by Lisa Jackson
“He would never have really done anything,” Darlene said the next morning when she and Rory were alone. “He was just teasing. Giving you a scare.”
“He’s a sexual predator!”
Darlene raised her hands on either side of her head, as if she wanted to cover her ears. “Everett wouldn’t do that.”
“He tried to rape me, Mom!”
“Oh, the drama. Come on. He likes you.”
“I don’t think he does!” she’d cried, tears standing in her eyes. “Rape’s about power, Mom! That’s what it is!”
Darlene had blinked back her own tears. “I know . . . I know. He shouldn’t have come into your room. That’s a violation. But nothing happened, so we’re all okay. And I know things are going to get better. I talked with Laurie yesterday, and she sees great changes in the future. I can already feel them happening.”
Rory had wanted to scream. Laurie was one of her mother’s “psychic” friends.
“Don’t tell Harold,” Darlene added in an undertone. “I’ll talk to Everett.”
“Oh, sure. That’ll do a lot of good.”
Her mother had missed the sarcasm and tried to cuddle her then, but Rory had shaken her off. Together they’d gone to the hardware store, installed a dead bolt on the bedroom door, and Rory had made it her mission to get out of that shabby little house with its secrets and lies the second she turned eighteen. Which she had. Never looking back except to ask her mother to be her matron of honor at Rory and Liam’s second wedding and, with no one else to turn to, she’d chosen Aaron to walk her down the aisle. Her stepfather was in prison and Everett wasn’t invited. Period. Despite Darlene’s desperate pleas that he was part of her family and Rory should get over her negative thoughts.
“Pervert,” she muttered now, draining the last of her tea, biting down on an ice cube just as she heard the front door open and Uncle Kent’s footsteps sounded in the hallway.
The Magician had returned.
* * *
No one was home.
Liam knew it the moment he pulled into the drive, past a larger house to what appeared to be a guest house, probably a garage that had been converted to living quarters.
No vehicle was visible and all the shades were drawn in the little cottage that shared the address of the main house, the only difference being that a B had been attached to the numerical address.
Nonetheless he climbed out of his Tahoe and walked along a short path to the front door, where he rapped firmly.
No answer.
No sign of life.
And yet he felt as if he was being watched.
The hairs at the back of his neck lifted and he turned to find a black cat seated on a fence post near the back of the large home, gold eyes staring at him curiously. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asked in frustration. The cat didn’t move, aside from the slight twitch of its tail.
He banged again, then headed to the main house, where he leaned on the doorbell, heard the peal of chimes, but no answering footsteps. He wasn’t surprised; the place felt deserted, though a quick look in the mailboxes indicated that either the mail had been stopped or had been recently picked up and the cat . . . either belonged to a neighbor or to the tenants.
If so, they wouldn’t be gone long.
Rubbing the back of his neck and feeling like a burglar, he wandered to the rear of the cottage, to the small backyard with a deck. He tested the slider at the back of the tiny home, but it was locked tight, again the shades drawn.
Her boss had probably tipped her off. Connie, he suspected, was the only person who might have a clue as to where she’d gone. Unless the owners of the larger home, the O’Briens, had been filled in. He expected Rory, aka Heather, would lie low now, at least for a while. She could’ve taken off indefinitely.
But someone would have to know.
She’d have to have a forwarding mailing address, yes?
“Hell,” he muttered. What he needed was the number of her cell phone, assuming she had one. Everyone did these days. Even runaways.
On the edge of the deck he saw one of those walker things, all bright colors of plastic with lights, music, and mirrors to keep a baby entertained. He’d seen one before at his sister’s house and he tried to imagine it now with Rory’s child inside. The kid would be younger than a year to fit the device, fifteen months at the most, not old enough to walk on its own. A baby that young suggested that there was a man in Rory’s life, the father of this kid, and for an insane moment he felt a spurt of jealousy. When he’d first heard about the kid, the fleeting idea that it might be his had crossed his mind, but at the time of the wedding Rory had been reed thin; and even if she had been pregnant, a child of their union would be at least four years old by now, far too old for the walker.
So where was the father, he wondered, then decided it didn’t really matter. The problem at hand was that he was locked out, couldn’t get inside to try to determine where she’d gone.
His option was to attempt a break-in, and he considered it. No one was around. He tried the door again and it didn’t budge, so he circled the house. No windows unlatched. Nope, locked up tight as a drum.
He hadn’t come this far to go home empty-handed, without answers. He’d worked on enough job sites that he knew how to get into any locked building, but, as luck would have it, at that moment a police car cruised past the end of the drive, slowing as the officer swept her gaze over the drive. She didn’t pull in, but inched by after giving Liam the once-over, so he couldn’t risk a break-in. Not with his Tahoe’s license plate visible, as he was parked in front of the cottage. Besides, he didn’t know when the neighbors would return or what kind of security system was in place.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that Bethany was calling him. He stared at the phone as it buzzed in his palm, but he didn’t press to connect. When it finally stopped ringing, he put it down by his side, frustrated, lost in thought.
