“Believe her.”
“You can’t cover something like this up. There are laws. Someone should be told. Someone of authority.”
“You’d destroy your mother if you did.”
“We can make it come out right, can’t we?” She was desperate for him to agree. “It was my father’s wish. He manipulated her. She didn’t know what she was doing. If Birdie and you and I explained, they’d understand, wouldn’t they? Tell me they’d understand.”
“They’d put her on parade. Turn her into a martyr. Put her away somewhere. And for what? For who, Kendra? For you?”
“Hell no.”
“Mac, then?”
“Least of all for Mac.”
He shook her like a rag doll. “I’d do anything for you. I’d slay dragons if I thought it would do any good. But this ....” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right.”
The mismatched scents of sea breezes and masculinity clung to his skin. She could have gobbled him up like a cheese soufflé and never gotten enough. The tactile smoothness of his worsted suit stood in sharp contrast to the roughness of his five-o’clock shadow. She sniffed morning cologne succumbing to nighttime perspiration, and preferred the latter to the former. “They’re gone,” she said. “The ghosts.”
“Bonnie?”
“And my brother. This will sound crazy ... but I think they’re together.”
“They never knew each other.”
“Not until we moved in.” She bracketed his face between her hands and looked into his eyes. In the dark, they were depthless. “I can’t let what happened destroy Emily, can I? Or us?”
“You’d be a jerk if you did.”
“Then come, my love,” she said, urging him nearer. “I made a bed for you. Of rose petals and silken sheets.”
His hands opened. She undid his tie. A smile teased his mouth. He was about to say something when she smothered his lips with hers. Her fingers were shaky when she unbuttoned his shirt and shakier still when she pulled down his zipper. Moonlight filtered through the windows and tinged his body bronze. His muscles rippled beneath her feeble touches. When he moved to take her, she fended him off with mild resistance. He watched hungrily as she undressed. Afterward, she yanked off the hairband and shook out her mane. Again, he wanted a taste. She thwarted his advances and led him to the bed. He flowed like liquid mercury into a supine position. His thigh muscles contracted with wanting. He reached out for her. And still, she would not come to him.
Instead, she floated around the room, letting the flickering shadows guide her. The matches lay where she left them. She struck one and lit a succession of candles. The match flame flirted with her fingertips. She extinguished it with a breath and watched the latticed smoke rise into nothingness.
When she circled back around, Joel was waiting for her. Lying stark naked in the candlelight with elbows akimbo and hands tucked beneath his head, he looked defenseless and susceptible to her whims. She scooped up his necktie and dangled it from her fingertips. “Sit up,” she ordered.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“You’ll see.” She straddled his lap and shushed him with the faintest of kisses. He wanted more, but she said, “Don’t move.”
“Have to.”
“Let me do everything.”
“Don’t think I can.”
“I said, don’t move.” She wrapped the necktie around his wrist, drew it to the bedpost, and made a tight knot. He didn’t fight her but watched with fascination. With his graceful hand helplessly bound, a playful smile rose on his lips. She promised more sadistic delights when she used her headband to tie his other wrist to the opposite bedpost. He stilled as she moved to a rhythm that was more seduction than sex, more dance than bestiality, more promise than deliverance. He said her name like a mantra, worshipping her at her specially prepared altar. “Do you feel it?” she asked.
He moaned his answer. Seconds washed away. Then minutes. Finally hours. “I can’t stand it much longer. Kendra ...?”
“Hush, my love. Hush and listen. Do you hear it?”
Joel took an eternity to answer. “Hear what?”
“Our child. Turning in my womb.”
His provocative question, unasked, took flight. Seconds later, she answered with the same voiceless breath. Their eyes met. His were welling up; hers were dry. She reached over and released his hands. They embraced and fell into a clinch. She laid her head on his chest.
She had him exactly where she wanted him. She closed the trapped. “It’s a boy,” she said. And her smile, which he could not see, twisted.
