by Lisa Jackson
“She had no idea,” Marla said with a mirthless laugh. “But then she always was a fool. Just like her stupid brother. I used him, you know. When Alex wasn’t interested in me, I used Monty to get back at him.”
“You really can be a bitch,” Alex said, but there was a note of fondness and pride in his voice that Kylie found disgusting. They were all sick. Twisted. “Okay, now, we’ve got to use the .38.” He kicked the gun toward Marla. “You do it. Go stand by Monty and shoot at her.”
Marla sucked in her breath. “I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“No, Alex. I . . . I can’t pull the trigger.”
“For Christ’s sake!”
He stepped forward. A muffled shot reported. Alex’s body jerked wildly and he fell to the floor, dropping the shotgun.
“No!” Marla screamed. Monty, one hand holding his gun, fell back again, his eyes closing.
Kylie lunged for the shotgun, grabbed it and rolled to her feet. She trained it on Monty but the man didn’t move. She crossed the room and kicked the pistol into the bathroom, then with her weapon still trained on Monty, she backed up, nearly tripping over Marla, who had fallen to the floor and was huddled over her husband. “Give me my son,” Kylie ordered.
“But Alex, he’s wounded.”
“Let him bleed to death. Give me my son!” Kylie was standing over Marla and she reached down and yanked James from the other woman’s arms. Marla was sobbing now, crying and cradling Alex’s head on her lap while blood gurgled over his lips. The baby cried fitfully, but Kylie held him fast.
“This is all your fault!” Marla screamed up at her.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Kylie said. “It’s all yours.”
There were footsteps on the stairs, then running down the hallway. Thank God! The door to the suite banged open. Tom flew into the room. He stood horrified, eyeing the bloody, rumpled bed, Kylie’s state of undress, Alex and Marla and the naked wounded man crumpled in the corner. “What the hell—”
“Call the police!” Kylie ordered as Monty moaned and Alex’s breaths rattled wet and ragged in his lungs.
Tom didn’t move.
“Oh, God, honey, don’t die,” Marla sobbed brokenly to Alex. “Not now. Not when it’s all ours.”
Monty rolled over, trying to struggle to his feet. “Take one step you son of a bitch and I swear, I’ll blow you away!” Kylie warned sharply, then to Tom, “Call the damned police. Now!”
“They . . . They’re on their way,” Tom said, his face ashen. “I heard everything on the intercom when I walked into the kitchen and I called 911. I—I have medical supplies in my room.”
“Then get them.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“Yes! Go!” The words sank in and Tom dashed out of the room. Somewhere in another part of the house Coco barked. An ambulance’s siren wailed from far down the hill. Alex gave a final rasping breath. Marla sobbed brokenly, tears raining from her eyes. Montgomery groaned, the bones of his forearm shattered, all the fight seeming to have finally left him.
“What was it you told me? That you wanted everything? That you deserved it?” Kylie snarled at Monty, the gun shaking in her fingers as she kept it pointed at his pathetic naked body. “Well, it looks like you’re going to finally get what you deserve, and its going to be hell.” She glanced down at her half sister. Tears streamed down Marla’s face, ruining her mascara and eyeliner as she tried to will life into her dying husband’s body.
“Alex, please don’t die”
Kylie, standing over her half sister, held James close. She almost felt sorry for Marla Amhurst Cahill.
Almost.
But not quite.
Nearly three hours later, Kylie sat at Nick’s bedside in the intensive care unit at Bayside Hospital. He didn’t move and the tubes running in and out of his body reminded her how frail life was.
“You can’t die,” she warned him, linking her fingers through his and battling hot tears that threatened her throat and eyes. “Do you hear me, you can’t die!”
“Mrs. Cahill, there’s someone to see you,” the nurse said.
“I don’t want to see anyone. And my name isn’t Mrs. Cahill. It’s Kylie. Kylie Paris.” And she loved Nick. No matter what, she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. “You hang in there,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“It’s the police,” the nurse clarified. “Detective Paterno.”
