by Lisa Jackson
“That’s not true, Beth.”
“Isn’t it? What did you think? That I was going to propose to you? I have some pride left, you know.”
“Let’s not fight.”
“Oh, sure. Let’s not fight. I know, I know.” She lifted a hand to forestall anything he was about to say. “Fighting in public is not the Bastian or Van Horne way. And I agree. It’s just that I feel like fighting. I feel like screaming,” she said intensely in a lowered voice. “You don’t want to go to Napa. You just want to go to work and numb out in front of the television.”
“That’s not really true.”
“I want to start a life together, Liam. I want to buy a house together. We’ve talked about it. We’ve looked. Kind of. It doesn’t have to be today, but sometime. Can’t we take a few steps in the right direction? Something? You haven’t even asked me to move into the apartment with you!”
She was hammering him with words, logic, the length and breadth of her dreams. And she was right. He’d been stuck in idle for five years.
“Will you . . . move into my place with me?” he asked, feeling as if his chest was clamped in a vise. It pissed him off at himself. What’s wrong with you, you dick? This woman is everything you want. Why can’t you commit?
She laughed, shaking her head. Swiping at the tears in her eyes. “Sure. Yeah. Let’s do that.” Her voice was defeated.
He almost said he was sorry a third time, but managed to clench his teeth and keep the words from coming.
She heaved a sigh and looked around the restaurant. “As long as you’re looking for her, I don’t stand a chance.”
“Jacoby hasn’t found anything. I’ll call him off.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” she said bitterly.
“I’m sorry, Beth,” he said, unable to stop himself. “I mean that.”
Tell her you love her. She’s waiting for it.
The moment spun out but he couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t make himself.
She inhaled and exhaled, not looking at him. Finally, she slid him a look out of the corner of her eye. “You’ll really call Jacoby off?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Liam sensed the moment of crisis had passed, but he still felt like a complete heel. “Could I see that ring again?”
“Don’t, Liam.”
“Oh, come on. Please? I’m kind of a Spider-Man fan myself. Maybe I just didn’t give it the proper respect it deserved.”
“You like Spider-Man?” She finally turned fully toward him, swallowing hard, putting on a brave smile. “How come I didn’t know that?”
“I guess you don’t know everything about me.” Actually, he’d just made that up on the spot to make her feel better. He hadn’t seen a Spider-Man movie since Tobey Maguire played the lead.
“There was a red Spider-Man ring at the shop.”
“Yoda’s fine. I like Yoda. I could be a Jedi Master.”
She chuckled, though she shook her head some more. “God, Liam, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be impatient, but I am. I love you. You know I do, and I know you love me, too.”
“Yes,” he said. Even that was hard, but he did love her . . . just maybe not as deeply, romantically, as he’d loved Rory.
They managed to get through the rest of the evening without bringing up anything about their relationship, and when he dropped Bethany at her parents’ home, where she was staying since she’d released her apartment in the hope of moving in with Liam, he wrested the Yoda ring from her and put it on his little finger. He kissed her goodbye with more tenderness than his usual quick peck on the lips.
“Can’t wait for Napa,” she said.
“Me too.”
“Liar.” She smiled. “But I’ll take it. And we are going to have fun, Liam. And maybe we can start thinking about moving in together, like you said.”
He nodded.
“Maybe next month? Or September?”
“September,” he said, seeing her face shutter at the delay, though she threw him a quick smile of goodbye as she turned away.
That last exchange left him with a bad feeling about his condo, and he drove instead to his parents’ home in Portland’s West Hills, pulling into the drive and parking in one of the four garage bays, then heading back outside and walking along the stone pathway to the backyard and the illuminated outdoor pool, a crazy indulgence as Oregon’s weather made swimming a challenge except for the dead of summer. The surface of the turquoise water riffled in an evening breeze. Far below, Portland twinkled and pulsed in a million lights.
