by Lisa Jackson
“I know.”
“What’re you going to do about it?”
“Go back to work.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I know,” he said again and caught a tightening of her jaw in the reflection as her mouth bowed into a sad frown. “I haven’t decided yet. It’s only been three months.”
She’d wanted to argue, he’d seen it in the image of her eyes, but she’d just slipped her hand over his as it rested on the handhold of the crutches, and when he’d rotated his head to meet her eyes, she’d managed a bright smile. “Just don’t take too long,” she’d said lightly. “You could lose me.”
But he hadn’t. Not in five years.
Training his gaze on the cottage, he climbed out of the SUV and headed for the front door. As he passed the Honda he noticed a child’s car seat strapped into the back. Just as the private investigator had said. He felt a pang of regret. A kid complicated things. Big-time. What would happen to the child if the police were called in?
It doesn’t matter. A person was killed in the attack.
And Rory had answers. If not all, then some.
“Showtime,” he muttered under his breath and was surprised that he didn’t feel an immediate sense of satisfaction, that after all these years there was little triumph in knowing he’d finally run her to the ground. Well, too bad. Pocketing his keys, he jogged across the empty street and up a broken concrete path to the front door. He pounded on the door, heard a child crying and a sharp, “Hush,” before the door was swung open and a woman of no more than twenty, with a girl of two balanced on one hip, stood on the threshold. She shaded her eyes with one hand. “Can I help you?” she asked, squinting. The little girl with brown hair that looked as if it had been combed with a Mixmaster stared suspiciously at him.
“I’m looking for Rory, no, Heather Johnson.”
“Well, make up your mind.” Her voice was tinny and her expression perturbed.
“Does she live here?”
“Nuh-uh.” She was shaking her head and heavy footsteps approached. From the interior, a burly man of about twenty-five, tattoos running up both meaty arms, appeared. A beard covered the lower half of his face, a baseball cap was pulled low on his forehead, and his eyes, beneath the bill, cut like lasers as he stared at Liam.
“Somethin’ I can help you with?” he asked.
“He says he’s lookin’ for a woman,” the woman clarified. “Heather somethin’ or other.”
Liam said, “Johnson.”
The guy frowned. “What you want with her?”
“Old friends.”
The trio in the doorway didn’t say a word.
“I heard she lived here.”
“Where you hear that?” the man asked as he stepped in front of his small family protectively, wedging his heavy body between Liam and his wife.
“Mutual friend.”
“Well, the friend got it wrong. Ain’t no one here but us. Me and my family.”
“How long have you been here?” Liam asked.
“Not quite two years,” the woman said. “Right before Emmy here was born.”
“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.
“Liam Bastian.”
“If you’re so friendly with this Heather person, why don’t you know where she lives? Huh? Why don’t you, y’know, tweet her or somethin’? Whoever gave you this address sent you barkin’ up the wrong tree. Me and Mona here, like she said, we been here nearly two years and we don’t know nothin’ about Heather anybody.”
The man was adamant. He crossed his arms and waited. Obviously expecting Liam to take the very broad hint to leave.
“Well, maybe she lived here before you moved in.”
“I said I didn’t know her, didn’t I?” The man was insistent. Liam saw Mona’s mouth open as if to disagree, but she closed it again quickly. This was a small town. Everyone probably knew everyone. “Mona, here, she never met whoever lived here before us, neither.”
Next to him, Mona lifted her chin a bit and her eyes flashed with resentment.
Liam said, “Heather works at the Point Bob Buzz.”
Almost imperceptibly Mona nodded and again caught herself, looking away quickly and pushing some of her child’s wild hair from her face.
“Then maybe you should check with Connie. She owns the place. She can probably send you to the right address,” he said.
This guy wasn’t about to budge. His jaw was set, his feet planted, his lips thin. And he was lying through his not-so-straight teeth.
Liam wasn’t going to get anywhere with him or the wife, Mona, as long as he was around. “Thanks for your time,” he said and walked away. From the corner of his eye he saw Mona punch the guy in the arm, not hard, but enough to have him swivel his gaze so she could get his attention and, it seemed, chew him out.