Chapter 27
TUCKED BETWEEN A navy-blue business suit and a black velveteen pantsuit, the cocktail dress shimmered. Kendra fingered the satiny material and whisked it out. The taffeta whistled as it cleared the other garments and settled into her outstretched hands. Extending the gown to its full length, she admired the sheen, the frosted amethyst shade, the strapless bodice, the Victorian waistline, the hand-sewn beads populating the tapered skirt, and the side split that was cut daringly high. A string of matched pearls would have set it off nicely.
Joel joined her in the walk-in closet, sneaking up from behind and snaking his arms around her waist. She leaned into his strength and stroked her cheek against his. Since the accident, he’d been working out more than usual. She hadn’t gotten used to the muscled hardness of his body yet. His breath hinted of coffee. Patting her tummy with affection, he trailed his lips from earlobe to chin. “I like,” he murmured.
“Oh really,” she said playfully.
“The dress,” he teased back.
“And the woman?”
“The woman, too.” He gestured toward the gown. “New?”
Kendra cocked her head from side to side as if deciding whether she liked it. “I found it Wednesday.” She was telling the truth, but not all of it.
He handled the price tag and whistled. “Did we take out a loan?”
“Second mortgage.”
“When do you plan on modeling it for me? Tonight?”
“I’m returning it.”
“Don’t. I like it.”
“It’s not me. This dress calls for ... well, a girl ... not a woman.” She rehung the garment, and the material slipped back into place, disappearing among the folds.
Turning into his arms, she looked him over. He was dressed for work. Suit, tie, and billows of aftershave. He had never looked handsomer or more appealing. Every physical scar of the accident had healed, but the emotional scars—for both of them—remained.
Since coming home, they never talked about that night or its aftermath. Instead, they tiptoed around each other, fearful the other would break down with one misplaced step or a single misspoken word. Still, she couldn’t shake the instant replays from her mind. Even now, she was unable to look at him without seeing every click of the shutter, every slow-motion frame, and every photographic sequence laid out in triple exposure.
His eyes glanced down. He reached for her hands, and cradling them in his, stretched out her forearms so that the inner surfaces faced upwards to the light. Ugly bruises tracked the delicate skin from wrist to elbow. “What happened?” He used his thumbs to press at the purple marks. His touch was gentle. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“You ought to see a doctor.”
“They go away.”
“You’ve had them before? I don’t like the looks of them.”
“Kiss me,” she said.
He gave her a swift peck on the lips.
“You can do much better than that, Counselor.” She reached up and laced her arms around his neck.
He smiled and reached in for a more passionate kiss. Just then, the phone trilled in the bedroom. Annoyed at the interruption, he snapped his head around.
“You better get it. It’s probably your father.”
Torn between lust and duty, he swept back her hair and stared longingly into her eyes. The phone stopped ringing and the answering machine picked u
p downstairs.
In an accident, after the bloody carnage and broken glass have been swept away, the shoes and socks are often left behind. No one knows why. Flung onto the roadbed, into the ditches, or between the trellises of a railroad track, they lay around for weeks and months, signaling passersby of the recent tragedy. You could ask who belongs to the shoes and socks, wonder whether the owners are dead or alive, and surmise the best-case scenario. Or you could understand implicitly what had happened and say a silent prayer.
If Kendra were on another collision course, at least this time she was alert for the signals. She hoisted the nightshirt over her head and tossed it aside. Joel salivated as her breasts settle back into place. But it was the sashay of her hips—offered for the taking—that finished him.
“Screw my father.” He swept her into his arms and carried her back to bed.
As he climbed in beside her, his eyes measured her as if seeing her for the first time in a long time. Was it possible he had never seen her this way before, in vivid daylight, with the sunlight pouring through the eastern windows and coating her skin with vanilla glacé? Could it be their lovemaking had always taken place in the anonymous shadows of the witching hours? Had they always been embarrassed by the intimacy, making it necessary to view each other under soft lights and dark focus?
