by Lisa Jackson
Even though it confirmed what she’d thought, it still surprised her. “You knew it was my wedding?”
“Well, yeah, but honestly, it wasn’t about that. I’d kinda gotten in trouble . . . you know . . . with taking a few things . . .”
“I remember.”
“And I was working my way back in. Aaron got me the job.”
“Aaron?” she repeated in disbelief but remembered her stepbrother had worked in some restaurants in the Seattle area.
“Okay, I begged him. I’m not proud of it, but he told me about it and got me on with the catering staff. They were pretty well-known and I worked my butt off. After everything that went down, a lot of people quit. There was one gal on the waitstaff who kinda got PTSD. She was going to go outside, but then she changed her mind and blam, blam, blam, blam! It was scary as shit and she kinda collapsed. Really screwed her up, for a while at least. Been a while since I’ve seen her.”
“You gave your name to the police?” Rory asked, a hot breeze touching the back of her neck.
“Well, yeah. I had to. They just came through and started asking questions. I told ’em I knew you. They were looking for you by then, but I didn’t know where you were. But mostly they were chasing the shooter. Knew he was on the rooftop, but he was fast. They asked me tons of questions afterwards, but I didn’t know where the hell you were.”
“So, it wasn’t a coincidence.” She wasn’t certain.
“I just needed a job.” He seemed sincere.
She nodded, not knowing whether to completely believe him. “So, now you’re in the catering business with your girlfriend.”
“Yeah, Nona. She’s . . .” He smiled, and this time it did reach his eyes. “I think you’d like her.”
“Well, good for you, Cal,” she said.
“Yeah?” he asked seriously.
“Yeah.”
He cleared his throat. “Glad to hear you say that. I’m in this program, y’know? Not the whole seven steps or whatever the hell it is, but something kinda like it. My own version. I was really pissed when you dumped me for Bastian, and I had a lot of bad thoughts. I’m working through it all, now. Making amends. Telling people I’m sorry, and all that.”
“Well, okay,” she said, surprised. “But for the record, I didn’t dump you for Liam.”
“Maybe. You did break up with me, though. It was a bitch. Took me a while to get over it. I can admit that. Here, let me help you.”
Rory hadn’t realized she’d locked her knees, and when she finally moved she stumbled a little. She reluctantly accepted his gloved hand, wishing she could find a good way to exit.
“I was still a little pissed at you at the wedding,” he admitted as shadows stretched across the sidewalks. “I was sorry I’d taken the job at first. But I didn’t want to let Aaron down. And then, holy shit, Rory. They killed him!”
“They?”
“Well, whoever. The guy that musta done it. The one that Kirby bitch mentioned. DeGrere? He killed Aaron.” His face clouded. “I’m glad that DeGrere’s dead. I was just shit-shocked when everything went down, you know, at the wedding, and so was Everett.”
Rory had started to lose focus, but now she gave him her full attention. “You talked to Everett about it?”
“Well, yeah. And about you just taking off. We talked a lot about it and the shooter. We wanted to kill that fucker, whoever he was. And then you were gone and . . . they found that bloody dress . . . man, what a freak show.” He shook his head. “But like I said, I’m sorry. Where were you all this time? Why did you leave?”
She’d told her story already today and knew she would be telling it again to the police, but she answered, “The guy that attacked me threatened my baby.”
He blinked. “Baby?”
“My daughter, Charlotte, who’s here at the hospital. That’s why I’m here. I’m just going in to see her.”
“Oh. The one that has the flu.”
“Right.”
They gazed at each other awkwardly, then Cal shrugged. “So, are we cool? You and me?”
“We’re cool.”
He relaxed a little and she saw a brief glimpse of the boy she’d fallen for years before. “Are you sticking around, or what’s your story?”
“I just want Charlotte well, and we’ll see. I don’t have a story.”
