Had Chapman ordered a hit on Camille? Or had Felicia herself . . .
No. She wouldn’t.
But she’s not in her right mind.
She couldn’t go that far out of her mind.
“Okay,” Gideon said. “If you know what happened to Camille, you need to tell the police immediately. We can’t let this go on any longer. I’ll come pick you up.”
“No. I told you I don’t have enough evidence to convict Chapman. The only safe thing to do is keep him thinking I do, which means we keep this away from the police and courts. Leave it alone. I didn’t want this to worry you. Keep away from Natalie; don’t give her any opening to play her mind games. You’ll be fine.”
“Seriously? You’re telling me Camille and Natalie killed my father, and I’m supposed to leave that alone?”
“Nothing will help. You know nothing will help. Wade is dead. You can’t touch Chapman, Camille’s gone, and chances are . . . chances are . . . since Natalie knew about the purse and didn’t force Camille to get rid of it . . .”
“He’ll murder Natalie too? I’m supposed to condone that?”
“We can’t stop it. Don’t you think I’d fix this if it were fixable? It’s not. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, going to Manhattan for a few days. I need to get away from Ohneka, away from Natalie, away from . . . too many memories.”
Gideon wanted to protest but didn’t know what to say. He felt he was catching snowflakes out of the sky and trying to pack them into a snowball even as they melted on his palms. Maybe it would be better for Felicia to get away. Maybe it would help her think straight. Maybe it would help him think straight.
“Be careful,” Felicia said. “Keep your mouth shut. Don’t trust Natalie; don’t even talk to her. You don’t want to suffer through what she could do to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you when I get back. Promise you’ll be smart.”
“I promise,” Gideon lied mechanically. Be smart? He’d never felt this stupid and useless in his life.
“Be safe, Gideon.” She hung up.
Phone still in his hand, Gideon stood, shuffled into his bedroom, and collapsed on his bed. How could everything be reasonable one moment and a surreal nightmare the next?
Or had things been reasonable since his father died? Had they only seemed reasonable before and after?
He could sweep away everything Felicia had told him, except for one bedrock fact: Camille hadn’t called the police after Felicia’s visit last night. If she had called, the police would have arrested Felicia. That clearly hadn’t happened.
Since she hadn’t called, that meant either she hadn’t wanted to call—she had reasons for avoiding the cops—or she hadn’t had time. The odds that the instant Felicia had left, a random killer not connected to Chapman had barged in and slaughtered Camille before she could dial 911 . . .
There were only two logical options: Either Felicia—motherly, sensible, kind Felicia—had killed Camille herself, or—
Or Felicia’s theory about his father’s death was correct.
His phone rang. He checked the screen.
Natalie. As Felicia had forecast. Calling to tell him Felicia was insane.
Gideon flipped onto his back and held the phone in front of his face, staring at her name. Should he flat-out ask her if she and Camille had killed his father and see how she reacted?
Yeah, ask her. Belly flop into the water with a shark who might be getting paid to shred your heart and gnaw your sanity to mush. Confide in her. Trust her. Maybe in an act of record-breaking genius, you could completely fall for her.
At least Tamara hadn’t set his mental annihilation as her goal.
Gideon dropped the phone onto his bedspread, closed his eyes, and listened to it ring.
Chapter 17
Stomach growling, eyes aching, Lacey sat in her car in the driveway, clinging to the steering wheel and staring through the open garage door at Jonas’s car. She had yearned to feel safe with him, to let him handle things; she’d yearned to flee from him, speed along the freeway until her gas tank was empty, then walk along the road until she was empty and she could crumple into the weeds and die. She’d compromised with herself, deciding he was probably out searching for her, so she could sneak into the house, eat, wash her greasy hair, and change her wrinkled clothes. Or maybe he didn’t want to find her at all; he might have moved out, wanting to escape his crazy, criminal wife. Either way, he wouldn’t be home.
