If She Only Knew

by Lisa Jackson

“So what was the ‘sweet deal’ Robert was talking about?” Walt persisted.

  “Oh, God . . .” she hesitated. Worked at her thumbnail until there wasn’t much left. “It’s weird now, when I figured out that everybody’s related. I . . . I kinda got involved with an older man when I was at Cahill House. He, um, he liked me. Robert and I were broken up over the baby and this man . . . he was nice. Treated me good. Mom found out and nearly had a stroke. She contacted some lawyer she knew and started ranting and raving that she was going to sue whoever it was. All she knew was that he was older and married but she was ready to string him up by his balls.”

  “So when did she find out the guy was the preacher?” Walt asked.

  Julie opened her mouth, started to say something, but snapped her teeth together and folded her lips together.

  Walt said, “You don’t remember?”

  She blinked hard.

  “Julie?” Nick prodded.

  “He wasn’t the guy who came on to me,” she whispered, casting her eyes to the floor.

  “Wait a minute.” Walt rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought you and he—”

  She shook her head. “Everyone did. That’s what everyone’s supposed to think. That’s the deal Robert was talking about.” She looked earnestly at Nick and her little face, streaked with black, crumpled. “It wasn’t like everyone thought. He was just being nice and, well, Alex . . .” she whispered, her lips trembling.

  “My brother?”

  “Yes! He worked out a deal with me and Reverend Favier so that it seemed like he was the one, so that my Mom wouldn’t insist that I press charges.”

  “Why would Donald Favier let his name be smeared?” Nick asked. “It could have cost him his congregation. I’m surprised they didn’t string him up at the church and throw him out.”

  “It’s his church. There’s no other one like it,” Julie said. “It’s not like a franchise for McDonald’s, it’s not part of a bigger deal. There’s no archbishop or pope or supreme poohbah or anything.”

  “Still, his reputation took a major hit,” Nick said. “Why would he take the fall?”

  Julie’s lips twisted into a cynical smile that was far older than her years. “Well, duh, why do you think?” she asked, swiping at her nose with the back of her hand. “For the same reason I did. For the money.”

  The house was dark. Quiet. The only sound Marla heard came from outside her window, the rush of wind through the branches of the fir trees in the backyard. It’s now or never, she thought, throwing back the covers of her bed and grabbing her robe. As she tossed the robe over her pajamas she heard the soft chink of keys—Eugenia’s keys—in her pocket. And now it was time to use them. She had forced herself to stay awake until she was certain her mother-in-law, the servants and Cissy had gone to their rooms. Nick had disappeared earlier and Alex hadn’t returned from wherever it was he went after dinner. At least she hadn’t heard him come home.

  She closed the door to her room and walked across the suite, one hand in her pocket holding the precious keys to keep them from clinking. She tried the door to Alex’s room. Locked. No surprise there.

  “What are you hiding?” she wondered aloud. She let herself into the hallway and, aided by one lamp left on all night, she padded stealthily to the office door. Her nerves were strung tight as piano wires, her hands clammy, nervous sweat beading between her shoulders. She tried to insert the first key. No go. She used the second. It slid into the lock but wouldn’t turn. She withdrew it, put in the next. It, too, wouldn’t budge. In the foyer downstairs the grandfather’s clock struck one.

  Come on, come on, she thought, trying two more keys before finally the lock gave way with a soft click. Heart in her throat, Marla stepped into a room that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and Alex’s aftershave. “Now, Marla, think,” she whispered, closing the door softly and dropping the keys back into her pocket. She turned on the desk lamp and walked through the office to the exercise room, past the seldom used equipment and into Alex’s closet. His scent was stronger here where his jackets and suits lined the wall. Quietly, she pushed the door of the closet open just a crack to peer into her husband’s private sanctuary. Relief poured over her as she noticed that his bed was undisturbed, the covers as tight as if he expected a surprise military inspection.

  Letting out her breath, she hurried back to the office and as quickly as her nervous fingers could move riffled through Alex’s Rolodex. Since the first time she’d looked, she’d remembered more and more of the names listed, as in the intervening few weeks, she’d met some people, heard conversations about others and recognized about a third of the names in the file.