He paused and out of the corner of her eye she saw another car, a white four-door, roll into the parking lot and take a spot. An elderly couple slowly emerged. Cal asked, “Those Bastians have as much money as they say?”
“I don’t know, Cal. I’ve been gone awhile.”
“They seem to have a lot.” He moved away from her. “You be careful with them.”
Like Aaron had warned her about him.
“Okay,” she said.
“If you do stick around, and they need a caterer . . . tell ’em Nona’s Catering. Google it.”
Then he was putting his helmet back on as the woman in the white sedan pulled a walker from the back seat of her car.
Finally, Rory pushed her way through the door and headed straight for the elevators. Her pulse was running light and fast. The encounter with Cal had scared her weariness away, at least temporarily, making her feel sharp and alert, though she sensed she was running on the very last of her energy.
She called for the elevator, tapping a hand against one thigh. She was anxious as hell to see Charlotte again, assure herself that her daughter was okay. The day had been a nightmare from start to finish, the only good part being that Charlotte was on the mend.
The elevator doors opened and Rory stepped inside to hover near the back of the car just in case Pauline Kirby or one of her cohorts was hanging around the front desk.
Rory was crowded to the rear, which suited her just fine. She squeezed through a knot of riders to step off the elevator into the hallway leading to Pediatrics.
She rounded a corner to stop short.
Two men in suits were standing outside the entrance.
Police . . . detectives, she would bet.
Oh . . . shit . . .
Her heart sank, but the men caught sight of her coming to a halt and regarded her soberly. One of them stepped forward and said, “Ms. Bastian?”
Her head was swimming. Her gut was icy. Her silence was apparently affirmation enough as they came toward her. They were a matched set in height, about five-ten, and weight, somewhere around two fifty, she guessed, but one had a mustache and he was the one who asked, “Are you Aurora Abernathy Bastian?”
She nodded. What could she do? She needed to be here, near Charlotte.
They introduced themselves as Detectives Grant and Susskind of the Portland Police Department; Grant was the one with the mustache. “We would like to ask you a few questions, down at the station. Would you be willing to go with us?”
No. Never. I can’t leave my daughter.
But what came out of her mouth was a shaky, “Okay. But not this second, not until I check on my daughter. Charlotte. I need to see that, that she’s okay.”
They both nodded and she swiveled toward the doors to Pediatrics, hurried down the hallway, and stopped at the nurses’ station to flag down the first nurse she saw, a lanky blonde with short hair and a quick smile. “I’m Charlotte Johnson’s mother,” she said, her voice catching on the name that she’d created, one more lie in the web she’d spun. “I’d like to know how she’s doing.” She threw a glance at the door to Charlotte’s room, not fifteen feet away. Maybe she should have checked on her daughter first.
“Much better,” the nurse said and walked with Rory to Charlotte’s room. “She was awake a little bit ago,” the nurse said, “but she’s sleeping again.” With a wink, the nurse concluded, “She’s an imp, that one, I can tell.”
“Yes. Yes, she is. Thank you,” Rory said, walking on wooden legs. The police were here. They wanted to talk to her . . . oh, Lord. Would they keep her, interrogate her for hours, even arrest her for whatever they thought they had on her for leaving
the wedding? Would she be considered an accomplice?
With the nurse in attendance, the detectives standing less than ten feet from her, she peeked through the open door and saw Charlotte sleeping on the hospital bed, her color normal, her eyelashes brushing the tops of her cheeks. Rory watched as she let out a little sigh.
Tears sprang to Rory’s eyes. Her heart twisted. Would she be pulled away from her child?
“Mrs. Bastian?” the mustached detective said.
Turning, she saw Liam coming off the elevator, stalking straight for her.
Her heart ached upon seeing him. She felt a well of emotion fill her chest, turn her throat hot, her eyes burning. The police . . . She wanted to throw herself into Liam’s arms and cry.