But he was home, and the thought of driving away still hungry, exhausted, and alone made her want to bawl. Twenty-four hours of blundering around Ohneka with no idea what to do was enough. She’d gotten almost no sleep last night, cold and uncomfortable in her car. This morning she’d mustered the courage to buy a heavy fleece blanket, hoping it would help her get some rest, but it hadn’t worked. She’d been warm but still too keyed-up even to nap.
She’d face Jonas. She had to face him. It couldn’t be worse than coming home as a teenager to face her father, and she’d dealt with that. She pulled into the garage, parked, and trudged into the house.
Why was the house so silent? Lacey stepped out of her shoes and padded along the hallway, her heartbeat an inner cascade of sounds, stones pouring into a bucket, striking the bottom, striking each other.
He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room or his office. She increased her speed and headed upstairs. In their bedroom, the bed was neatly made. She was the one who made the bed; she couldn’t imagine Jonas would think of it after he’d had his life smashed by the proof that his wife was a monster. Had he not slept here last night?
What if he had left her? He could have taken a taxi to the airport.
She yanked his closet open. His clothes still hung on the rod, and his shoes were pigeonholed in the shoe organizer.
She could call his name, but she had a horror-movie feeling that if she made a loud noise, a killer would lunge at her. She tiptoed downstairs, along the hallway, and into the workshop he’d built for her at the back of the house.
Jonas lay on the couch in her workshop, asleep, covered with the quilt she’d sewn when she’d wanted to try creating patterns with fabric. Stubble covered his chin. His shoes—leather loafers, not the athletic shoes he usually wore on Saturdays—were next to the couch, and the part of his shoulder she could see told her he was wearing the same shirt he’d had on when he’d snatched her notebook.
He hadn’t left her.
Where was the notebook? If she could reclaim it . . . Maybe he hadn’t read the whole thing yet. Maybe he didn’t fully know how awful she was; maybe if she could steal it back, he’d eventually forget whatever part he’d read. Where would he have put it? Maybe in the drawer of his bedside table where he kept things like his wallet and checkbook?
She pivoted and hurried toward the door. Behind her, she heard a rustle and a thump. With a yelp, she spun toward Jonas.
He was on his feet, the quilt on the floor. “Lacey.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” She couldn’t look him in the eyes, and she had no idea what she wanted to say. I’m sorry I ran away and didn’t come home. I’m sorry I’m crazy. I’m sorry I lied to you after the way you took care of me. I’m sorry I want to scream and punch you.
Jonas advanced, a fast stride that made her cringe. He stretched his arms out, curled them around her, and drew her against him. She could feel the strong thumping of his heart.
He didn’t speak. Lacey sagged against him.
He pulled back slightly and kissed her. Her lips were dry and her mouth sour, but from the energy in his kiss, he didn’t seem to care. She clung to him, her lips clumsy against his.
“Lacey.” His lips touched her forehead. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He hadn’t left her. He didn’t find her repulsive.
“Where have you been?”
“Can we . . . sit down? I’m so tired
.”
He guided her to the couch, and they sat together, his arm around her shoulders. “Where have you been?” he asked again. “Where did you spend the night?”
“In my car,” she said.
“You slept in your car?”
“I . . . I didn’t sleep much at all.”
“What did you do? Where did you go?”
“I’m not sure. It’s blurry. Drove around mostly or sat in the car.”
“All night?”
“If I got too tired, I’d stop and try to doze for a while. Like in a supermarket parking lot.”
“Why didn’t you come home?”
“I thought you wouldn’t want me after what . . . the . . . things . . . in the . . . what I was . . . doing.”
“Baby, I’ll always want you.” Both his arms went around her in an embrace so tight her lungs felt flattened. “I’ll take care of you.”
Gratitude flickered and dwindled in her mind, a phantom emotion she wasn’t sure she’d felt. His words, like his embrace, both comforted and constricted her, but she couldn’t think how to explain that. Out of habit, she asked herself how Camille would handle the situation, but the question burned like brimstone.