Kylie looked up and through the glass she saw the detective’s hound-dog face staring at her.
“I’ll be right back,” she told Nick, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.
She hurried through the doorway and nearly ran into the policeman. “Can’t I make a statement later?” she said, glancing back through the meshed glass to Nick.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then what? Oh, God, it’s not the baby.” Panic stormed through her.
“No, no. As far as I know he’s still with his grandmother and the nanny. He’s fine. Eugenia had to be sedated, but the nanny, Fiona, she’s a plucky thing. She and Carmen are holding down the fort.” Paterno shoved a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. “How’s Nick doin’?” he asked, nodding toward the window.
“He’s supposed to be okay,” Kylie said, though she wasn’t convinced. “The bullet went through his spleen and they operated a couple of hours ago. The surgeon told me he would pull through, but . . .” She cast a worried glance over her shoulder. “He’s not waking up.”
“He’ll make it. He’s tough as old leather,” Paterno predicted. “Now, I think you should come with me. There’s someone I think you might want to talk to.”
“Marla,” she whispered, and a new, hot fury burned through her blood when she considered the sister who had suggested the baby scam in the first place, the woman Kylie had always wanted to best, the enemy who had tried to have her killed. Because of Marla and Alex’s blind, self-centered ambition, Pam Delacroix and Charles Biggs had died unnecessarily, Alex himself had breathed his last, Conrad Amhurst had left this world a little earlier than he should have, and Nick was fighting for his life.
“Yeah. Now that her husband is dead she’s talking, though she wants a lawyer. She admitted to the fake pregnancy scam and that they were lucky that you lost your memory, then they kept drugging you so that you wouldn’t recall anything. They only tripped up a couple of times.”
“The ruby ring.”
“She mentioned that.” Paterno nodded. “Alex put it back in your jewelry box the next day.”
“And I thought I was going nuts.”
“She didn’t know how you broke into the office, though.”
“I stole my mother-in-law’s keys . . . was she in on this?”
“Nah! Clean as a whistle. Horrified by the whole mess. She knew Alex and Marla were having problems, and that the company was in trouble, but she had no idea how far it had all gone. I spoke with her and she was upset, but that nurse, Tom, he gave her a sedative and was seeing to her.”
“Good. What about Dr. Robertson?”
“We’re still talking to him, but he’s a big part of this, probably end up losing his license and doing time. As for the man you thought was your husband, Alex had already stopped by the nursing home earlier today and made arrangements for Conrad Amhurst. He’d already called his attorney, was anxious to get the estate probated and fast. But I guess that’s all water under the bridge now. The lawyers will have to battle it out.”
“I just wish it was over,” she said.
“It will be. Someday.” Paterno slanted her a look. “This was all about money, you know. The Cahills were nearly broke, Alexander had lost a bundle in the market and other investments, then his hush money—to Reverend Favier—”
“The Reverend Donald,” Kylie muttered.
“Yes, to him and to Monty and to Phil Robertson all added up. The donations to this hospital and Cahill House were lavish, all hush money. Alex’s only chance to pull out of it was for Marla t
o inherit. When you balked at letting him and Marla keep the baby, he faced financial ruin. He couldn’t allow that and hired Monty to kill ‘Marla,’ as they’d had an affair a few years back and she’d tossed him over. Even Monty was duped. He didn’t know that you weren’t the woman he was trying to kill until he saw her walk into the bedroom earlier today.”
“Where is he?”
“Another hospital. Under guard. His right arm will never be the same, but it won’t matter. The way I figure it, he’ll be locked up for the rest of his life and maybe then some. His sister is with him. Shocked, of course, but praying for his soul.” Paterno snorted. “She’s gonna have to come up with a lotta Hail Marys and Our Fathers to get the guy upstairs to find forgiveness for Montgomery’s black soul.”
“I don’t think the Holy Trinity of God church employs the rosary.”
“Maybe they’d better start. It works for us Catholics.”
They took the elevator to the basement parking garage and Paterno led her to a squad car. “This isn’t normal procedure you understand.”