  Concentrating, she made mental notes of the friends, family and business associates of Marla and Alex Cahill, but stopped short as she flipped over a card and the name Kylie Paris caught her eye. Kylie. Again. Her heart stopped. So there really was a woman by the name Conrad Amhurst had called her.

  Her throat went dry. She bit her lip. Dear God, was Kylie her name? She’d thought as much before, but that didn’t make any sense. Why would everyone, her husband included, think she was Marla? Or did the name Kylie belong to someone else? Was it possible that she, Marla, did have a half sister, as her father had suggested, or was his anger just the ramblings of a sick, disoriented old man?

  You never understood, did you? You’re not my daughter. Get out of here, Kylie. And don’t ever come back. You’re never getting a dime from me!

  Money? He was concerned about money? This man who was giving everything he’d amassed in his life to one tiny baby?

  His raspy accusations still ringing in her ears, she pulled the card from its holder, reading the address and phone number listed under Kylie Paris’s name. Telling herself that it didn’t matter that it was the middle of the night, she licked her lips and picked up the receiver. “No guts, no glory,” she whispered as the dial tone seemed to blare in her ear.

  With trembling fingers she dialed. Waited. Crossed her fingers. Within seconds there was a click and then a woman’s voice—playful, catty, mischievous. “Hi. Guess what? You blew it. I’m out. Sorry you missed me, but you know the routine. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back. If you’re lucky. Ciao.”

  Then a beep. Marla hung up. Fast. Swallowed hard. Should she have left a message? Who was that woman? Her sister? A stranger? Or had she recorded that flippant message as Kylie Paris?

  If she could only remember! She stared at the phone and considered calling back. What would it hurt to say that she was Marla Cahill and was looking for her sister . . . No, it would be better to meet the woman on the other end of the line in person. Face-to-face. Maybe seeing Kylie’s face would jog her memory. As it was, Marla couldn’t waste any more time, so she dropped the card into her pocket with Eugenia’s keys, and searched through the remaining names in the Rolodex one more time, hoping that seeing a name or address or phone number would trigger her memory, but she was disappointed.

  “Never give up,” she told herself and turned her attention to the computer. She needed a password to get into the e-mail and used combinations of dates and names, information she’d learned over the past couple of weeks, but nothing opened the damned files. The clock in the foyer chimed the half hour. One-thirty. How long would Alex be out? All night? She tried to open the desk, but the drawers were locked. Of course. “Damn it all to hell . . .” she said, then reached in her pocket for Eugenia’s keyring. There were three small keys on the ring. One was probably for the liquor cabinet, the other presumably for the secretary in Eugenia’s room and the third . . . fit into the desk perfectly.

  With a click the drawers opened.

  Hallelujah!

  Quickly she sorted through the files and found copies of tax statements and bills, mortgage and bank information, all neatly filed in manila folders. The bills were staggering, the loans against several properties, this house included, more than she could imagine—into the millions of dollars. Hadn’t Alex inherited the house and ranch
from his father? She scanned an investment portfolio, and noticed as the months had passed that withdrawals had been made, not just dividends and interest, but the principal balance as well until it had dwindled to less than a tenth of what it had been three years earlier.

  Where had all the money gone?

  If she could believe what she saw, Alex and Marla Cahill were in debt to their eyeballs. No wonder Alex worked late and was talking with foreign investors. She closed the drawer, opened another and found medical records, going back several years. She opened the file marked Marla and in the pool of light from the single lamp she perused each statement, learning that a few years earlier she had been treated for tendinitis in her elbow and had suffered from a sprained ankle four years ago. She shuffled through the bills, several for minor surgeries—facial work done in the past two years, plastic surgery to keep the years at bay.

  What a waste, considering the accident. She was about to slip the billings back into their file when she saw a last itemized bill for surgery. She read the notes and frowned, her brow puckering. Surely she’d gotten something mixed up. But the bill stated very clearly that Marla Amhurst Cahill had undergone a hysterectomy three years earlier.