Liam filed that bit of information and he punched the number of his PI into his phone and drove to the place that he’d rented. As was usually the case, he had to leave a message, which was simply, “Call me.” Obviously Rory, now Heather, had moved since obtaining her driver’s license, but it should be a simple matter for Jacoby to find her new address. Hell, she could’ve moved several times since residing on Looking Glass, keeping herself under the radar.
Except for the job.
Which she might never return to, now that she was warned off. He thought about calling the police as he pulled into the gravel parking area and stopped near the cedar-shingled cottage tucked into the woods. He locked his car and took the stairs to the porch that skirted the building that was little more than one of those fashionable “tiny houses.” As he was stepping into the living area his cell phone rang. The caller ID was Jacoby’s cell number. Liam dropped his keys on the small kitchen counter and answered. “The address was wrong.”
“What?”
“The Looking Glass address on Heather Johnson’s driver’s license? Bogus. If she ever lived there, she split. The couple who greeted me at the door had been there nearly two years.”
“Huh.”
Liam leaned a hip against a wooden counter with a minuscule sink and half refrigerator tucked beneath it. A microwave was cut into the back wall beneath a flight of stairs leading to the bedroom loft.
“I’ll dig a little deeper,” Jacoby decided.
“Do that.” Liam hung up and tamped his rising temper down. All wasn’t lost. Yet. He noticed a few calls that had come in, three from the foreman he’d left on the apartment construction job. He called the foreman back and was relieved to learn the problem was with the city and the permits instead of more vandalism, a small glitch that was already being taken care of since the foreman had made the calls.
Thank God for small favors.
He put in a call to Derek, too, who thought he was on a business trip to Vancouver, looking for Canadian investors. Derek never had much interest in the Bastian-Flavel Construction deal-making, though his father was a far different story. Geoff Bastian had been a little harder to fob off, but Liam was bound and determined not to let anyone in his family know what he was doing. Bethany had to know the truth, since he’d blown off the Napa trip, but she was as interested as he was in keeping the nature of his trip under wraps. She wanted him to just take care of it. No muss, no fuss. She, too, had left several messages on his phone, but he wasn’t ready to call her back yet.
So where was Rory?
Still in Point Roberts? Hiding out in this small town, right under his nose?
Or had she already taken off? Afraid of confronting him? Scared that her neat little life was about to unravel?
Well, he wasn’t giving up. Not yet. He’d come too far. He planned on finding her, contacting the authorities so that she could be interrogated if not arrested, and if nothing else, demand the divorce he so desperately needed.
His jaw tightened as it always did when he thought of Rory, his marriage, her disappearance, and the dissolution of their short union.
He decided his mot
her had been right. Stella had warned him not to get involved with Rory when she’d first learned of the seriousness of their romance. “Nothing good will come of it,” she’d said on a sigh as she’d climbed out of the heated pool. She’d toweled off, her body trim and tanned in a sleek navy one-piece, and Liam noticed that surprisingly not one strand of her short hair had gotten wet while she’d stroked through her ten laps. “I’m sorry, Liam,” she’d added, dabbing at her face before dropping the towel onto a striped chaise longue flanked by huge pots of geraniums and some cascading white flower he couldn’t name. “But it’s just the way it is when people of different . . . stations . . . get involved romantically.” She’d shrugged. “There’s just too much inequity.”
His father clarified, “Your mother thinks Rory is a gold digger.” Shirt sleeves pushed up, Geoff Bastian had been seated at an outside table in the shade of the porch, newspapers spread in front of him, a sweating glass of scotch anchoring one corner of the business section.
This was hardly news to Liam, but Stella felt compelled to defend herself. “Not exactly,” she said, sending her husband a sharp glare. She turned to her son. “I’m just saying you’re setting yourself up for heartache, honey. That’s all.”
Over the tops of his reading glasses, Geoff had raised his eyebrows while mouthing, “Gold digger.”
“I heard that,” Stella said as she walked behind her husband and through the open French doors to the family room.
“I don’t know how she does that,” his father had grumbled, picking up his newspaper and snapping it open.