“I’m hungry.” She tugged against his hold.
He released her. “Yeah, you must be starving. Come into the kitchen. There’s still some of that pasta you made the other night.” His arm around her waist, he led her to the kitchen. Lacey sat at the table as Jonas piled pasta on a plate and stuck it in the microwave. When the scent of tomatoes and sausage reached her, her mouth watered. Coming home had been the right thing to do.
Jonas set the plate in front of her, then filled a glass with milk. He liked her to drink milk at dinner, milk for her bones. She’d never liked drinking milk with dinner, but asking for water or wine wasn’t worth it right now. She wanted to eat quickly and go to bed.
The doorbell rang. Jonas seized Lacey’s shoulder, a gesture that startled her into a squeaky gasp.
“Stay in here,” he said. “Stay quiet. Don’t come out unless I come get you.”
Lacey put down her fork. “Who is—”
“Stay put.” He exited the kitchen.
Confused but too weary to fret about it, Lacey continued eating. She must look so awful that Jonas didn’t want a salesman to see her and ask what was wrong. Then again, Jonas looked like a wreck himself.
She heard him open the front door and male voices talking, but she didn’t bother trying to eavesdrop until she heard Jonas say, “Come in.” He was inviting someone inside now?
Footsteps. An unfamiliar voice sounded clearly from the living room. “Thank you for your time.” The words were courteous but carried a vibe of authority that made Lacey think this wasn’t a salesman.
“No problem.” Jonas’s tone was curt, and Lacey could tell he didn’t want the visitor here. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” A different voice, deep and resonant. It made Lacey picture Darth Vader, only polite. Two visitors. She shouldn’t be listening; Jonas hadn’t wanted her to be part of this conversation.
So what? She could sit here and eavesdrop; Jonas couldn’t stop her. She could even march into the living room if she wanted to.
She definitely didn’t want to.
“I know you already gave some of this information to the 911 operator and to the officer who talked to you this morning,” the first man said. “But if you could review the events for Detective Bartholomew and myself, that would be helpful. What led you to Mrs. Moretti’s house this morning?”
Lacey’s skin went scorching hot. The police. Jonas had called the police after she’d run away? And he’d been at Camille’s? Had he told Camille that Lacey was—No, he wouldn’t do that.
“I had an appointment with Mrs. Moretti,” Jonas was telling the officers. “She was interested in buying a piece of my wife’s artwork. My wife is a mosaic artist.”
Lacey gaped at the kitchen doorway. Camille—or really Mr. Chapman—wanted to buy her artwork? Why hadn’t Jonas told her that?
“Was your wife with you?” the first man asked.
“No, I deal with the business side of Lacey’s work. She doesn’t like to be involved in sales.”
Lacey’s wide-open eyes smarted. She blinked several times. True, Jonas liked to deal with pricing and sales and taxes and things, but if he met with customers, Lacey was always with him. She enjoyed talking to people about her work, and he wanted her there—he always said her angelic smile was an effective sales tool.
“Had you met Mrs. Moretti previously?”
“Yes,” Jonas said. “I trained for a marathon with her husband a few years back. He’s dead, I’m sorry to say—car accident. Camille worked for Chapman Development, and I met with her recently about the possibility of Lacey doing a mural for the Stoker Building renovation. Camille hadn’t heard back from her boss on that one, but she got interested in Lacey’s work for her own house. This morning, I went to show her some samples.”
What? That couldn’t be true. Jonas would have told her immediately if Camille was interested in her work. He for sure wouldn’t have called the police on Lacey and then gone for a business meeting with the woman she was stalking—without even shaving or changing his clothes.
“When I got there, Camille didn’t answer the doorbell or her phone. I went to the backyard to see if she was there since it was a nice day. The glass on the back door had been cut—I figured she’d been robbed. I went inside to see if she was there, to make sure she was all right. I found her body and called 911.”
Lacey gasped and gasped again, but no air seemed to reach her lungs. Camille’s body . . . she was dead?
