by Lisa Jackson
“Stop it! Jeeves, cut it out! No barking! Zero. Got it?” Dressed in a puffy coat, stocking cap, and leggings, the woman tugged on the leash to give Rory an apologetic half smile. “He won’t bite, really. He’s . . . he’s a sweetheart. Just a little territorial on the leash.”
Rory gave a quick nod and circumvented the dog to head down a service alley between two of the buildings on the hotel property. Around a corner she made her way past garbage bins and parked cars that nearly blocked the narrow lane. At the far end of the alley, she found her way to the side of the hotel property and hastened to the hundred-year-old staircase leading down to the shores of Lake Washington.
* * *
The last notes from the organ slowly faded away, the music seeming to hover on the breeze, leaving a gap of expectance.
Liam’s throat was dry. He could hardly work up any spit. He checked his phone again, but there were no further texts from Rory. He’d been momentarily relieved at the last one. Problem with the dress? Okay. He could wait. But it sure had been a lot longer than “a sec” . . .
The tails of his tuxedo jacket whipped in a sudden gust of wind. Some of the guests ducked their heads or threw up a hand to catch escaping hair and hats, but no bride appeared through the wall of greenery.
Derek exhaled heavily through his nose.
“I’m getting to the bottom of this,” Liam said as he caught a glimpse of Rory’s mother, Darlene, the matron of honor, peering nervously from a crack near the arbor.
“Wait,” Derek advised, his hand around Liam’s upper arm.
“No.”
“You’re already married, man. It’s not like she can get cold feet. Didn’t she say she hit some kind of snag and was on her way?”
“I don’t like it.” Something was off. Really wrong.
“Give it five more minutes. What will that hurt?” Derek flashed a smile meant to be calming.
It wasn’t.
“Trust me, you don’t want to mess this up any more than it already is,” Derek added.
“Fine. Two minutes. That’s it.”
“Chill out.”
No way in hell. He didn’t care if he mortified his mother by chasing after his wife. He didn’t give a damn about this ceremony.
“More music,” Derek suggested, and Liam, jaw set, nodded shortly to the organist, who drew a breath and started in once more.
The guests couldn’t decide whether there was a problem or not. Liam’s father, Geoff, was tight-lipped, and his mother stared straight ahead, forcing a tight smile, trying to hide the faintly triumphant look on her face. Stella had never liked Rory. And he could practically hear the I told you so swimming around in his mother’s head. Now, standing at the altar, Liam turned his gaze to his ex-girlfriend. Bethany’s blond hair was pinned up in some kind of knot that resisted the wind, similar to his mother’s coif, and her face was serene. From her seat next to her new boyfriend, her plus-one, she caught Liam’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow, questioning.
He let his gaze slide from Bethany to his sister, Vivian, who was easy to pick out in her canary-yellow dress and wide-brimmed hat. Vivian’s choice had caused Stella to groan, but Liam had inwardly applauded her. Derek had looked at the hat and drawled, “You’re not meeting the queen of England.”
Viv had snapped back in a dead-on British accent, “Shut up, fuck-face.”
Now, he caught his sister’s eye. In her swirl of yellow, she gazed at him, brows also lifting in the unspoken question. Viv was the one member of his family who’d accepted Rory. “Come on, it’s obvious he loves her, what’re you going to do?” she’d said to their mother. “Clamp a chastity belt around him, lock him up and throw away the key?” She’d grinned wickedly. “Ooops. Too late for that, isn’t it? He’s already married.”
And then a smattering of rain hit the congregation.
“I’m not waiting any longer,” Liam muttered to his brother.
“Huh. I thought you’d be the one to call it off first.”
“I’m going to go find her.”
Derek’s hand clasped his upper arm. “She’s not going to give up Bastian millions. She’ll get here.”
“You don’t know a thing about her.”
“Nor, it seems, do you.”
Roughly, Liam jerked his arm back. Damn it, Rory, he thought, what the hell’s going on?