Liam didn’t either, but Stella Bastian had always made it her business to know exactly what all the members of her family were doing at any given time. It was uncanny and a gift. And it bugged the hell out of Liam. His mother should just butt out.
And yet, hadn’t some of her predictions come true? Hadn’t she been nearly apoplectic at hearing the news he and Rory had gotten married in a civil ceremony, without his family’s blessing? Hadn’t she said, “Marriage is about commitment, Liam, not lust, for the love of God. You two have barely known each other a month, and now you’re married? I can’t believe it.” At that point she’d nearly swooned into her favorite wingback chair positioned near the fireplace in the family room. “This . . . this . . .” She’d waved a long-fingered hand in the air as she searched for the right word. “. . . this foolish mistake needs to be undone.”
Rory, standing next to Liam, her hand in his, had glanced up at him with the I told you so look in her eyes that had bored into his soul. She’d warned him this utter dismay would be his parents’ reaction. Meanwhile, her larcenous family had insisted that the Bastians would receive the news of the union with the same warmth the Montagues had felt upon hearing that Romeo had married a Capulet. And they’d been so, so right. At the time, Liam had waved off Rory’s concerns with a blithe, “My folks will come around.”
Rory hadn’t been convinced, even bringing up the obvious fact that Stella had wanted Bethany Van Horne, a beautiful and socially acceptable choice for a daughter-in-law. Liam had laughed off her worries and told her he was going to marry who he chose and he’d chosen Aurora Abernathy, for better or worse.
He’d never anticipated that the worst could be a rifle assault on the wedding, a horrifying murder and a missing bride.
The irony was that now he was, indeed, planning to marry Bethany, the girl of his mother’s dreams. Which was a good thing. He just needed to find Rory, serve her with divorce papers, meet her face to face and get some answers.
His phone chirped again.
A message from Jacoby.
With an address in Point Roberts.
Not ten minutes away.
Liam felt his resolve harden as he headed for the door.
Jacoby wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Chapter 5
Heather was sweating bullets by the time she drove through the border crossing and headed into Vancouver, British Columbia.
With Charlotte strapped into the back seat and a good share of her worldly possessions stuffed into every available space in her small car, she headed directly to Uncle Kent’s condo. Heather knew she’d have to return, to feed the cat if nothing else, and to grab the last of her belongings, but for now she just needed to keep Charlotte safe.
Her daughter was still not her usually ebullient self, but part of her mood could probably be attributed to Heather’s freak-out. She’d made a game of gathering up toys, clothes, electronics, and toiletries, but Charlotte was astute, a kid who saw beyond the surface and no doubt she’d read the tension beneath Heather’s forced smile and recognized panic in her mother’s eyes.
Even now, though quiet for the most part, Charlotte had asked, “What about Mr. Bones? Does Uncle Kent know we’re coming? Why are we leaving so fast?” Heather had made up quick answers. “The cat will be fine. I’ll be back tomorrow,” she had answered. “It’s kind of a surprise. Uncle Kent will be thrilled to see you, honey.” None of the answers had rung true and Charlotte, big-eyed and suspicious, was holding tight to her stuffed rabbit and staring at the back of Heather’s head as if silently willing her mother to spout out the truth.
No way.
Not yet.
Her “Heather Johnson” passport still worked, thank God, at least as far as getting into Canada and back to Point Roberts. Entering the U.S. mainland again hadn’t been an issue until she’d seen Liam in the monitor of her station at the Buzz.
Throat tight, she kept checking her mirrors to see if she was being followed. So far, no black SUV was in sight and traffic was light enough that she could track the vehicles within a hundred yards behind her Honda. Even so, her heart was pounding, her hands sweaty, though she’d cracked the window and the summer day was cool.
As she glanced into the reflective glass, she zeroed in on her red hair. She wished she’d had time to dye it dark again, become a brunette.
Why? What’s the point? He’s found you, hasn’t he?
Not yet.