  Nearly three years before her son James had been born—two before he’d been conceived.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered her mind spinning wildly, a thousand thoughts racing through her brain. She remembered the night at the clinic when Dr. Robertson had refused to let her see her own medical records, placating her, while Alex had insisted she go home, that she was too tired to be rational, but he’d wanted to hide her medical records from her.

  Because of the hysterectomy.

  Because it would prove that James couldn’t possibly be her baby.

  Her insides churned. She was sweaty all over. She leaned hard against the desk as her mind spun with questions. What the hell was going on? She remembered her son’s birth. It was one of the few complete memories that she had. But then she’d found the empty bottle of premarin—female hormones—in the medicine cabinet, prescribed for people going through menopause or after having hysterectomies.

  But the baby . . . the baby . . . Oh, God, had her anxious mind dreamed the birth? And why didn’t she remember Cissy’s?

  Because you’re not Marla Cahill, damn it! You’ve sensed it all along!

  She was going out of her mind . . . this couldn’t be happening. Get hold of yourself, Marla. Now! Don’t fall into a million pieces. Search. Hunt through Alex’s things. Find out why he’s keeping secrets from you!

  With fumbling fingers she folded the damning document into small sections, then stuffed it into the pocket of her robe with the keys and the Rolodex card with Kylie Paris’s phone number and address. Was she James’s mother? Or had she, in fact, had her female organs removed? She hadn’t been out of the hospital long enough to have a complete menstrual cycle, only about three weeks, but she had no visible scars from an operation. They don’t cut you on the outside any more. She wasn’t taking estrogen and hadn’t had any hot flashes, unless someone had slipped them into her meals . . . But you don’t know, do you? You don’t know if you’re Alex’s wife or the children’s mother? You don’t know if you’ve got your uterus and ovaries, you don’t even know your damned name.

  Panic took a stranglehold on her throat. It crossed her mind that someone—who, she wasn’t sure—might be trying to drive her crazy. Make her look paranoid. Why? To take the children from her?

  She took in a deep breath. Grabbed hold of the reins of her wildly galloping emotions and pulled hard. Somehow she would find out—figure out what was going on. Given the right amount of time, she would uncover all the dirty little secrets of the Cahill clan.

  And of your own, Marla. What secrets are you hiding?

  “Don’t think that way,” she scolded. She was running out of time and there was one last unexplored drawer in the desk. “Give me strength,” she whispered.

  She pulled on the handle, slid open the drawer and saw the gun.

  A small, silver-plated pistol.

  Her heart nearly stopped. As she ran her fingers over the smooth metal, her blood became ice. Why would Alex have a gun? To protect himself and his family—a family he rarely saw? Or to do bodily harm? Her throat went dry as she lifted the weapon, checked the chamber and saw the bullets. The damned thing was loaded. It felt awkward in her hand. Heavy. She flipped on the safety and considered putting it back in the drawer because she didn’t want Alex to know that she’d been snooping, but . . . maybe she’d need it and maybe by taking it she’d prevent him from using it.

  Oh, Lord, she couldn’t trust him, she knew in her heart she couldn’t. Who was this man who kept secrets, locked doors, and hid pistols in his desk—this man to whom she was married. She glanced down at her wedding ring as her fingers curled over the handle of the gun. Who was she who remembered a baby but had undergone a hysterectomy?

  You’re not Marla Cahill, her mind insisted again. You’ve known it from the moment you woke from the coma and heard the name. Conrad Amhurst knows it. Cissy knows it. Little James fussed when you first held him and Coco, that skittery dog, acts like you’re a witch. Your entire life is a lie, Marla, or Kylie, or whoever you are. A deadly lie.

  Her heart was thrumming loudly, her mind ringing with questions when she heard Coco give off a soft woof from the floor below. Marla went instantly still, her ears straining. She should leave. Now. But what about the gun? If she took the pistol from the drawer Alex would realize someone had taken it. If she left it, he could use it . . . against her . . . or the children. Carefully she put the pistol in her pocket as she heard the sound of footsteps. Coming up the stairs.

  Alex!

