The Triple Threat Collection

by Lis Wiehl

  From now on, Ian would be lavishing his money and time and attention on a spoiled five-year-old brat who wouldn’t even appreciate it. And what incentive would Sara have for leaving? None at all. They would be back to being the perfect family.

  Unless Elizabeth figured out a different way to play The Game. She put her hand to her heart, not incidentally drawing attention to her décolletage. “Of course, Ian. He’s your son. You have to put him first.”

  Ian nodded and then cut another piece of his steak.

  Before he could bring it to his mouth, Elizabeth said, “That looks wonderful. Can I have a bite?”

  He turned his fork upside down and offered it to her. She took it delicately, then licked her lips.

  “Let’s leave,” she said impulsively.

  “What? You’ve hardly touched your steak.”

  “That’s not what I’m hungry for.”

  Ian gave her a delighted grin, then caught the waiter’s eye. “Can we have the check and the food boxed to go?”

  The waiter frowned. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s fine—we just realized we needed to be someplace else,” Ian said.

  As the waiter whisked their plates back to the kitchen, Elizabeth watched Ian open his wallet without looking like that was what she was doing. The fat sheaf of money gave her a thrill. He counted out enough for the bill and then added a fifty-dollar bill as a tip and closed the black folder.

  She felt a pinch of irritation. What had the waiter done to deserve that? They had barely had time to settle in. Slipping her sweater from her shoulders, Elizabeth let it fall to the floor.

  “Ready to go?” Ian asked.

  She answered with a sly smile.

  As soon as they got to the front door, she put her hands to her shoulders. “Uh-oh! I left my sweater,” she said, and ran back inside before he could offer to retrieve it for her.

  She grabbed the sweater at the same time as she slipped one of the fifty-dollar bills from the black leather folder. When she turned, the waiter was watching her, his mouth pursed. Had he seen? Elizabeth shrugged. It didn’t matter. Ian had paid for the food. And a tip was a reward for great service, and there hadn’t been any service to speak of.

  But Elizabeth, now, she gave great service.

  CHAPTER 29

  Southwest Portland

  Two pints of the IPA,” Marshall said to the waitress at the Old Market Pub.

  IPA stood for India Pale Ale, but in Portland, which had the most craft breweries per capita in the United States, it was always shorthanded to IPA. This pub was one large room filled with several dozen high-backed pine benches and tables. Big-screen TVs mounted on the walls made it easy to watch whatever sport was in season.

  “And I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, and my wife will have the Caesar salad with chicken.”

  It was just the two of them at the table. Lindsay had stayed home. She was engrossed in a TV marathon of Dawson’s Creek reruns, fantasizing about a teenage life she’d never had.

  “I don’t know,” Allison said as the waitress walked away. “Maybe I should have ordered a milk or a soda.”

  “What?” Marshall took his eyes off the baseball game. “Why? Is there a reason?”

  Allison realized he thought she might be pregnant again. They weren’t trying, but they weren’t not trying, either.

  “No. Sorry. It’s just that I don’t want Lindsay to smell beer on me.”

  When Lindsay had first moved in, they had locked all their alcohol—which wasn’t much, maybe a half dozen bottles, mostly wine—in Marshall’s trunk. Just to keep from tempting Lindsay. Although, as Marshall had pointed out, the nearest 7 Eleven, which basically sold only cigarettes, Slurpees, and beer, was only a few blocks away.

  “Allison.” Marshall took her hand. His palm was cool and a little rough. “Your sister has to live in the real world at some point. And in the real world, most people drink beer. Some people can’t, or won’t. But those two groups don’t live in separate worlds. They figure out how to live in the same world.”

  “But she’s still recovering. I don’t want to be the one to set her off.” Allison pulled her hand back and began to toy with the saltshaker, which was a repurposed empty beer bottle with holes poked in the metal cap.

  “Lindsay is an adult. She’s thirty years old.” Marshall touched the back of her hand again, and she looked into his blue eyes, the color of gas flames. “Thirty,” he repeated. “She’s not a kid anymore.”

