his arms came hard around her and he rolled with her. Then they went up in flames, the two of them, their bodies coming together in a kind of spontaneous combustion that burned away everything else with its heat.
Afterward, for the first time since her mother’s death, Lisa slept dreamlessly, wrapped in his arms.
The funeral was every bit as bad as she had imagined it would be. The only thing that kept her from breaking down completely was Scott’s stalwart presence at her side. The church was filled to overflowing, and local media was out in force. At the grave site, the police had to set up a barricade to keep the television crews at bay. Then, later, they went to the country club for the expected after-burial reception that was traditionally held at the home of the deceased, which unfortunately everyone understood was not possible in this case. Lisa was standing there in the main dining room in her sleeveless black funeral sheath and black pumps, red-eyed and pink-nosed but tearless now, as she was all cried out. She was trying to make polite conversation with one of her mother’s many friends while hardly knowing what she was saying when Scott came up to her.
“Excuse us a minute, would you please?” he said to the old lady, who gave him an admiring smile. Which didn’t surprise Lisa, because in his black suit and tie he was looking very hot. He took her arm and steered her out to a back hallway, where, except for a few of the wait-staff, they were alone.
“What is it?” It had taken her a moment to notice how grim he was looking, but now that she did she felt a stirring of alarm.
“Detective Watson just called. He wants us to head out to Grayson Springs as soon as we can.” He hesitated, his hand sliding restlessly up and down her bare arm. “They’ve found a baby’s skeleton buried in the garden.”
32
By the time they reached Grayson Springs, a crowd had gathered. Lisa was almost glad of it, because being surprised at the sheer number of people she could see behind the house and the variety of vehicles parked in the driveway and on the lawn served to lessen the ache that seeing the house caused her. The house was such a potent reminder of her mother that she felt a wave of grief just looking at it.
Suck it up, she ordered herself fiercely as she felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of strangers—or TV cameras.
Besides a number of police cars, of course, and an ambulance and the Woodford County coroner’s van and another official van that she thought belonged to the forensics unit, trucks from three different TV stations were present. There were other work truck-type vehicles she suspected must belong to the construction workers who were still on the scene, although their work almost certainly had been stopped by the grisly discovery. A large number of other random cars apparently belonged to the small crowd of neighbors and curiosity seekers that was bunched not far beyond the porte cochere, craning their necks in the direction of the walled gardens.
Scott pulled into the grass and drove around the massed vehicles to the side of the house, getting as close to the scene as he could before parking the Jeep. Then they walked the rest of the way to where maybe a dozen official-looking types bustled in and around the back garden. Obviously having been barred from coming any closer, camera crews were filming from the periphery, and one TV reporter recognized Lisa and called to her, inviting her over for an interview. Lisa shook her head and kept walking. Crime scene tape cordoned off the gardens, but Scott lifted it for Lisa to duck under and followed suit himself. Near the back porch, a knot of construction workers, hard hats in hand, stood talking to a uniformed police officer who was taking notes. The foreman, Bill Bruin, whom Lisa had talked to several times, waved at her, and she waved back. A yellow bulldozer had been abandoned near the Baby’s Garden, and as they drew closer, Lisa saw that part of the brick wall surrounding it had been knocked down and the fountain itself had toppled over. A woman in the blue jumpsuit of the Woodford County forensics unit was taking pictures of the area where the fountain had stood, and two men in blue jumpsuits knelt beside the hole that had been left when the fountain had fallen over. The surrounding roses were in full, colorful bloom, but their scent was even stronger
than it should have been, which, Lisa discovered as she and Scott reached the entrance to the garden and started walking down the brick path toward the fountain, was because a number of the bushes had been crushed.
Detective Watson had been staring down at the hole where the fountain had been. He glanced up as they neared him, then headed toward them. The three of them met just a few feet from where the forensics team now worked with such care.
“Miss Grant. Buchanan.” He nodded at her and shook Scott’s hand, his expression grave. “First, let me say how sorry I am for the loss of your mother, Miss Grant.”
“Thank you.”
“What’ve you got?” Scott asked, his tone brusque.
“Like I told you on the phone: the skeleton of a baby. It was found buried back here under the fountain. Dozer driver lost control; the dozer backed over the brick wall and knocked into the fountain. When he moved his machine, he saw the skeleton.” His eyes moved back to Lisa. “You ever heard of any baby being buried in your garden, Miss Grant?”
Lisa shook her head as a terrible coldness began to steal through her veins. If there was a baby buried in the garden, the question that had to be asked was: Whose baby? The property had belonged to her mother’s family for generations.
“No.”
Scott’s hand curled around her arm. She could feel the steely strength in his fingers.
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