“But then you’re not exactly a ‘by the book’ kind of cop, right?”
“You got it.” She looked through the window and found herself staring at her half sister.
“You two sure look alike,” Paterno observed.
“A curse.”
Marla’s eyes thinned in a silent, horrid fury. Her makeup had long since faded and if looks could kill, Kylie would already be six feet under. “Got anything you want to say to her?” Paterno asked, and Kylie shook her head.
“It’s all been said,” Kylie thought aloud, and all the envy she’d once held for Marla turned to pity and disgust. “I need to be upstairs with Nick.”
“Just thought you’d like a chance to tell her what you think.”
“Later. In court.”
Marla glared through the glass, her pretty mouth pulled into a sneer of disapproval, and though Kylie couldn’t hear the words she spouted, the one she recognized was “bastard.” The barb used to hurt. Now she didn’t care.
“Take her away,” Paterno said to the officer in charge.
He couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, couldn’t . . . oh, God, he couldn’t move his hand. He tried to pry open his eyes but his eyelids wouldn’t budge. They weighed a ton and seemed glued shut over eyes that burned with a blinding, hideous pain.
“Nick?”
There was a touch, someone’s cool fingers on the back of his hand. “Nick, can you hear me?” The voice, kind and female, sounded as if it carried from a great distance . . . far away, from a spot on the other side of the pain.
It was Marla’s voice, no, not Marla, Kylie’s.
He forced his eyes open and stared into eyes as green as a forest at sunrise. Pain blasted through his abdomen but he managed a thin smile as her tears rained on him. “Where ya been?” he croaked.
“I was just wondering that about you.” She sniffed loudly. “You had me scared, Cahill, real scared.”
“Are you okay?”
“Are you?” She eyed his face. “You look like hell, you know.”
“I feel worse.”
She laughed and linked her fingers through his. “Thank God, you’re tough as nails.”
“I’m just glad to be back, Marla,” he said and saw the smile fall from her face. Then, when her eyes found his again, they narrowed.
“That’s not funny.”
“Sure it is, Kylie.”
“I don’t know where you get your sense of humor,” she grumbled, and he reached upward, surrounded her nape with his fingers and drew her face down to within inches of his.
“Well, darlin’,” he drawled, smelling her perfume. “Don’t worry about it. I’m the outlaw, remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“You can’t,” he said with a crooked, wicked smile. “Because as soon as I get out of this place, you and me, we’re gonna take the baby and Cissy up to Oregon to live and leave all this mess behind. Mother can come if she wants to, but it’s my bet she won’t.”
“I thought you were mad at me,” she said, trying to hold on to her soaring emotions.
“I was. But I’ve done a lot of thinking. We can have a good, no, make that great, life together.”
“You’ve been in surgery and recovery. You didn’t have much time to think.”
“Didn’t need it.” He winked at her and she melted. “I hate to admit it, but I was wrong when I said you were worse than Marla, Kylie. I knew you were different from the get-go and I’ve seen you with the baby and with Cissy and . . . with me . . .”
“Oh, did you?” She wasn’t convinced, though she wanted desperately to be so.
He managed a smile. “Oh, yeah, I did and I fought it, told myself that you were playing me for a fool.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is that possible?”
“Unfortunately, it’s been done before. Anyway, I guess I’m trying to tell you that I love you, Kylie Paris, and I know you did a lot of rotten things and feel guilty as hell for them, but I think, from the moment you had that baby, you changed.”
Her throat was thick and she blinked hard. “You do, do you?”
“Absolutely. You evolved into the woman you are today, the woman I fell in love with.”
“What do you know?”
“Just that you’re not Marla, you’re Kylie and I’ve never felt like this before. Not with any other woman. I would never have fallen in love with Marla again, Kylie. You’re gentler, more caring and yet you have a tough side . . . you’re not the woman I thought you were and that’s why I love you,” he said again, his blue eyes sincere, his gaze scraping against her heart.