“The operator asked you to wait in your car until the police arrived,” the man said. “Why did you leave?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’d never seen anything like that before, and I wanted to get out of there.”
Lacey’s elbow hurt. She massaged it. Had she whacked it against the table?
“I don’t know anything that could help anyway,” Jonas said. “I didn’t see anyone or anything suspicious except for that hole in the glass. Was it a burglary that went south?”
“We’re still determining what happened. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt Mrs. Moretti?”
“No idea at all. I didn’t know her that well.”
Lacey laid her fork on the table so carefully that metal against wood made no sound. Jonas must have gone to Camille’s to search for Lacey, thinking he’d find her hunkered down in the bushes or crouching behind storage bins in the garage.
Did he think Lacey had . . . ?
She would never . . . But she had enjoyed scaring . . . She’d never . . . Had she . . . ? She remembered driving past Camille’s house, but she hadn’t stopped there. Driving past a few times. Maybe twice? Was it more than that? She did remember thinking how much better she’d feel if she could scare Camille, make her shriek, prove that Camille had weaknesses too, that Lacey wasn’t the only one who was afraid.
Voices still spoke from the other room, but words disintegrated into senseless noise. Camille, Camille’s house, the way glass would fragment as it hit brick steps. Camille’s strong voice, her laugh, Lacey’s pen flitting across notebook pages. Jonas snatching the notebook from her purse. The rawness in her throat.
“Lacey.” Jonas jiggled her shoulder. She focused on his face, bewildered. How had she not noticed him approaching her? Was he truly that pale, or did her eyes now see everything as bloodless and dead?
“Do they want to talk to me?” Lacey whispered.
“They’re gone.” Jonas took both her hands. “You’ll never have to talk to them. I’ve taken care of things.” His gaze was as strong as his fingers, immobilizing her. “It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t . . . Jonas, I didn’t . . .”
“You’ll be all right. No one will ever find out.”
“I don’t think . . . I never wanted—”
“I’m sor
ry, baby. This isn’t your fault. It’s my fault for not taking better care of you.”
Lacey’s thoughts kept splintering and mixing together. How had Camille died? Did Lacey already know that? Was there a picture of Camille stored in her head, strong Camille bloodied and limp?
No. She couldn’t have hurt her. “Dr. Marsh . . . I need to . . .”
“You can’t talk to her now, not while the police are investigating.” Jonas pulled her chair out from the table and lifted her to her feet. “I’ll call her office and cancel your appointment for next week. Let’s get you to bed. You need to rest.”
Chapter 18
As Natalie passed the reception desk, Jeanne rose to hug her. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.” Over Jeanne’s shoulder, Natalie saw Kirk and Skyler speeding out of their offices. They stopped near the reception desk. When Jeanne released her, Kirk stepped forward and embraced her.
“I’m sorry,” Kirk said. “Anything we can do?” He stepped back so Skyler could approach.
“No, but thank you.” Natalie hugged Skyler. “And thank you all for the flowers.”
“What are you doing at work?” Skyler asked. “I told you you should take time off.”
“To do nothing? I’d rather be here. Clients are counting on me.”
The phone rang. Jeanne lifted the receiver, and Natalie, Kirk, and Skyler moved down the hallway for privacy.
“Do the police know what happened yet?” Kirk asked quietly. “Was it a robbery?”
“They’ve issued a couple of statements,” Natalie said. “How much do you know?”
Kirk glanced at Skyler as though seeking another male opinion on whether or not to bluntly state what he’d learned.
“We read that she died of strangulation.” Skyler took the initiative. “It’s being treated as a homicide, and time of death was between 1:00 and 3:00 a.m. Saturday. The news reports didn’t say anything about . . . reasons.”
“That’s all I know too. They haven’t said anything about suspects or motives.” Natalie realized she was rubbing her throat. She dropped her hand, wishing she could shake the recurring, miserable question of how much Camille had suffered. “Skyler, did you . . . tell Kirk?”
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