  “But sometimes I feel like she got stuck. She was only thirteen when Dad died, and part of her never got any older. Sometimes I feel like our family let her down.” Allison’s eyes felt wet. “It’s not like we meant to, but first Dad died and left her behind. Then Mom basically checked out. And I was so busy trying to prove that everything was okay with me that I left Lindsay to fend for herself.”

  “Lindsay had choices, the same as you did,” Marshall said with a hint of impatience. “Only she made bad ones. Lindsay alone is responsible for her behavior. Not you.”

  The waitress appeared with two glasses of beer. “Here we go. Two IPAs.”

  Despite her half-formed idea not to drink, Allison pulled her glass toward her and took a sip. “But it’s too simple to say it’s all Lindsay’s fault. Maybe part of it is my parents’ fault for babying her when she was growing up, so that she fell apart when Dad died. Maybe it’s society’s fault for not finding a way to help her when she started to get into trouble. Or the school’s for letting her cut so many classes before they even told us.” Allison set her glass back down on the coaster. “Sometimes . . .” She hesitated. “Sometimes I even think it’s God’s fault. He took Dad away and left us all alone. And all of us fell apart, in one way or another. Even if we all didn’t show it.”

  Allison thought of the last two years of high school, of how she had lost sleep and lost weight, increasingly frantic to keep her grades up, keep the house picked up, keep appearances up. To convince the world—and herself—that they were all still okay. “Back then, I was so angry with Lindsay for skipping class and getting in trouble. It felt like she was doing it to embarrass me. I acted like the surface was the only thing that mattered. When it’s what’s underneath that counts.” She thought of Colton Foley, whose perfect exterior hid the horrible black hole of his heart.

  “Allison, listen to yourself,” Marshall said. “Every day you prosecute guys that scare even me. And you don’t let their lawyers make excuses for their bad childhoods and poor upbringings. But when it comes to your sister, you’re willing to give her so much rope she could hang herself. There comes a point where Lindsay has to take responsibility for her own choices.”

  “I’m just afraid she’s not strong enough.”

  To her surprise Marshall said, “You might be right. Lindsay probably isn’t strong enough.”

  “But then—” Allison started.

  Marshall raised his hand. “What I’m saying is that there are times when nobody is strong enough. Nobody. But with God, all things are possible. Look at Paul. He asked God three times to take away his weakness, but God said to him, ‘My power is made perfect in weakness.’ There comes a time when you have to let go.”

  Allison completed the thought for him. “Let go, and let God.”

  “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Southeast Portland

  Buzzing. Something was buzzing. Joey swam out of a dream. It was morning. Barely. The slanted light hurt his eyes. He had spent the last twenty-four hours drinking. Ever since Sissy had told him that Jenna was dead.

  And it was all Joey’s fault.

  Jenna, with her long blonde hair and her exuberance. She had seemed awfully young for a reporter. The first time they met, she had actually hugged him. It had been a long time since a woman who didn’t expect to get paid afterward had touched Joey.

  Jenna, who had been so impressed with herself for coming up with the smoke detector/hidden camera.

  Jenna. All broken and bloo
dy.

  Joey had tried to drink enough that he wouldn’t dream about her, but it hadn’t worked. In his dreams Jenna had been trying to tell him something, her soft lips moving, her blue eyes wide, but when he leaned close to hear, dark blood flowed like a waterfall from her parted lips.

  The buzzing was growing more annoying. It was coming from his phone, sitting on the floor next to his mattress. Which was also on the floor. The phone was the one Sissy had bought him at Target. Paying cash.

  So there was no point in wondering who it was.

  Or in trying to avoid her. He couldn’t forever. He fumbled the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Why haven’t you done it yet?” Sissy demanded. If you could demand anything while speaking in a whisper.

  When Joey heard her voice a month ago, he should have hung up. When he saw her face, he should have turned on his heel and walked away.

  Instead he had let her play him for a fool.

  And now Jenna was dead. And this Sara soon would be.