* * *
Hurrying down the slippery wooden steps, she clung to the rail and shut out all thoughts of the wedding and forced herself to mentally check off all the items in her bag: Phone, underwear, makeup bag, two thousand dollars in hundreds, my grandmother’s silver locket, gold band Liam gave me at our marriage, our real marriage . . . phone, underwear, makeup bag, two thousand dollars in hundreds . . .
At a landing, she turned her face to the rain, looked down at the water, drew a breath, and checked her phone. No more texts. No return call. “Come on,” she said. At the bottom of the stairs she dialed again the number of the one person she thought could help her: Uncle Kent, “The Magician.” Kent Daley wasn’t a magician and he wasn’t her uncle or any kind of relative, but he could do magical things, like bury dead bodies where they’d never be found, metaphorically speaking, and he treated her like a favorite child. She’d thought of him often during her whirlwind romance with Liam, sensing she might need him, as she’d feared the marriage would be doomed before it began. He’d warned her to be careful when he’d learned she was marrying a Bastian. “People with money don’t play by our rules, princess,” he’d said. “They don’t understand us, and we don’t understand them. Not fully. Not the way we need to. You understand?”
She’d answered that she did, but now she realized she hadn’t.
And The Magician’s advice hadn’t stopped her from marrying Liam. Nothing could have deterred her. She’d trusted from her soul, wanting something good so badly she was willing to risk ultimate heartbreak. Even so, she’d called Uncle Kent before the grandiose ceremony, jokingly asking if he was available just in case she decided she wanted his special kind of “magic.”
“You need me, I’ll be there,” he assured her.
His serious tone had brought instant tears to her eyes. “No, I’m just kidding. You sure you can’t come to the wedding?”
“Not a scene I’m comfortable with.”
She’d nodded. Though it was left mostly unsaid, they both had known you didn’t invite a man like The Magician to your wedding. At least not to a Bastian over-the-top society extravaganza. Uncle Kent lived on the edge of legal, and purposely kept to the shadows. Having some members of her own family attend created enough complications already.
“You take care with those people,” was his final warning. “Remember, their money doesn’t make them special. They’re no better than the rest of us.”
Now, though, his promises seemed as thin as tissue paper as he hadn’t called back. Damn it all. Frantically, she texted him again:
I need you. ASAP!
The phone rang in her hand. She looked down and nearly cried with relief. Uncle Kent!
“I’m in trouble,” she blurted into the phone.
He didn’t waste time. “I just heard your message. Where are you?”
“At the bottom of the stairs from the hotel to the lake. I’m—”
“I know it. I’ll be there, but don’t turn south. Not to the marina. Okay? Walk the path north to the private homes. Get to the first private dock.”
“Oh, God.”
Her lashes starred with tears.
She was leaving Liam.
Forever.
He would never forgive her.
* * *
The rain had drifted to a faint sprinkle. The organist looked at Liam as she folded her hands and the music faded away. An uncomfortable moment passed. This time it was Derek who nodded to her, and she immediately straightened and apparently took it as a signal to start once again. But instead of Pachelbel’s Canon, she hit the first loud chords of “Here Comes the Bride.”
Everyo
ne rose to their feet. Liam jerked around to look at Derek as the guests stood up. Derek waggled his head and lifted his palms, as surprised as Liam, but then he shrugged and said, “Well, either she’s coming or she’s not.”
Liam snapped his attention back to where Rory would first appear. He was very afraid that Rory wasn’t going to show. What he saw was Rory’s mother reluctantly starting down the aisle, but her smile was forced and she stared at Liam questioningly as she stepped over the strewn rose petals.
Everyone looked expectant and Liam straightened, hands clasped in front of him, praying silently that Rory would appear, sensing deep down that something was terribly, horribly wrong.
But then the music ran on . . . and on . . . and on . . .
No bride.
No text.
He checked. For the dozenth time.
Come on, Rory. Come on.
His hands were clenched, his gaze riveted to the empty arbor.
