by Lisa Jackson
“But you know who I am,” she said evenly. She scraped back the uncomfortable molded plastic chair where she’d sat for the past four hours. They’d given her her phone back and it was tucked safely in her purse, so there was nothing holding her here. “Charge me, or let me go.”
Grant rubbed the corner of his mustache. “We’re good for now. But don’t go anywhere.”
Susskind opened the door and escorted Rory through a series of hallways and elevators to the rear parking lot. “I can give you a lift back to the hospital,” the detective offered, but she was having none of it, and fortunately she spied Liam, standing near his Tahoe, cell phone in hand.
For a second a whisper of déjà vu floated through her brain. How she’d first seen him on a rain-slick Seattle sidewalk. He looked up and the ice around her heart cracked, just a little. “Thought you could use another ride,” he said.
“You waited all this time?”
“I told Grant I would come by the station and go over the death of the woman whose body was found at our construction site. We’re not really old friends. That’s how we reconnected. ”
“Teri Mulvaney,” she said. “They asked me about her, too.”
“Really.” He was surprised.
“They asked me pretty much everything they could think of, and I answered every single question. Did you talk to Susskind? Because Grant was with me most of the time.”
He nodded. “It was just routine. I don’t know what they think you could know about Teri Mulvaney.”
“I’m a master criminal, didn’t you know?” Her belligerence actually scared a faint smile out of him, which hadn’t been her intention. He was entirely too attractive when he smiled, so she looked away and said, “That interview couldn’t have taken that long.”
“I wanted to wait for you anyway,” he said. “And I checked on Charlotte. She’s fine. She asked about you, so the nurse—”
“Karin with an I?”
“Yes, she told her you’d be by in the morning. Darlene’s already at the hospital.”
“But I have to go to see Charlotte now.” She was already climbing into his rig.
“Rory, you’re dead on your feet.”
“She’s only four.”
“And she’ll be all right for a few more hours. The last I heard she was sleeping again.” He started the Tahoe, then pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “Pediatrics, please. Nurse Karin White. Yeah . . . I’ll hold.” To Rory, he said, “Talk to the nurse. Maybe she can fill you in better than I can and she’ll let you talk to Charlotte.” He handed her the phone before wheeling out of the lot and heading west, where the sun had set and the lights of the city winked to the rim of mountains, barely visible in the twilight.
* * *
“This is Nurse Karin White,” a cheery voice on the other end of the connection said. Rory identified herself as Charlotte’s mother and launched into all of her questions. The nurse listened, then gave her an update on Charlotte’s condition. “She’s alert, stable, and her temp’s normal. Her appetite’s back and I’d guess that she’ll be released tomorrow.”
“I’m on my way.”
“She’s sleeping now. I don’t think she’ll wake until morning. Maybe early, but who knows.”
Rory hung up and handed the phone back to Liam. Sagging against the seat, the exhaustion Liam had mentioned stealing over her, she said, “I have to go back to the hospital anyway. I guess Charlotte’s sleeping, but I still need to get my car somehow.”
“We’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“Just leave it at the hospital?” she asked as the streetlights sped by and a sports car passed them as if they were standing still.
“The police already know why it’s there.”
That much was true. “I still need . . .”
He shot her a look and she let the sentence die. “Okay. Fine. Take me to the Lamplighter.”
“The what?”
“Where I’m staying.”
One dark eyebrow cocked. She saw the movement as the headlight beams from cars moving in the opposite direction washed over the interior. “I think you’re staying at my place.”
She shook her head. That was not a good idea. Staying at his place, seeing where he lived, the intimacy of it? No way. At least not tonight. “No, I need to be close to the hospital and . . .” She yawned. “I . . . I need to think about things.” Then the penny dropped. “You’re afraid I’m going to leave, even with my child in the hospital!”
“Of course not.” His lips twisted. “Kind of hard now, right? No car.”
“Right.” Her voice was tight.
When he veered off the highway, she thought for a second that he might be taking her to his place after all, damn near abducting her, but she was wrong. Instead he drove her into the line to the drive-up window of a hamburger stand, and when she heard a cheery voice say, “Welcome to Brenda’s Burgers, what can I get for you?” she was transported back to her own job at the Point Bob Buzz. She’d worked there so recently, just earlier in the week, and yet it already felt like a lifetime ago.
Liam ordered two cheeseburgers, French fries, onion rings, a Diet Coke, and a vanilla milkshake, which were bagged and ready in the five minutes it took to crawl to the window. A tattooed waitress with a nose ring and neon pink smile greeted them, took their money, and handed them their dinner.
“Next time it will be more elegant,” Liam promised as he engaged the Tahoe again and drove unerringly toward Laurelton General. The odors of charred beef, dill pickles, and grease from a fresh batch of French fries mingled and teased at Rory’s nostrils and it was all she could do to leave her burger wrapped in its cocoon of paper, though she did find herself picking at the hot fries. Just before they reached the entrance to the hospital, Rory pointed out the turnoff to the motel.
Liam turned into the access road leading to the motel with its glowing gaslights and aging façade. “Don’t say it,” she warned as Liam eased the Tahoe into an empty space delineated by faded stripes marking the pavement in front of the units.