Heather maneuvered through the increasingly heavy traffic through the outskirts of Vancouver and tried to distract her daughter with a game of “Who can spy the next red car,” to no avail. At last she pulled into the driveway of the townhouse and watched the cars driving past. No vehicle slowed. No black SUV slid into the open parking spaces on the street, nothing looked out of place. A jogger sped past, wireless earphones visible, ponytail swinging, and an elderly couple, both wearing hats, walked a dog on the sidewalk along the narrow street that headed into the park. Another neighbor was watering the flowers in her front-porch planters that exploded with pink and purple petunias.
Liam, if he’d been in Point Roberts, hadn’t followed her to Vancouver. Still, her pulse raced as she helped Charlotte from her car seat.
“I can do it,” her daughter told her while struggling with the buckles and holding her one-eyed stuffed bunny in a death grip. Heather waited while her daughter asserted her independence, releasing the buckle, climbing out of her car seat and through the sedan’s open door, slipping her free hand into Heather’s as they headed up the steps to the front porch.
Heather leaned on the bell, but the glass door was opened immediately and Maude Sutter stood in the hallway. “Well, holy sh—moley. What in the world’s going on?” She reached for Charlotte but her sharp, blue-eyed gaze was firmly focused on Heather.
“I wish I knew.”
“It’s a game,” Charlotte said sagely. “See how fast we can get here.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t break any speeding laws on the way. Come on in.”
“My things—”
“Kent’s on his way. Let him unpack for you. I’m hoping you’re staying for a while.” In a lingering cloud of expensive perfume mingled with cigarette smoke, she nuzzled Charlotte’s cheek. “Now, you, Charlotte, my love, tell me everything that’s going on, will you?”
Charlotte immediately brightened and began chatting.
“There’s iced tea on the count
er in the kitchen, something a little stronger in the cabinet in the den. Whatever you want or need.” Still holding Charlotte, she closed the door behind Heather and led the way along a narrow hall to the back of the house, where the kitchen looked over a small garden. “I’ve got a new birdhouse,” she murmured into the child’s ear. “Let me show you.” Without another word to Heather she took Charlotte through a back door to the yard, where hummingbirds and bumblebees were buzzing over a riot of blooms. After dropping her purse and computer bag onto the table, Heather poured herself a glass of iced tea from the glass pitcher on the table and considered adding a splash of vodka, but decided to save the alcohol for later. She needed a clear head, now more than ever.
How had he found her?
Why had he tracked her down?
What was she going to do?
She stood in the open back door and watched Maude walk her daughter along flagstone paths through the shrubbery, loving the image of a sixtyish woman in a flowing white caftan holding the hand of a little girl in clothes still splotched with preschool finger paint and wrinkled from her nap. Charlotte had never met either one of her biological grandmothers—neither ice-queen, snobby Stella Bastian nor easily influenced Darlene Stemple who thought she was a little psychic and yet had married the unscrupulous Harold Stemple. Rory’s own father, Uncle Kent’s good friend, had died suddenly of a heart attack when Rory was about Charlotte’s age. Rory sensed that Pat Abernathy hadn’t completely walked the straight and narrow, much like The Magician, but overall he’d been a good man. Darlene had been lost after his death, completely undone. Rory could vaguely remember the different men her mother had been attracted to, ones she suspected Uncle Kent had somehow managed to dissuade from pursuing her. But he hadn’t been able to stop Darlene from falling for the handsome and slick Harold Stemple, a man who was little more than a common criminal. A thug who married Darlene and brought his teenage sons, Everett and Aaron, into the household when Rory was thirteen. Aaron, the younger son, hadn’t been so bad. He’d become friends with Rory, and that friendship was why she’d asked him to walk her down the aisle. But Everett was a different case entirely. He’d learned at his father’s knee, apparently, and was aggressive and very aware of his good looks. The Stemple and Abernathy households had barely come together when he began making lewd remarks to Rory, suggesting that she really should let him show her the sexual ropes, inviting her to touch him and even going so far as to not only try to kiss her, but feel her up. Once he’d even slipped into her bedroom and climbed into the single bed that had been pushed up against the wall. Only a knee to his groin and her scream had forced him out of the room. After that, she’d installed a lock on her door, especially when Darlene didn’t take seriously her daughter’s claims of being nearly raped.