He stood there for a long time, drinking in the view, his thoughts churning. Finally he pulled out his cell phone and called Jacoby’s cell number, expecting the man’s voice mail. He was surprised when the gruff-voiced private investigator answered on the second ring, as if he’d been waiting for a call.
“Speak of the devil. I was just thinking about you,” Jacoby said.
“I’m giving up the search. Send me the final bill.”
“That right? You still got a little left on your retainer. Sure you want to give up?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, how about I use up the rest of the money and just see what I see.”
Liam smiled faintly. “Unless you’ve found her already, I think I’ll call it quits.” There was a studied silence on the other end of the line and the smile on Liam’s face slowly dissolved. “Jacoby?”
“I got a lead. That’s all I’m saying. Give me a week and maybe I’ll have a different answer for you.”
“Bullshit.” His heart was pounding again—deep, painful beats that nearly suffocated him.
“One week,” Jacoby said.
Chapter 2
Point Roberts, Washington
“You okay, sweetie?” Heather Johnson asked, bending down to her daughter outside the weather-beaten front door of the ABC and Me preschool. The wind was high and it felt like rain was in the air. Heather’s hair whipped in front of her eyes and she anchored it at her nape with one hand.
Charlotte tilted her curly head to one side, the reddish curls bouncing around her face. Normally she would probably shake her head and laugh, but today she was sober. “Uh-huh.”
“You sure?”
The four-year-old wasn’t even close to her usually ebullient self.
“Pretty sure,” the little girl said, imitating her mother’s tone, Heather realized, which made her almost smile.
“If you still don’t feel good in a while, tell your teacher. She’ll call me, and I’ll come get you, okay? Mommy’s gotta go to work.”
Charlotte didn’t react. She seemed almost lost in thought, which was sometimes her way, though mostly she bubbled on about the very active inner world where her “friends” lived in trees, or caves, or under toadstools and who had lots of brothers and sisters, friends only Charlotte could see.
Heather and her daughter walked into the older, single-story brick building that housed the year-round preschool.
“You call me if you don’t feel better, okay?” Heather said as she signed her daughter in at the secretary’s desk. “You tell Miss Evers.”
“Kay.”
In Charlotte’s room Heather made eye contact with the preschool teacher and released her daughter’s hand. She tried to ease away, but Charlotte clutched her hand and followed Heather back to the secretary’s desk, her tiny face drawn into a pout. “I don’t want to stay.”
“Come on, Charlotte!” Miss Evers called, walking quickly to the door of her room. In jeans, a T-shirt, ponytail, and perpetual apron, she stayed just inside, guarding the entry to her classroom, her attention on the other four-year-olds happily drawing or molding Play-Doh even as she reached an arm toward Charlotte. Heather brought her daughter back and placed Charlotte’s hand in Miss Evers’s. Miss Evers dragged her attention from the kids in the classroom to smile down at Charlotte. “Don’t forget, it’s your day to take care of Winston, right?” Winston was the class lizard, a bearded dragon and a favorit
e of the children.
Charlotte nodded, looking at the floor.
“She’s been a little off this morning. No temp, though,” Heather said.
“No worries. I’ll watch her. Come on, honey.”
But Charlotte stood stock-still and lifted her eyes to stare stubbornly at her mother as if she were being left in the care of a prison matron.
Heather gave her daughter a quick hug, then said to the teacher, “Call me if she seems worse.”
“I will.” Miss Evers herded Charlotte into the room, toward the other children, but Charlotte kept looking back at her mother. Heather winked at her and gave her a thumbs-up, then hurried outside. A chill had taken hold of her and she shivered. The whole morning had started wrong. Charlotte, usually bouncing into the bedroom, had not wanted to get up, no matter what Heather tried. The little girl usually loved preschool, but she’d been listless and disinterested in breakfast, getting dressed, having her hair combed and teeth brushed—the whole nine yards. Getting her shoes on her feet seemed to take hours. Then Heather had spilled the milk while pouring it over her daughter’s cereal and the coffeemaker had refused to turn on. The red light had remained dark. No juice getting to it.