“Say what?”
“It’s cheap, doesn’t require a credit card, and is close to the hospital. Everything I need.” She was out of the door and heading up the stairs to her room as he cut the engine.
She heard him behind her, packing their white sacks, taking the steps two at a time, and it crossed Rory’s mind that this was a mistake as well, that never in her wildest imaginings would she think that she’d be here, at a cheesy motel . . . with her husband.
What a difference a week had made.
Within minutes, they were seated at the small table, Liam in the only chair, she perched on a corner of the bed and devouring her burger. She had to force herself to take sips from her drink rather than bolt down every last onion ring and French fry, but slowly, her hunger was sated to the point that she didn’t finish the last bit of bun, just couldn’t do it.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes. Lots. Thank you.”
“De nada.”
She eyed the detritus of the meal—wrinkled sacks, globs of catsup from used, open packets congealing on the paper that had wrapped their burgers, empty cups, and straws. She couldn’t stifle the yawn that overtook her. “Look, I think I have to lie down. Do you mind . . . ?” She began picking up the trash.
“I’ll leave,” he said, helping her stuff the remainders into an empty sack.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be back,” he said, and walked to the door with the trash. “I’ll take this with me since you may not want to wake up to the smell of old grease and onions.”
“Is it worse than stale air, dust, and some kind of air freshener?”
“Slightly.”
She watched him walk outside and shut the door behind him. She instantly felt bereft, alone, and it kind of pissed her off. She slipped between the covers and stretched, sighing. Her muscles instantly started to relax. It was heaven, even in the Lamplighter’s too-hard bed with its
faded coverlet that matched the long, blue curtains framing the window.
She’d just let her eyelids droop closed when she heard the door open again, and the sounds of the night—a dog barking, traffic rumbling on the highway, a car’s radio blasting heavy-metal as it passed—reached her ears over the steady hum of the air-conditioning unit rattling beneath the room’s single window. As he closed the door again, she listened to the whine of a motorcycle accelerating through its gears. “That reminds me,” she said, the sound fading.
“What? What reminds you?”
“The motorcycle that just passed. Earlier today I ran into Cal. On a bike. Dressed head to toe in leathers.”
Liam paused. “Redmond?” he asked, surprised.
“He was actually looking for me.” Forcing herself up, she propped herself on her elbows as Liam stood at the door. She quickly told him about Cal and his need to unburden himself in his own version of a twelve-step program. Seven, in Cal’s case.
“I never liked the guy,” Liam stated flatly. “Never trusted him.”
Liam had known Cal more from pictures and what Rory had told him rather than direct contact. She said, “That was probably a good idea, but he seems to have turned over a new leaf.”
“If you believe in that kind of thing.” He fiddled with the blinds, drawing the curtains over them, blocking out any chance of light entering or, she thought, unwanted eyes peering through.
“You obviously don’t.”
“No.” He twisted around the chair he’d been sitting in, straddling the back and facing the bed.
“He seemed sincere, but . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was glad when it was over.”
Liam nodded, his hair seeming darker in the dim room illuminated only by the bedside lamp. “What happened with the cops?”
“I told them everything I knew.” She gave him a quick recap of those hours of interrogation, finishing with, “I half expected Pauline Kirby to be waiting for me when I got back here, that she’d found out where I was staying.”
“She’s known for her deep ‘investigative reporting.’”
“Right.” She shook her head. “Your cop friend asked me about everything and everyone, Pete DeGrere, Everett, Harold, and, of course, Aaron, like I said.”
“What did you tell them about your family?”
“Stepfamily. That Aaron was a pretty good guy, that Everett wasn’t, and that I wasn’t surprised Harold was in prison. I also told them I didn’t know Pete DeGrere, and that I ran because I was attacked and scared.”
“Derek blames Everett for the sabotage at the Hallifax project.”
“I know. He brought it up earlier.”
Liam got up from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed. “Scoot over a bit.”
Rory eyed him speculatively. Did he think she would just throw open the covers and let him slide in beside her? To take up where they’d left off, or to start up again? Is that what he wanted? What she wanted?
But he only sat on the edge of the bed, the old mattress sagging beneath him.
“What do you think?”
“About Everett? He’s sure capable of it, but I don’t know. I did think he’d been following me.”
“Here?”
“And in Point Roberts, and Vancouver. Like I said, I don’t know.” Yawning again, she stretched one arm over her head. “It’s just a feeling I’ve had and I’m not sure.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You had someone follow me,” she pointed out.
“To find you.”
“Still, it’s scary.”
He nodded. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay . . . well, it’s not, but I get it. I can’t blame you for that,” she admitted. “And you want a divorce?”
He was silent a moment, then admitted, “That’s why I was looking for you.”
“So you can marry Bethany.”
“That part,” he said slowly, “I’m not so sure about.”
She felt a small flare of hope and tried to crush it back down. They might still be husband and wife, but there was no “them” any longer. She had to remember that. “But you are all about the divorce.”
A beat.
Another.
She held her breath, counting her heartbeats.