  Damn.

  Her stomach knotted. There wasn’t any time to go out to the hall and hurry to her room. He’d see her through the railing as he ascended the stairs. She had to hope that he would go in through the suite and while he was making his way to his room, she’d hurry out this door and creep down the hallway past the suite to James’s door. From there she could sneak through the nursery to her own room.

  With trembling fingers she tucked the files away, closed the drawers, locked them, then reached over and locked the door to the hallway. He was on the top step. She heard it squeak. Silently she rolled the desk chair back, slipped off the seat, and shoved it into its space in the desk.

  With one motion, she snapped off the light and padded quickly into the exercise room, shutting the door behind her until it was open only a crack. Then she waited, sweat pouring off her, her heart racing a thousand beats a minute. His footsteps were heavier in the hall and he paused at the door to the suite.

  Please don’t let him find me.

  He started walking again, his tread coming toward the office. Within seconds his key was rattling in the lock. Circumventing the NordicTrack, Marla retreated to Alex’s closet. Barely daring to breathe, she paused again as she heard him enter the computer room.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath.

  The hairs on Marla’s arms stood on end.

  “What the hell? Why’s this screen saver on? Who’s been in here?”

  Her heart plummeted. Of course he’d realize someone was in the room because the monitor wasn’t blank. A phone jangled softly and Marla jumped before she realized it was a different ring, a soft sputtery noise, not the regular ring of the house phone but Alex’s cell.

  “Hello?” he snapped and she heard the sound of the desk chair rolling back. Get out now. This is your chance. Run through his room and the suite to yours. On quiet footsteps, she made her way through the closet, crept across the wide expanse of carpet to his door and, with a sinking sensation realized that not only was his door locked but it was deadbolted as well. She couldn’t go out this way and lock the dead bolt behind her.

  Damn. Her mind raced. She rubbed her clammy palms down the front of her robe. What could she do? Could she risk him realizing that the dead bolt had been thrown? Her pulse galloping,
she returned to the closet and exercise room, her eyes searching for a tiny alcove, some niche where she could hide until he went to bed and fell asleep. Then she could let herself out through the office.

  His voice filtered through the door she’d left ajar.

  “Yeah . . . I know . . . No, I didn’t call . . . I said I didn’t—Shit ! You’re sure? Yeah, I know about caller ID . . . Well, when? Within the last half hour? I wasn’t home yet . . . Jesus H. Christ, someone’s figured it out!”

  Marla froze. She pieced together the conversation. Alex had to be talking to Kylie Paris and she was telling him about the phone call that Marla had impetuously made to her number. Oh, God, no! Somehow the woman was in cahoots with Alex, mixed up in this mess, but how? Why? Her head was pounding and she knew she had to get out. Fast.

  “Well, hell, I don’t know how! Probably Nick. I knew it was a mistake to drag him down here . . . okay, okay, calm down. Everything’s going to be all right. But you have to leave . . . yes, now, damn it! They could be on their way, go to the carriage house . . . you’ll be safe there for a day or two . . . lay low and I’ll come for you . . . what? Of course I love you. If I didn’t, would I have done everything I have for us?” His voice had taken on a desperate edge. He loved this woman, this Kylie. He’d done “everything” for her. Whatever that meant. “What? Yes. Okay. That’s better.”

  Marla didn’t wait another second. He was involved in something deadly. Something that may have cost Pam Delacroix and Charles Biggs their lives. Something that might have been behind her nearly dying the other night. Oh, God, no one was safe. She had to get away, grab the children and run. Then, once she knew Cissy and little James were secure, she could figure out what was going on. But one thing was certain: Alex was in love with another woman. Probably Kylie Paris, who could very well be her half sister.

  Heart in her throat, she crept stealthily through Alex’s closet, across his room and through the door to the suite. She triggered the lock in the knob and couldn’t worry about the dead bolt. Tamping down her panic, she made her way across the thick carpet of the sitting room and through the door to her room. She couldn’t do anything tonight. She had to play dumb, like nothing was out of the ordinary, lull Alex into thinking she didn’t suspect him of anything.