Chapter 17
Detective Grant saw Liam and nodded at him and smiled. What was this? Rory watched in silence as the two men shook hands and remarked about the passing years. High school classmates, she realized, uncertain how this would affect her.
Grant grew serious and turned to Rory. “If you’ll come with us . . . ?”
“No, I’ll drive myself. But this can’t take too long. I have a sick daughter and I’m not going to leave her for hours on end.”
“Okay,” he said, shooting a glance at Liam. Rory suspected what he was thinking: that she was a flight risk.
“I’ll be there,” she insisted, turning to the older detective, Susskind.
“Want me to take you?” Liam asked her.
“I can handle this.”
None of the men responded and she realized she probably looked like she was about to pass out. She’d been worried out of her mind about her kid, had barely slept in forty-eight hours, hadn’t eaten since she could remember, never even considered a lick of lipstick or touch of makeup. She’d been harassed by about everyone she met.
A bit of humor touched Liam’s eyes. “There’s the girl I remember.”
“Not a girl,” she said. She stepped away from the knot of men, avoided a teenager plugged into his phone, and slapped the button to call the elevator. “Not anymore.” Despite the recent feeling that she could crumple into his arms, she shook her head, her hair brushing the back of her shoulders. “I got this, Liam. I can handle it.” Could she? God, she doubted it. To the detectives she said, “What’s the address?”
Susskind rattled it off and added, “We’ll follow you.”
A warning. Of course. Perfect.
Don’t get any ideas of running away again.
“You’re sure about this?” Liam asked her. “You know a lawyer might be a good—”
“I don’t need an attorney.” The doors to the elevator car opened and she, along with the cops, Liam, and a middle-aged couple all crowded inside. It was a struggle to breathe. As soon as the car landed, she muscled her way into the hallway and through the doors to the lower parking area. The sun was settling lower in the western sky, and she spied Liam’s Tahoe parked one aisle over from her vehicle.
As she yanked her keys from her purse and stalked toward her car, Liam caught up with her and fell into step. “I’m coming with you.”
“So you can be with your cop buddy.”
“No.”
She unlocked her Honda on the fly.
The little car chirped in response, its lights flickering.
Yanking the door open, she noticed the two cops climbing into a nondescript sedan parked in the shade of a struggling sapling, one of several trees planted in an effort to break up the acres of asphalt.
“I want to help. Come on, Rory.”
Help. She didn’t trust his kind of help. “No, thanks.” She slid into the warm interior of her Honda and slammed the door shut. Her heart was hammering and it was all she could do to keep from breaking down. She was going to the police station, a place she’d avoided like the plague all these years, to tell the story she’d kept secret for five years. Everything in her life would change and there was a chance she would be arrested, that . . . that . . . oh, damn.
She opened the door again as Liam was walking back toward his vehicle. “Just . . . if something happens . . .” she called. “If the cops, I don’t know . . . if they keep me too long? Come back here for Charlotte.”
“They won’t.”
God, I hope. But who knows?
“Liam?”
“Yes. Of course.”
She wanted to cry again, but pulled the door shut and plunged her key into the ignition. A grinding noise ensued and she tapped the gas. “Oh . . . God . . . come on!”
The engine coughed, but wouldn’t turn over.
She stopped turning the key, took a deep breath and gave it another go. Then another.
The ignition ground as it struggled and failed to spark. Her left hand held the steering wheel in a death grip. The engine struggled. More coughing, then nothing. Rapidly, she stepped on the accelerator three times, then switched on the engine again.
Click, click, click! No spark. No ignition. No damned thing.
The starter, she thought. Or, the battery. She should have waited for The Magician to look at it.
She wanted to scream. Drawing a breath, she sent up a prayer. Give me strength. Through the bug-spattered windshield, she spied the detectives waiting in their own car. and Liam now at the wheel of his Tahoe. Great. Just . . . great.