When the organist got to the end of the song, Liam signaled her to stop. No need to go on. Murmurs of surprise broke out in the crowd and Liam’s father stalked up to his sons, the fading sun touching his silver hair, making it seem to glow.
“Where the hell is she?” Geoff Bastian stated tightly.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to have to call this off, son. You’ve disgraced your mother.”
“Stella’ll get over it,” Derek drawled.
“That girl—” Geoff shook his head and bit off his remark, though he clearly had a lot more to say.
“I’ll go find her. You should sit back down,” Liam told his father.
Derek said, “No, Liam, you stay here. I’ll find her and—”
“I’m going,” Liam snapped.
“Liam,” Derek said long-sufferingly, but Liam had already taken a few steps down the aisle after his father.
Aaron suddenly appeared from behind the hedge. Liam stopped short. Thank God! But Aaron’s face was grim as he ran up the bridal path, crushing the petals. Liam’s heart froze. What? What? “Where’s—”
Blam! Blam! Blam!
He whipped around. The sharp reports were deafening. Had a car backfired?
“What?” he asked at the same moment a woman at the end of the row nearest him began screaming, followed by others.
Not a car. Shots!
The world seemed to spin in slow motion. He watched as Aaron went down in a sprawling heap, pink petals fluttering upward.
Where the hell were the shots coming from? Panic ensued, people screaming and crying, running and knocking over everything and everyone.
Liam started to move toward Aaron.
Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!
His body jerked as the first bullet struck. He staggered, but the force knocked him off his feet. The side of his head slammed against the ground.
Screams had turned to shrieks. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.
Someone was barking orders. A security guard?
“Move it. Get inside. Move it!” he hollered.
Lifting his head slightly, Liam caught a weird, panoramic view, as if he were looking through a distorted wide-angle lens at what had been the wedding venue. His father collapsed a few feet from him. People sprawled on the ground, crawling frantically, staining their expensive clothes. Others running wildly. Overturned chairs. Collapsed tables. Upended wineglasses. Shards of glass glittering amongst the grass and rose petals.
Frantic people scrambling to their feet, trying to escape the rain of bullets.
An older woman edged across the ground, her silvery skirt hiked above mud-stained knees as she sought cover behind the pathetically narrow protection of the white folding chairs.
Rory?
Where was she?
A new terror gripped him and he forced himself to his knees.
His head swam. He was vaguely aware of his sister’s canary-yellow hat blowing across the grounds beyond the chairs as if it were trying to escape. And in the corner of his eye he spied his mother staggering into a heap beside Vivian, who was curled around a chair in a yellow ball.
No! he thought disjointedly. No, Viv! No, no!
He heard a noise. A cry of agony, and turned to spy Aaron writhing on the path, chairs upended all around him, his face twisted in pain. Blood showed on his white shirt, blooming a bright red.
“Up there! On the roof!” someone yelled. “The parking garage! The shooter’s there!”
“He’s shooting us! He’s shooting us!” someone else cried.
The security guard was barking into his cell phone, “The South Lake Inn, that’s right! An active shooter. Shot the hell out of a wedding here. I’ve got people down . . . what? I don’t know. Injured for sure. Possibly dead. For the love of God, get someone here now!”
Someone was running. Footsteps pounding. Pandemonium ensuing.
Groggily, Liam twisted his neck and caught a glimpse of the edge of the parking garage. He blinked . . . was there a man peering over the ledge?
“Get down!”
“Run!”
People ran past him.
He tried to stand. Pain speared through him.
He wobbled.
My leg, he thought in a detached way, looking down at his thigh where blood was soaking through a hole in his pant leg. A bullet to his femoral artery? The thought was fleeting, somehow seeming not related to the moment.
Everything in the surrounding chaos seemed surreal, as if in a distorted dream. The screaming, crying guests, the organist shivering behind the keyboard player, the minister leaning over a fallen man. The security guard, a gun in one hand, phone in the other, spitting out information to the phone, frantically waving people into the building.