After a few moments he decided to call her back. He owed her that much. What the hell was he doing here, chasing ghosts? Beth was his future.
He saw that she’d left him a text: When are you coming home?
Home.
Giving up for the day, he made his way to his SUV, took one final look at the house where he suspected Rory resided, or had until this morning, then he drove off. He was done for the day, though he wasn’t about to give up. It didn’t really matter if Rory had a new man or a child. That was her future. Liam was here to seal off her past. She needed to return to the mainland and grant him the damned divorce as well as come clean to the police so that he could go back to Portland and pick up his new life.
* * *
As The Magician stepped onto the back porch, Heather flung herself into his arms. “You have to help me. Help us,” she whispered as his arms wrapped around her and she fought like hell not to break down completely.
“What’s going on?”
“Unca Kent!” Charlotte’s voice rang out, and as Heather turned in the older man’s arms, she saw her daughter running up the gravel path toward the porch. She started coughing as she neared him, something Heather realized had been happening more often. Charlotte was still paler than usual, but the spark had returned to her eyes and she threw out her arms as she hurried up the steps. The cough worried Rory, but Charlotte was giggling as she neared them. Maybe it was nothing . . . maybe . . .
Kent released Heather and scooped her daughter into his arms. “How’s my girl?” he asked, pressing his nose against her face so that she giggled and wriggled when his white whiskers brushed her cheeks.
“Better, obviously,” Heather said.
At a slower pace, Maude joined them and turned her face to allow Kent to buss her cheek. “Looks like you’re just what the doctor ordered,” she observed.
“Always.” He responded with a deep chuckle and Heather saw that when they looked into each other’s eyes there was affection, yes, but something more, a deeper connection.
; Her heart twisted. This is what she’d thought, what she’d hoped she would share with Liam forever. Before she’d met him, she’d had her share of boyfriends, none particularly serious, and they’d always disappointed her. Her high school boyfriend, Josh Langley, had left for college and dumped her after the first weekend. When he’d finally come home to visit his family, he’d made it clear that he was long past high-schoolers or teenagers, or more specifically, Rory Abernathy. There had been a couple of other boys she’d dated before she graduated, but those flirtations had been short-lived and unmemorable and had ended when she hadn’t seen fit to put out. Those boys had reminded her of her stepbrother, Everett, with his belief that if he just talked to her the right way or kissed her gently at first, she would really like sleeping with him.
Her only relationship post-junior college had been Cal, who’d been more into weed than into her, a perpetual “student” who never seemed to attend class. When he wasn’t high, he was decent enough for the most part, but decent wasn’t good enough. Too much dependence on marijuana wasn’t what she wanted for the man in her life, though she hadn’t recognized that fact until after they’d become engaged. She’d tried to break off their engagement several times, but Cal didn’t take the news well. When she found out she was pregnant, she’d been torn, knowing it wasn’t going to work with Cal. She kept the secret to herself and then the whole thing became a moot point after she miscarried. She’d never told him about the baby, she just left Seattle for a while. She ran. When she returned, she ran into Liam Bastian—literally—walking down a Seattle street. Though Liam hailed from Portland, his mother, Stella, happened to be a Seattle native. Seattle was also Uncle Kent’s home base, when he wasn’t with Maude in Vancouver, and later, as Rory grew more anxious about marrying Liam, saying as much to Uncle Kent, she’d been glad The Magician would be nearby in case anything went wrong.
She should never have married him. She’d known it wasn’t going to work. She’d even tried to thwart the relationship in the beginning, knowing her own history with unreliable men. She’d laughed when he told her he loved her. Wouldn’t believe it. It was too crazy! She was no Cinderella to his Prince Charming.
Looking back, she should have stuck by her guns and refused to fall in love with him.
But then you wouldn’t have Charlotte. It’s still all for the best.
She glanced at her little girl being led into the kitchen with the promise of warm cookies and being able to “glitter paint” on the table. Maude was already spreading newspapers and finding the paint set.
Uncle Kent waved her out to the porch, and she fell gratefully onto the outdoor couch and picked up her tea, now mostly melting ice cubes. The kitchen window slid open noisily.
“Iced tea?” Maude said through the screen to Uncle Kent.
“Got anything stronger, luv?”
“I just might.”
The window snapped shut again.
“Tell me,” Kent said, sitting opposite Heather.
And she did. While Maude brought out a plate of cookies from the local bakery and a tall glass of amber liquid over ice for The Magician, and Charlotte drew unicorns and princesses on plain computer paper, Heather brought Kent up-to-date. She started by telling him about seeing Liam in the screen for the drive-up window at the café, explained about running home and Connie calling to confirm that a man who looked like Liam had been asking about her, and how she’d gathered Charlotte and raced here. She handed Kent her phone, where Connie’s pictures confirmed her story and ended with her worries about Charlotte, as the little girl hadn’t been herself.
“She seems all right now,” he said, casting a look through the open doorway to the chair where Charlotte, on her knees, was leaning over the table and dabbing at her art.