Hot, tired, and hungry, she swore pungently inside her mind, then counted to ten. Why? Why now? With everything else, now was not the time for her little car to give up the ghost. She tried once more, already assuming failure. Click, click, click. The starter. Definitely.
Snapping the keys from the car, she scooped up her purse, flung open the door, and stepped outside. Liam had rolled down the window of his rig. “Problems?”
She fought back the desire to kick one of the Honda’s tires. “Looks like I need that ride after all.”
“Hop in.”
She was already rounding the SUV and reaching for the passenger door. As she settled into the seat, she slid a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose and said, “Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
Several hours later, Rory sat staring at the smooth, windowless walls of the interrogation room. She knew she was being filmed, assumed she was being watched and really didn’t care. The two detectives were in the room: Liam’s classmate, Grant, the younger guy with the mustache, at the small table across from her; and Susskind, standing, his graying hair falling over his eyes, one beefy shoulder propped against the door frame.
She’d told them her story, going over it three times, starting with the assault at the wedding by the masked man and finishing by explaining how she’d ended up at Laurelton General Hospital and the Lamplighter Inn. She’d taken a lie detector test and given a DNA sample and even written down Kent Daley and Maude Sutter’s names, addresses, and phone numbers.
Had she sold them out?
Probably.
Right now, dead tired, her stomach rumbling, she didn’t care. She’d told the authorities the truth, every bit of it, and now the cops could do with it what they would. All that mattered to Rory was Charlotte.
When they’d asked her about Teri Mulvaney, she’d been shocked. How in the world did they expect her to know anything about the dead woman?
It’s because you’re back and the last time you were with the Bastians, people died.
Still . . .
Though they were noncommittal, it was clear to Rory that the two detectives were skeptical. She believed they still thought she might take off at a moment’s notice. While Grant had asked questions, Susskind had been the gofer and, she supposed, the good cop. He’d listened for the most part, but had left several times to bring her a bottle of water and later, a Diet Coke. Lubrication, she’d thought, to avoid a dry throat and keep her talking, which she had.
Did she know who attacked her?
No.
Was she wounded?
No, not really. She’d given as good as she got, stabbing her attacker in the back of the hand.
No, but wasn’t it someone named Pete DeGrere? That’s what she’d heard.
Did she know DeGrere?
No!
Did anyone in her extended family know him? Anyone, like Harold Stemple?
They would have to ask him, and since he was in prison, that shouldn’t be too tough.
Who would want DeGrere dead?
She couldn’t answer that because she didn’t know him. Weren’t they listening?
Why did she run? Where did she go? Who did she contact? Why did she change her name? Who would want her dead? Who would attack people at her wedding? Who was the real target? Was she the target? Or Liam? Or Aaron? Why didn’t she contact the police? Why didn’t she contact her husband? Why didn’t she tell Liam Bastian that he was a father? Could that child be anyone else’s? Who, did she think, would want her and her child dead?
“I don’t know,” she repeated to the questions that just kept coming.
On and on it went, over and over again, as the minutes and hours ticked away and she thought she’d go mad. Susskind had spoken to some detective at the Seattle PD and come back with some new questions, which, again, she couldn’t answer because she didn’t know.
The afternoon had bled to evening when she finally said, “I’ve told you everything. Absolutely everything. You’ve asked me the same questions over and over. I fled the wedding to save my life and that of my unborn daughter, and I stayed hidden because we were threatened. I’ve always been scared, okay? Scared out of my mind, afraid someone was following me, afraid they would try again, afraid for my little girl, and . . .” She stopped, aware she was rambling, and added, “Well, you know it all.”
Grant nodded, apparently finally satisfied, but Susskind wasn’t looking quite as convinced. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Rory cut him off.
“If you’re going to stop me, arrest me, then do it. Otherwise I need to go. You took my cell phone information, texts, messages, recent calls, whatever, as well as the license plate of my car and my driver’s license—”
“—in the name of Heather Johnson.” Susskind broke in. No more good cop, apparently.