  Joey sat up. Mistake. A headache bloomed behind his right eye.

  Pressing the heel of his hand against his eye socket, he said, “I’ve been thinking. I don’t even know her.”

  The fire had been pure pleasure. But to shoot some lady, even from twenty feet away? No. He couldn’t do that. Which was why he had called the TV station and talked to Jenna. And it had all been downhill from there.

  “Well, thanks to your thinking, thanks to your foot-dragging, she’s not even going to be at the hotel anymore. She and that brat of hers are moving in with someone. Today.”

  “Shacking up already?” Joey was surprised. “That was fast.”

  Sissy’s tone sharpened. “It’s not like that. It’s her ex-husband—my boyfriend. Sara called him up and was all ‘Boohoo, my house burned down.’ Tell me, is that fair? No matter what I do, she just finds a way to suck more and more from him. And she’ll never stop. Ever. So you need to take care of her, now. And that kid too. I definitely need you to do both of them.”

  Joey shivered. “Wait—now you want me to kill the kid too? A little kid?”

  Crap, he should have done the lady yesterday. Then it would have just been her. But now—now both she and the kid would die. One way or another. Because Sissy didn’t take no for an answer.

  “Hey,” Sissy said matter-of-factly, “you’ll be doing the brat a favor. His mom will already be dead. This way, they’ll be together.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. “But you can’t do it at my boyfriend’s house. Because I don’t want him getting dragged into it.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “Of course, if he was at work with a half dozen witnesses, he’d have a perfect alibi.”

  “Maybe you could just talk to your boyfriend?” Joey ventured. “Maybe he could just get the whole alimony thing adjusted or something.”

  “How many times do I have to point out that I’m not paying you to think?” she snapped.

  He had a flashback of Sissy at Spurling. Of what an angry Sissy would do.

  Shortly after this girl named Ruby arrived at Spurling, Sissy had targeted her. Joey had liked Ruby, who was little but spunky. But Sissy had developed an immediate hatred toward her. Maybe because so many people had liked Ruby—unlike Sissy. Joey didn’t know. All he knew was that when he and Sissy were on kitchen duty together, she would spit in Ruby’s food. At other times she whispered behind Ruby’s back, turning the other kids against her. And she hid cigarettes in Ruby’s cubby and then told one of the counselors. This earned Sissy extra privileges and Ruby an especially confrontational group session when she refused to admit her guilt. Eventually Ruby tried to kill herself.

  When she heard the news, Sissy had laughed and clapped her hands.

  Why hadn’t Joey thought of Ruby when Sissy first got back in touch with him? Why hadn’t he remembered Ruby until it was too late?

  He couldn’t drink his problems away. He couldn’t think his problems away. If he went to the cops, it would be his word against Sissy’s. That was, if she let him live long enough to talk to them. The only way out was to do what Sissy demanded—go out and kill this woman and her little boy. And then try to forget he had ever done it.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll need the address. And if you’ve got it, the times she’ll be there—and the guy she’s staying with won’t be.”

  Sissy gave him what he asked for. Joey scribbled it down on a paper bag from the liquor store.

  “I’ll give you three days. And that’s it. Or I’ll just have to start taking care of things myself. Do you understand what I’m saying, Joey?”

  He understood, all right. If he didn’t do this thing, then Sissy would put him on her list of things that needed to be taken care of.

  CHAPTER 31

  Northwest Portland

  Elizabeth stared down at her cell phone, thinking. Would Joey chicken out? Or would he finally take care of business?

  She jumped when she heard Ian calling from the bedroom. He had spent the night. Too impatient to wait for him to leave, she had sneaked out to the living room to make the call.

  “I’m out here.”

  Wearing just a pair of black briefs, he came into the living room and kissed her forehead. “Who were you talking to on the phone, sweetie?”

  Elizabeth’s expression was guileless. “The gym.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “You sounded kind of firm.”

  She tried to replay her last words. At least she had been keeping her voice low. People were sometimes more afraid of calm than they were of shouting. And Joey already knew what she was capable of. She found an explanation that should fit anything Ian had overheard.