“Maybe it’s a cold developing. She’s been coughing some,” Heather said, hoping it was some minor illness.
“So why do you think Liam would show up now? What’s it been? Five years? Why all of a sudden?”
“Maybe it took that long to hunt me down. I don’t know. Maybe because he’s getting married again and needs a divorce?”
Kent’s eyebrows raised.
“You think I don’t keep track of him?” she asked, feeling a little foolish. “And it’s not what you think. Not that I’m in love with him or anything like that,” she said, wondering if she was lying. “But I have to know if he’s going to come looking. Because of Charlotte.”
“He has a right to know about her.”
This was old territory. “I know you think I should go back and face the music and you’re right, I should. But I can’t. I’d lose my daughter.” She took a swallow of her nearly forgotten iced tea and leaned back on the cushions. “Trust me, I’ve beaten myself up over this, over and over again.”
He drank in silence for a second as Heather heard the quiet conversation between Charlotte and Maude emanating from the kitchen, the sound of traffic from the main street a few blocks away, and the caw of a crow who was perched in an apple tree in the backyard.
“I’ve gone over what would happen to me if I returned. First off, I’d probably be interrogated by the police for, oh, I don’t know . . . days? And probably held in jail, as a flight risk. After that, if they determined I was involved, I might be arrested, and what would happen to Charlotte?”
“Maude and I would step in.”
“You mean, Maude would. You’d be in trouble for helping me escape, if that’s even the right term for it. Aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice. No one will believe we didn’t know about the shooting, even if they think we weren’t directly involved. And I’m guessing you might have more than one outstanding warrant against you.”
He gazed toward the window where Maude had appeared. “It’s complicated.”
She closed her eyes. “Do you know how awful I feel? I . . . I left Liam at the altar where he got shot, his father, too, and poor, poor Aaron.” She felt close to tears again, her eyes burning. Liam had survived, and his wounds, a bullet through the leg and another through his torso, had healed, if what she’d read was to be believed. She didn’t know the extent of the damage, of course, but he was alive and well enough to run a company and squire Bethany Van Horne around.
Geoffrey Bastian had been hit as well, two bullets lodging in his spine, one severing his spinal cord, so that he was confined to a wheelchair. She’d seen pictures of him in some motorized contraption, though he was still a force to be reckoned with, still a figurehead in Bastian-Flavel Construction, though his two sons, Liam and Derek, ran the business on a day-to-day basis.
Some of the guests had been injured. One took a bullet to her arm; one the victim of broken glass in her knees and palms. The third, his sister, Vivian, had been knocked to the ground by another fleeing attendee, breaking her ankle. As Heather understood it, from accounts on the Internet and in newspapers and a snippet on cable news, it was a miracle more people hadn’t been seriously injured.
She’d wondered often enough who had been the intended target. One or more of the Bastians? But Aaron had been the one who’d lost his life. She felt deep sorrow for his life being snuffed out so violently and early. He had been the kinder of her two stepbrothers. No prince, of course, but still. Dead. Long before his time. Because he was at her farce of a wedding. Had Aaron just gotten in the way of the bullets? Or had he been the mark? His father, after all, was a criminal. But . . . why the attack on her? By an assailant with a knife? Who was he? Why hadn’t he been apprehended? He’d threatened her. Known she was pregnant. Was he the man who’d rained bullets on the wedding guests? These were the same questions that haunted her sleep.
“I haven’t even visited Aaron’s grave,” she said, her throat thick.
“He’ll forgive you.” Kent tried to make a joke. It fell flat and he added, “You just have to find a way to forgive yourself.”
She snorted.
“It takes time.” He smiled kindly. “You’ve got it.”
“I suppose.”
&
nbsp; “So try not to freak out. It was bound to happen that you’d run into someone from the Bastian family at some point.”
“Maybe.”
“And you’ve been lucky, right? You haven’t seen anyone associated with Liam until now?”
“I guess.”
“You know.”
She let out a sigh as she opened her eyes and stared into the yard with its riot of blooms and stately trees. “Not exactly associated with Liam, maybe. But a couple of times I was half convinced that I saw Everett.”
“What?” Kent’s face tensed. His lips within the neat goatee compressed. “You never said.”
“But then I’m always seeing someone,” she said dismissively. “I wasn’t certain. It was just a glimpse or two.” And it turned my blood to ice.
“In Point Roberts?”
“Yes. The first time, I was coming out of the grocery store, and I thought he passed me on the street. He was driving a pickup of some kind, but he was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, so I told myself I was jumping at shadows.”
“When was this?”
“A month ago? Maybe six weeks?”
“And the second time?” he asked.
“Maybe a couple of weeks ago. On the docks.” She made a face, lips tense. “I’d taken Charlotte down to look at the boats, and there was this guy on a cabin cruiser. He was leaning down over a coil of rope, I think, again with the hat and sunglasses, and when he saw me looking at him, he turned around quickly and disappeared down a hatch. The sun was out, bright against the water, spangling, y’know, and I just wasn’t sure.”