While Joel made sweet, delicious love to her and the bedding billowed beneath them, she let her eyes drift toward the ceiling, where the light of early morning danced.
Kendra thought about the cocktail dress. She first saw it the other day, exactly as she told Joel. But not in a store. In the bedroom closet. Tucked between the navy-blue business suit and the black velveteen pantsuit.
She’d been waiting for the madness to begin again; expected it to come back like a long lost friend. Months had gone by without any telltale signs. She hoped against hope that the blackouts and forgetfulness would never return. That she’d be in complete control of her mind. That she’d never have to doubt her sanity again. And that she and Joel would live happily ever after. When the disconnect happened—as she knew it eventually would—she wasn’t surprised. She was glad. Relieved, actually. And grateful that the intervening reprieve had given her time. To prepare. And to make plans. She knew what she had to do, even if it meant her own destruction.
Joel stirred beside her. Kendra yawned with satisfaction and curled a hand to the side of her face. “You better go.” When he tossed the sheets aside and started to dress, she said, “What’s that?” A bruise tagged the right side of his ribcage.
“Boom caught me.”
“You went sailing? When?”
“Yesterday. Thought I told you.”
She languished in the covers and flung her arms up on the pillows. The sheets sloped off her body, revealing just enough cleavage to tease. He was beguiled. “Come here.” She sat up and dressed him like a Ken doll. Straightening his tie, tucking in his shirttail, uncurling his collar. “There. All handsome again.”
He gave her a meaningful goodbye kiss. His smile was half given, as if he didn’t quite trust her, or himself. “What’ve you got on tap for today?”
“Probably go into Largesse for a couple hours. Finish up a project.”
“And then?”
“Shopping, I guess.”
He tasted her once more, his eyes glazing over with appetite. He would have lain beside her again if she let him.
“You better go.” She untangled herself from his embrace and sent him off. “You’ll be late.”
“Late already.” Unwilling to let her slip from his sights, he backed up toward the staircase. “Be there, just like that, when I get home.”
“And what will I do in between?” she said.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
She giggled. “I’ll do my best, Master.” Basking in his admiring gaze, she repositioned herself. The sheets fell completely away, just as she knew they would.
His hand went to his tie and pulled the knot partially loose. He was contemplating on whether to stay or leave. In the end, he left, but with a smirk pasted on his lips.
She listened to his feet descend the staircase, pause at the halfway mark, and teeter as if to go back. Eventually he pounded down the remaining steps. He went into the kitchen and filled the travel mug with fresh coffee. Very soon, the screen door slapped shut. Not much later, the access door to the garage opened and closed. The distant whir of the garage door unfurling off the alley ended on a clap. The Carrera backed up into the alley. The garage door fell back into place. And the sports car rumbled toward Addison Street, turned, and drove into the distance.
Kendra threw off the covers.
Chapter 28
THE MODULAR WORK station offered a variety of configurations, storage bins, and work surfaces, everything constructed of teakwood and metallic trimmings, the furniture pieces arched, curved, custom fitted, and pleasing to the eye.
This was Joel’s office away from the office.
Kendra scanned the most accessible corners. At her elbow lay a pile of utility bills and junk mail. The rest of the desktop was devoted to client folders, pending cases, legal documents, and miscellaneous paperwork.
She listened for sounds of him returning for a forgotten file or a phone number. Only silence or the occasional call of a cardinal broke the early morning hush.