Liam’s right hand moved automatically to clutch at his gut and he mentally ordered himself to pull it away. When he saw the bloody fingers, he glanced at his once white, now red, shirt. Another bullet to his midsection.
This could be bad, he noted in wonder, distantly aware his reaction was all wrong.
He was on his feet now, swaying, managing one more step.
Derek was suddenly next to him, swearing viciously as he grabbed hold of his brother. “Shit, man!” Derek’s face was white and drawn. “Lie down. Lie the fuck down! Do you want to bleed out?”
“Rory?” he asked. Did he hear sirens?
“She’s not here!” his brother babbled in shock, taking Liam’s weight as Liam felt himself falling. “She’s in the wind!”
“Where is—?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Her own damned wedding. Where is she? Don’t you die on me, Liam. Oh, shit. Don’t do this, man, don’t you do this!” Derek’s white face swam into his vision.
Liam struggled to hold on, but there was no escape from the blackness coming for him, the sensation of sweet oblivion calling.
“Liam!” A pause. “Help! I need medical help here! Liam . . . Liam! Jesus . . .”
Just before he passed out, slumped heavily into his brother’s arms, Liam suffered a moment of terrible clarity: Rory knew about the assault. Somehow, some way, Rory knew.
Chapter 1
Portland, Oregon
Five years later . . .
Most every window of the storefronts on the street level had been smashed or broken and the ones recently installed to the apartments above, still sporting their manufacturing stickers, weren’t in much better shape. Though intact, all save for one were starred and cracked, possibly from the small piece of concrete at Liam’s feet.
Derek ripped off his hard hat and threw it on the ground. “This keeps happening, we’ll go broke!”
The sound of an electric saw buzzing on an upper floor was a steady noise he had to shout over. Liam yelled, “Put that back on.”
“I don’t give a damn what falls on my head.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“What should I be, huh? Calm and frozen like you? This has been going on too long and I know who’s behind it.”
“Random vandalism,” Liam
said.
“Everett Stemple,” Derek spat back. “Blames you for his sister’s death. Blames all of us.”
“Stepsister. And she’s not dead, she’s MIA,” Liam corrected, as he always did when dealing with Derek’s insistence that Rory was deceased. It was easier for Derek to act like Rory was dead, because he wanted to blame all the Stemples all the time, including Rory.
Maybe she was dead. Maybe that’s why no one had found a trace of her, apart from a bloodstained wedding dress. Not Rory’s blood. Someone else’s, a male’s, still unidentified. Not that the Seattle police were actively looking for Rory anymore. She was on the back burner, a footnote to the shooting at the hotel by a man who had been traced to an abandoned vehicle, the fuzzy photograph from a faraway street camera was little help in identifying him. The once hot trail was now covered in ice, though Seattle PD had never closed the case, and Detective Mickelson, a heavyset older man with a world-weary face, hadn’t given up believing he’d be the one to close it. According to him, he never would, and though now retired from the force and working in private investigation, he periodically checked in with Liam to let him know he was still committed to working the case. It appeared to be the man’s Great White Whale, and if his obsession turned up Rory, so much the better, though no concrete leads to her whereabouts had panned out thus far. The shooter’s identity was still in question as well, though Mickelson had his theories.
In the beginning, Rory’s disappearance had seemed connected to the shooting, yet there was no evidence to support that argument. But something had happened in her hotel room. A knife fight of some kind, as one knife was found with the same blood that was on the dress discovered during the search in a parking garage garbage can. The knife was believed to have come from the cheese-and-fruit tray whose contents had been scattered over the floor. Liam had been desperate to find her, but as time passed the investigation led in a different direction, and finding Rory became an adjunct to the main crime: an ambush by a male shooter who’d mowed down Aaron Stemple, killing him, and injuring several other wedding attendees. Liam’s father, now confined to a wheelchair, had been among the wounded, as was Liam himself. His injuries had healed, but occasionally, when his mind drifted to that day, phantom pains emanated from the bullet scars.