Sigh. Ah, well. Just life.
Your life.
She climbed into her ten-year-old Honda Accord, the one old Mr. Wharton had sold to her for a song, though even then Heather had owed him money.
Money.
With one last glance at the preschool, she climbed behind the wheel and switched on the ignition. It was summer, but surprisingly cold this July morning. She ratcheted up the heat, glad for its sporadic warmth.
If you’d stayed and married Liam, money wouldn’t be a problem . . . no alternative life as Heather Johnson. Married . . . wealthy . . . Rory Abernathy Bastian.
Well, screw that.
She didn’t want to think of that day, of what had happened in the wake of her departure that had left her inundated with would’ves and could’ves.
But the attack! Not only a knife-wielding, masked assailant coming at her before the ceremony, but the subsequent assault by a sniper who had targeted the whole wedding party! People had been injured, her stepbrother, Aaron, killed.
Because of her?
Could that be true?
Heather’s heart twisted at that thought. Had her assailant survived his wounds and somehow made his way to the roof of the parking structure, letting loose a barrage of bullets on the wedding party? It didn’t seem possible, time-wise, but maybe . . . ? Or did he have an accomplice? Were there two would-be killers? Were they in collusion, or could they have worked independently? That seemed too far-fetched, but the whole scenario had been horribly, fatally disastrous.
She hadn’t known about the attack till she was safely away, and when she learned what had happened, she almost hightailed it back to Liam. But she stopped herself on the brink of that bad decision, fully aware that she might have inadvertently been the cause of all of it. And Liam was alive. Injured, but alive. If she went back, would that be the case?
The killer was after me.
She exhaled heavily, coming back once more to that inescapable conclusion. She’d dwelled on the attack for months, years . . . and fought spurts of desire to return and explain her inexplicable actions. Talk to the police. She’d been miserable and guilt-riddled. If she’d stayed, would Aaron have lived? As it was, a gunman had mowed him down, wounded Liam and Geoffrey as well.
Her thoughts and worries about Liam had nearly driven her back to the U.S. mainland, until she’d heard that Liam had survived. She’d actually cried tears of relief to know that he’d been rushed to the hospital and his injuries hadn’t been life-threatening. Aaron hadn’t been so fortunate.
Oh. God.
Now she felt a welling sadness once again, a feeling that arose whenever she thought of her stepbrother who was supposed to walk her down that fateful aisle. “Rest in peace,” she whispered, not for the first time.
She turned the key in the ignition and heard the Honda cough several times before the engine turned over. Uh-oh, she thought. That had been happening more and more frequently lately and she couldn’t afford car repairs. She exhaled heavily, prayed the sedan would keep running for a little longer.
Then what? she asked herself, and had no answer.
You’re a coward, Rory. You should have gone back.
“No,” she whispered under her breath. At least here, Charlotte was safe. Besides, she was a new person. Rory Abernathy was the girl who’d been engaged to Liam Bastian, but Rory Abernathy no longer existed. She’d died an unlamented death when she became Heather Johnson. Maybe everyone back on the mainland who’d known Rory thought she was merely missing, but in Heather’s mind, she was six feet under. She was Heather Johnson now; that was the name on her U.S. passport, that was the name that mattered.
But at what price?
“Stop it,” she warned herself tightly. She tried to calm herself before the guilt became crippling. She had a daughter to care for. That was what was important. She was lucky to have her, so lucky. She’d suffered a miscarriage once, when she’d been with Cal Redmond, her previous fiancé, and she’d had a terrible feeling she would never have a child. That her one chance was over. Her relationship with Cal had been breaking up—he’d been part of her past, someone who knew the Stemples—but she’d wanted their child more than anything. When it was all said and done she’d felt like she would never find anyone again. Never have a relationship. Never have her own baby. She’d had no idea then that meeting Liam Bastian was right around the corner, and of course she also hadn’t foreseen the tragedy that would occur.
But she got Charlotte out of it. Her little girl. That counted for everything.