Shrugging off jitters, she made her first incursion into his privacy by opening the handiest drawer. She flipped through the contents at arm’s length, her fingernails shuffling through papers and her eyesight making do with oblique angles. Passports, tax assessments, car titles, and insurance policies stuffed plastic portfolios, everything mundane and uninteresting, exactly why Kendra left the finances to Joel. In the next drawer, she found other folders swelling with powers of attorney, living trusts, wills, and life insurance policies. Having once put her signature on the dotted lines, she was familiar with everything. She rummaged through various niches, bays, and shelving, taking care not to upset anything. The credenza stored tax returns, their own and those Joel filed for friends and relatives. The bookcase overflowed with esoteric titles on law, economics, and accounting. Expecting to come across hidden compartments or secret love notes, she turned over casebooks and rifled pages, only to find disappointment. She explored the laptop, opening files and scanning e-mails. Everything made for dull reading.
She assumed the hunt was going to be impersonal, but it was just the reverse. Barbed wire bound up their married life together, all of it built around money and possessions.
Getting down on hands and knees, she reduced the desk to a shell. She pulled out every drawer and made a thorough search inside and out. She had anticipated heaps of clues; cryptic messages; telephone log of calls made to men whose names ended in vowels; a diary containing true confessions; appointment calendars loaded with names, places, dates, and times; a million-dollar life insurance policy she didn’t know about. Everything incriminating. All of it for the asking.
Nothing. There was nothing.
Slower than she had dismantled the desk, Kendra put it back together. When everything had been set aright, her eyes made one last sweep around the room and lit on a two-drawer filing cabinet. Camping out on the cold floor, she investigated every folder and drew another blank.
She had no idea what she was looking for, only that she’d know it when she saw it. The most effective way to protect something of value was to hide it in plain sight. Except she wasn’t looking for gold or silver but for human failing. If anything, Joel was a consummate professional. Leaving sensitive information out in the open wasn’t part of his character.
Her eyes went to the center drawer of the desk. She had searched it before but found only a jumble of office supplies. When she pulled it out this time, something jammed the slider. She jiggled, prodded, and probed, but the drawer refused to give. She felt around with her fingers but found no observable impediment. She snatched up a paperknife, and poked and jabbed. The rollers suddenly gave way and the drawer shot out
, flipping end over end.
More than paper clips, tacks, Post-It notes, pens, markers, and rolls of Scotch tape dislodged. A wad of formless duct tape came along for the ride. She ran her fingers around the outer casing, and finding no other obstruction, turned over the drawer. A cocoon of sticky wrappings had been attached to the underside. Buried inside was a key. She tugged it loose. The plate was engraved with a number—13739—followed by the letters PO.
She clamped her hand over it.
Twenty minutes later, Kendra found the apartment building off Clark Street. The yellow two-flat was unmistakable. A German shepherd was barking the last time she had visited, too. And like then, unclaimed newspapers littered the front walkway.
Taking the same path she had then, but alone this time, Kendra slipped through the gangway and climbed the back stairs to the porch. The triangular tear in the screen door had widened. She rapped her knuckles on the doorframe and peeked through the window. Darkness shrouded the kitchen and the rooms beyond. She knocked again. After no one came to the door, she tried the doorknob. Unlike her last visit, the door was locked.
Almost all Chicagoans locked their doors against intruders. Usually, though, they had a back-up plan. Since a porch offered many hiding places, Kendra made an inventory of the most likely spots. The upper ledge of the doorframe yielded only grime. The welcome mat hid mold and insect carcasses but no key. The windows on either side of the door proved too elevated to make for easy access, even for a tall man or woman. But the huge planter positioned unobtrusively against the outer railing drew attention to itself. Having long ago been abandoned for its stated purpose, and containing only decaying stems and leaves, it also held several sun-bleached rocks. Some were ragged and irregular. But one was shaped like a soap bar. Sure enough, its faux finish, plastic slider, and hollow interior yielded a tarnished key that slid easily into Kendra’s hand, and shortly thereafter, into the deadbolt lock.
The door creaked open. Kendra set one foot into the kitchen and called out. No one answered. She went through and planted her boots on the tile floor. The screen door slammed behind her. She called again. Receiving no response, she followed her nose and ventured forth, the smell of linseed oil leading the way.
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