“I think we have a lot to discuss, Rory,” he said, and she knew he was talking about her daughter, his daughter, their daughter. “But not now. Tomorrow . . .”
“Okay.”
It was all she could do to get those two syllables out. Their relationship of husband and wife could never be the same. It hadn’t even been a marriage that had the time to mellow and age, and their child . . . she didn’t know him. Would it be so hard for Charlotte to accept she had a father that she saw only part of the time? It wasn’t as if she’d lost anything. She’d never even known about him.
Unless, of course, he tried to take Charlotte from her.
No . . . no . . . the Liam she knew wouldn’t do that.
And if he tried, she’d fight him with every breath in her body.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said, reassuring her, though she understood the words were spoken to placate her, to table the discussion, to put off the inevitable battle, but she couldn’t fight, not tonight, at least not now. “Sleep now,” he said, then added, “I could stay—”
Yes! No! God.
“—or not.”
She felt the bed shift and hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes for a second. He was right about her being dead on her feet.
“I’ll see you in the morning. With coffee.”
“Gallons,” she murmured into her pillow. She felt the warmth of his lips brush against her cheek . . . didn’t she? She was drifting.
“Get up and throw the bolt,” his voice ordered from a long way away as he snapped off the light.
“Uh-hmmm.”
“Rory, I’m serious.”
She heard him twist the lock in the knob, then the soft thud of the door closing behind him, but she couldn’t move . . .
He’d kissed her . . . hadn’t he? Something soft and warm. She wanted him to kiss her more . . . She wanted . . .
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The sudden noise jolted Rory into wakefulness. She blinked awake. Where was she? The room was dark. Pitch dark. Oh, God, she was at the motel, and Charlotte was at the hospital and Liam . . . he’d just left. He must’ve forgotten something . . . Bleary. She was bleary and it was with an effort that she threw back the covers, her fingers searching for the light switch. She stumbled through the coverlet as the sorry little room was flooded with illumination.
She was reaching for the doorknob when she stopped, some of the fuzziness in her mind clearing. Maybe whoever was banging on the door wasn’t Liam. Maybe she’d been asleep longer than it seemed. She peered through the peephole to the darkness beyond. Nothing. “Liam?” she called, still trying to chase the cobwebs from her mind. “What?” She slipped the chain through its lock, then opened the door a crack, peering out to the poorly illuminated porch.
No one . . . just the still night. Cars parked in the lot. The smell of alcohol? Maybe the faint tinge of cigarette smoke?
Her skin crawled.
“Don’t shut the door, Rory,” he warned.
Not Liam . . . not Liam!
Before she could slam it shut, the door smashed against the chain, straining. She scrabbled with it, trying to close it, opened her mouth to scream—
Wham!
The door flew open with a sickening splintering of wood as the screws holding the chain gave way. Craaack!
Rory saw stars. Stumbled back. Pain behind her eyes, nearly blinding her. Blood pouring from her nose.
“Get out!” she cried.
What the hell was happening? Dazed, she focused on the intruder, trying to think, to seek a way of escape, or a weapon to defend herself. Half her face throbbed and she reached up to her cheek, her hand sticky with blood.
She blinked, fighting her dizziness, focused.
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She knew him, knew his build.
As her foggy mind cleared, her heart froze in her chest.
Cal Redmond, dressed in his black leathers, his face twisted into an angry grimace, grabbed her by the throat and stared at her with hot hatred. He kicked at the door, which shuddered against its splintered frame.
“Cal?” she squeaked out, backing up. She couldn’t believe it. Cal? Cal was here? Infuriated?
“I think,” he said in a barely audible whisper, “we should clear the air.”
He smelled of whiskey. Was clearly drunk. “What are you talking about?” She could barely get the words out, he was squeezing so tight. As if realizing it, he slowly released her throat.
Rory’s knees hit the edge of the bed and nearly knocked her off her feet, but she stayed upright. Needed to stay upright. Run, if she could.
“Unfinished business.” He pulled a pocketknife from his jacket and clicked it open.
Zzzip!
A switchblade.
He waggled it dangerously under her dripping nose.
Sweet. Jesus.
“I don’t . . . I don’t . . . you said we were okay!” she whispered, her eyes focused on the evil, glinting blade. Her mind searched for a means of escape or a weapon of some kind, any kind, because the malicious glint in his eyes was unmistakable.
He was here to do damage.
To her.
With his free hand, he pointed a finger at her. “You lied to me, Rory.”
“No—I—”
“You’re still lying.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She had to get out of here. Get away. She noticed for the first time that he wasn’t wearing gloves. His bare hands were exposed, the scar visible on the back of one. Oh. Jesus. She’d made that jagged rough line just before she was set to walk down the aisle of her wedding ceremony. She’d plunged a knife into the back of his hand before running out of the hotel room. Cal was the man who had attacked her! The assailant who’d disguised his voice with helium, the madman who had guessed she was pregnant and vowed to kill her and her child.
“Why are you doing this?” she said on a sob.
“Because you destroyed our baby and kept his.”
“What?” The miscarriage, he is bringing up the miscarriage?