She couldn’t change the past and she knew nothing that would clear up the mystery of the shooter, so she stayed away. Thankfully, so far no one, not even the police, had come knocking.
Hitting the gas, she switched on the radio to a hard-rock station to drive all thoughts of her old life from her mind, then drove the half mile to her job at the Point Bob Buzz, one of the few coffee shops in Point Roberts.
To the driving beat of Metallica, she checked her mirrors and the traffic on the cross streets, a habit she hadn’t been able to shake in all the years she’d lived here, though there were few cars. As ever, she saw nothing unusual and pulled into the uneven gravel lot, parking toward the back, wedging her Honda between her boss’s car, Connie’s blue Subaru Outback, and a battered old pickup that hadn’t moved in six months. It was parked where it had died. The truck was owned by Connie’s uncle and was beginning to grow moss. Connie had complained more than once to him, but the old guy had yet to put in a new battery, or whatever it needed, nor had he taken heed when Connie threatened that she’d have the old “bucket of bolts” towed.
“If he weren’t my blood, I’d push that thing right into the ocean,” Connie had declared more than once, though it hadn’t happened yet. In her early sixties, with straight, graying hair, Connie Fellows had a soft spot for cranky relatives, stray cats, and, as in Heather’s case, a single woman who claimed to be escaping a bad relationship.
Connie had accepted Heather’s hard-luck story involving an abusive ex; and though it had been a lie, Heather had been desperate enough to spin it believably. She felt a little bad about deceiving Connie, but she would do whatever it took to care for her child.
Now, Heather dashed into the back door of the shop and was greeted with a wall of warmth and the smells of bacon sizzling on the griddle, cinnamon from the batch of rolls Connie had already taken from the oven, and, as ever, the welcoming scent of brewing coffee.
In the small nook between the dining room and the back exit, she locked her purse in a cubby, then put on a clean apron, wrapping the strings twice around her waist. “Morning,” she called through the swinging saloon doors separating the employee area from the hallway to the dining area and kitchen.
“Mornin’,” was the reply. Connie.
Connie had opened the coffee shop twenty-five years earlier in this northern Washington town, and in the four-plus years Heather had worked here, she hadn’t seen Connie even take one vacation. Her business had boomed, at least by Point Roberts standards, enough so that she’d expanded with an additional dining area added to the small coffee shop with its vintage flair. Until Starbucks or some other franchise opened shop in the area, an unlikely proposition in this remote U.S. outpost, the Buzz had cornered the market on the coffee and breakfast crowd. Point Roberts is a quiet little town situated on the tip of the Tsawwassen Peninsula, a piece of land that juts down from British Columbia, Canada. As the area is below the 49th parallel, Point Roberts is part of the good old U.S. of A., though a person couldn’t reach it by car without going through two border crossings, one into Canada, the other out of Canada to land on this scrap of American soil. A person could boat here from the U.S. mainland across Boundary Bay, as Heather had nearly five years earlier after her horrifying escape from her own wedding. Luckily, she’d had The Magician on her side and he’d produced the Heather Johnson passport with her picture on it, though he’d let her enter Customs alone.
“Better I’m not with you,” he’d told her, and she’d understood that Uncle Kent preferred to stay deep in the background. He might be a magician, but his business practices were . . . edgy . . . and he made a point of avoiding entanglements with the authorities.
Still, she’d asked him to take her “to the ends of the earth,” and where she’d landed was Point Roberts. With his thinning white hair flying in the wind, Uncle Kent had steered his Bayliner across the choppy waters of Lake Washington, racing past the floating bridges, the small craft bouncing as it sped. Later, he’d slowed the boat, guiding it carefully through adjacent waters to the Ballard Locks and eventually to Puget Sound. Rory’s heart had knocked feverishly the whole trip, and especially as they’d passed through the locks. Despite her baggy jacket, jeans, and oversized sunglasses, she’d felt that everyone in the nearby boats had been staring at her as if they could read from her expression that she was on the run.