  “Georgia, the girl who works behind the desk, has been scheduling personal training sessions without giving me enough warning. They’re supposed to give me three days’ notice. If you let them take an inch, they’ll take a mile.” She put her hands on Ian’s shoulders and pressed her body against him, enjoying his firmly muscled chest under her palms, his height that allowed her to feel small and girlish. “And I want to make sure I have as much time as possible with you.”

  Rising to her toes, she kissed him. Her goal was to make Ian forget whatever words he had overheard, her tone. She pressed her hips against his. He groaned.

  Mission accomplished.

  So where do you want to take me for brunch?” Elizabeth purred as she towel-dried her hair.

  Ian was still sprawled in the tangled sheets. He hadn’t showered, but Elizabeth couldn’t stand to have someone else’s smell clinging to her.

  “Remember? Sara and Noah are moving back in today. I need to go home and get things ready.”

  Elizabeth put on a fake pout to cover the much stronger emotions she was feeling. “If I didn’t know better, I’d be jealous.”

  “I’m doing this for Noah,” Ian said. “Not Sara.” But then he had to spoil it by saying, “Not that we’re not friends.”

  Once Joey had finally taken care of Ian’s ex-wife and kid, then Ian’s money and attention could be put to better use. For Elizabeth.

  Ian left not long afterward, but Elizabeth couldn’t stop thinking about him. She deserved to be the one moving into his house. She deserved to be the one he put first.

  As the day moved toward evening, Elizabeth drove past Ian’s house. Through the window she caught a quick glimpse of a dark-haired woman standing in his living room, a small figure by her side. The very sight of them left Elizabeth shaking. She had only spent the night at Ian’s house twice. But now, unless Joey did something, these freeloaders would probably stay there for weeks and weeks. Ian would hurry home to them. They would eat together, talk about their day, laugh. They would be like a little family.

  And Elizabeth would be left on the outside, looking in. The way she had been so many times before.

  She drove aimlessly until she finally realized what she needed. A pick-me-up. Someone who would look at her with adoration—and mean it. Someone who would not believe his luck. Someone who had no ties, no entanglements. No
eyes for anyone but her.

  She pulled over and parked to redo her makeup. Elizabeth tilted her head, regarding her image in the mirror critically, trying on a variety of expressions. She widened her eyes slightly. There. That was better. She tucked her lower lip in so that just the edge of her white teeth showed. Blew out a stream of air between her pursed lips. And when Elizabeth thought of how Sara now had everything she should, she was able to make her eyes sparkle with tears.

  Ma’am, I can help you,” the woman checker at New Seasons called out. “There’s no one in line over here.”

  “That’s okay,” Elizabeth answered. “I’d rather stay in this line.”

  At the sound of her voice, Clark looked up. She gave him one of the smiles she had practiced, and he returned it. His mouth was a disgusting jumble of teeth.

  When it was finally her turn, he said, “Hello, Korena.”

  “You remembered!”

  “You would be a hard woman to forget.” Putting his hand over his name badge, he said, “Do you remember my name?” He looked surprised by his own daring.

  “It’s Clark,” she said. “Do you ever go into phone booths and spin around?”

  “I’m not sure what Clark Kent does now that everyone has cell phones, but no, I don’t.” His expression darkened. “I’m always just me.”

  One of the things she had put on the black rubber conveyor belt was a six-dollar bar of sandalwood soap. Now she picked it up and sighed. “Do you think someone could put this back for me?”

  “Did you want a different bar?”

  “No.” She looked down, bit her lower lip again. Knowing it emphasized how plump her lips were, like pillows. “It’s just that right now it’s a bit too expensive for me. After the day I had today, I was just wanting a little treat. But once I got up here, I realized I shouldn’t have picked it up.”

  Clark set it next to the register and continued to ring up her items, bagging them as he went. Then he told her the total. Elizabeth wrote the check—another from the checks she had taken from Korena— and handed it over.