This time she believed him. “And I love you,” she whispered.
“I know you do, darlin’. And that’s something I’m never going to let you forget.”
Dear Reader,
I’ve got some great news! You just read IF SHE ONLY KNEW and I hope you liked it. ALMOST DEAD, the sequel to IF SHE ONLY KNEW, is now available.
You already met rebellious teenager Cissy Cahill. Well, she’s back in ALMOST DEAD. The story starts ten years after IF SHE ONLY KNEW. In the intervening years, Cissy has grown up, dropped her bad attitude, and gained a handsome, irreverent husband. On top of that, she has a brand new baby who is her pride and joy. She should be blissfully happy, right? The trouble is that her past is back to haunt her. If it isn’t hard enough to be a new mother, her marriage to Jack Holt is in a major crisis. Worse yet, another killer is stalking the Cahill family! Cissy’s scared out of her mind. Everything she believed in is falling apart. She also has to deal with Anthony Paterno of the San Francisco Police Department, the same man who investigated her family in IF SHE ONLY KNEW.
ALMOST DEAD was such a fun story to write! Not only did I get to bring back Cissy and Paterno (who also appeared in FATAL BURN), but I was able to set the book in one of my favorite cities, San Francisco. In fact, the Cahill House on Mount Sutro is patterned after a friend’s four-story home on that very hill. I’ve actually stayed in the upper story with its old, watery glass, and incredible view of the bay!
I think you’ll like ALMOST DEAD. To read an excerpt, just turn the page or log onto www.lisajackson.com. My Web site also features a new contest and information about both books.
Thanks for reading IF SHE ONLY KNEW, and please pick up a copy of ALMOST DEAD. You won’t be disappointed!
Keep reading,
Lisa Jackson
A WOMAN WHO WANTS TO GET EVEN . . .
The first victim is pushed to her death. The second suffers a fatal overdose. The third takes a bullet to the heart. Three down, more to go. They’re people who deserve to die. People who are in the way. And when she’s finished, there will be no one left . . .
WILL DO WHATEVER IT TAKES FOR REVENGE . . .
Cissy Cahill’s world is unraveling fast. One by one, members of her family are dying. Cissy’s certain she’s being watched. Or is she losing her mind? Lately she’s heard footsteps when ther
e’s no one around, smelled a woman’s perfume, and noticed small, personal items missing from her house. Cissy’s right to be afraid—but not for the reason she thinks. The truth is much more terrifying . . .
INCLUDING MURDER . . .
Hidden in the shadows of the Cahill family’s twisted past is a shocking secret—a secret that will only be satisfied by blood. And Cissy must uncover the deadly truth before it’s too late, because fear is coming home . . . with a vengeance . . .
Look for ALMOST DEAD in bookstores everywhere!
Prologue
Bayside Hospital, San Francisco, CA, Room 316
Friday, February 13
NOW
They think I’m going to die.
I heard it in their whispered words.
They think I can’t hear them, but I can and I’m listening to every single syllable they utter.
“No! ” I want to scream. “I’m alive. I’m not giving up. I will fight back.”
But I can’t speak.
Can’t utter one damned word.
My voice is stilled, just as my eyes won’t open. Try as I might, I can’t lift the lids.
All I know is that I’m lying in a hospital bed and I know that I’m barely alive. I hear the whispers, the comments, the softsoled shoes on the floor. Everyone thinks I’m in a coma, unable to hear them, to respond—but I know what’s going on. I just can’t move; can’t communicate. Somehow, I have to let them know. My condition is bad, they claim. I understand the terms ‘ruptured spleen,’ ‘broken pelvis,’ ‘concussion,’ ‘brain trauma,’ but, damn it, I can hear them. I feel the stretch of skin at the back of my hand where the IV pulls, smell the scents of perfume, medicine, and resignation. The stethoscope is ice cold, the blood-pressure cuff too tight, and I try like hell to show some sign that I’m aware, that I can feel. I try to move, just lift a finger, or let out a long moan, but I can’t.