Silver Falls

by Anne Stuart

  3

  Rachel drove home through the light rain, her hands gripping the steering wheel, Caleb Middleton’s words ringing in her ears. She’d never been the nervous type—a woman alone with a child in tow couldn’t afford to be hesitant and she’d always believed she could deal with any disaster.

  And she had. Floods, uprisings, being stranded, being followed. She’d met those dangers and more and been secure in her ability to deal with everything. Everything but a brutal murder in their tight-knit community in San Francisco, a murder which had struck too close to home.

  Thank God David had showed up when he did. An English professor on sabbatical, a sane, calm oasis in the aftermath of Tessa’s murder. He radiated safety and normalcy, the kind of man who’d provide the life she’d selfishly denied Sophie. For years they’d traveled the world, and she never realized that she was depriving her daughter of any chance at stability. Sure, she’d given Sophie the richness of adventure, but in the end it had been irresponsible. It wasn’t until they landed in San Francisco for a while that she realized her darling daughter was a freaking genius when it came to math. At the age of thirteen she was working on college-level stuff, and Rachel had always despised math.

  But in a sheltered academic community like Silver Falls, there’d be the right kind of program, the individual study, and having a professor for a stepfather would ensure Sophie got everything she needed.

  And she was happy—Rachel was sure of it. Sure enough that she wasn’t about to give even the slightest hint that she was having second thoughts. Because she wasn’t. She’d made her choice, the best for Sophie, and she’d happily live with it. Regret was for idiots.

  Of course, she’d assumed San Francisco was a safe haven as well. There would never be a murder in David’s world—he was much too organized to let that happen. She would bring Sophie into that world and give them both time to heal.

  She told herself it was just really bad timing. If David’s brother had appeared even six months later she’d be all settled into her normal, constricting new life and his stupid dark hints wouldn’t have bothered her. They would have rolled off her back like all this fucking rain.

  And she’d promised to stop saying fuck. David hated that word, hated to hear it coming from anyone, particularly his new wife. All her arguments about the expressiveness of good old Anglo-Saxon went over his head, and he’d even gone so far as to suggest a jar where she stuck a dollar every time she used the word.

  One look at her face and he’d backed down at that idea, but he still fussed, and she remained hamstrung. The first few months in this tiny college town, in her new life, had been easy, the novelty of it enough to keep her going. But as time passed the elegant prairie-style house had begun to feel like a prison, and the word fuck had come up with increasing frequency.

  But Sophie said she liked it here. She liked the school, even though she sniffed at the uniforms. And she loved her friends, particularly Kristen Bannister. And she was thriving with the specialized math program, though that was no surprise. Sophie had always been infinitely adaptable, equally at home in Africa or Kansas.

  No, Rachel thought, so long as Sophie was okay she could grin and bear it. David was a kind man, an honest man, and she’d learned long ago that sex wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Fortunately David performed his husbandly duties with increasing infrequency, even going so far as to suggest they have separate bedrooms since she tended to thrash about in her sleep.

  No, everything was absolutely fine in her young marriage. It was just a normal time of adjustment, and the horrifying murder the result of a lover’s quarrel, nothing to do with her. She and David were fine. But they certainly didn’t need Caleb Middleton reappearing to make things worse.

  She pulled into the driveway and stared up at the house. When she’d first seen it she’d been charmed—it was a Frank Lloyd Wright knockoff, all angles and planes and soothing to the eyes. There was a wing to the right that held her studio and the family room, and one to the left for the five bedrooms, one of which had been turned into David’s office. It was a house for a large, rambunctious family. Unfortunately it had never held one. And all those stained-glass windows kept the occasional ray of sunshine from penetrating, and the empty halls echoed. Even her studio seemed haunted.

  She sat for a long moment, the car still running. Maggie said Sophie was already asleep, but she could drive over there, pick her up and head straight out of town, never looking back. In a few days they could be continents away from this place, in the sun, free from this prison of rain and sorrow.

  She turned off the car, shaking her head. It hadn’t been a good idea to have that drink—alcohol made her paranoid. Sophie was fine, she’d gotten through Tessa’s horrific murder and she’d get through the death of a stranger. Tomorrow, in the dubious light of day, everything would seem much better. She wouldn’t have this crazy, irrational urge to throw Sophie into the car and get the hell out of here.

  She’d always been too impulsive. Impulsive when she’d run away with Jared, impulsive when she’d refused her rigid parents’ generous offer of a lifetime of servitude and her child put up for adoption. And she’d been impulsive when she’d decided to marry a man she barely knew, simply because he was safe and gentle. She wasn’t going to compound that by taking off at the drop of a hat.

  She locked the doors behind her, for once going through the ritual of double locks that David preferred, and leaned her head against the solid door.

  So it had been a lousy, shitty day. Things would look better in the morning. They always did. She and Sophie would talk, and if Sophie even hinted at doubts, they’d be out of there before the sun set.

  But for now, for this night, all she could do was sleep on it. And hope she’d have the answers when she woke up.

  Caleb couldn’t sleep. By the time he drove back up the winding muddy road to his ruined house he was still feeling jangled, like he’d had a triple espresso with chocolate on the side.

  He’d bought the place on a whim years ago—the abandoned project of a failed architect who thought he was the reincarnation of Frank Lloyd Wright. He’d built his own house in town, then started this one halfway up the mountain, where he’d gone bankrupt and shot himself. Since no one was willing to buy a half-finished monstrosity halfway up a mountain with a history like that, Caleb got it cheap.

  He turned on the two lights he’d bought earlier that day. He’d gotten the electricity turned back on, but expecting anything like internet service was a lost cause. He wasn’t going to be there that long.

  Longer than he’d ever been before, though. He’d never spent more than two nights in this godforsaken little town, and he didn’t like the fact that right now he was trapped, thanks to the red-haired amazon who’d been idiot enough to marry his brother.

  Stephen Henry had sent him the wedding announcement, and he’d freaked, moving so fast that he’d missed the part about her daughter. How the hell could she have let herself and her daughter be drawn into such an infernal mess? And why the hell did he have to come and clean it up?

  Because nobody else would. Nobody else had the faintest idea what was going on, and if he tried to tell them they wouldn’t believe him. They never had, and years ago he’d given up trying. He was committed to seeing this through, and he’d do just that. He couldn’t live with another death on his conscience.

  The wife was interesting. All wrong for David—he couldn’t figure out why the hell they’d ended up with each other. David went for the same willowy blondes that Caleb had preferred, and Rachel was neither willowy nor blonde. She had curves—ripe, lush, sensual curves that even that dull black dress couldn’t disguise. Her hair was a blazing red, not a subdued auburn, and her mouth was stubborn, her eyes defiant. Not David’s type at all. David liked his women docile and compliant. Rachel Middleton was a volcano about to erupt.

  Why had he chosen her? That was just one of the questions he needed to have answered. What had made him choose a totall
y unlikely woman and bring her back to Silver Falls? Maggie Bannister had mentioned something about Rachel’s daughter being involved in an earlier murder, and his instinctive alarm system went into full mode. One murdered girl was unfortunate. Two was just too damned coincidental, and he never believed in coincidence.

  He went to the tiny fridge and pulled out a beer, twisting the cap off. It went flying, rolling across the floor and landing in the middle of the stained plywood. Any other man would have taken that part of the subfloor up and replaced it, replaced the reminder of the man who’d bled out there, in the ruins of his dream. Caleb liked it.

  It kept things in perspective. At one point that could have been him. But it wasn’t, and it never would be. He’d never stay in this goddamn town long enough for the darkness to reach him. He’d find out what he needed to know, the truth he’d been avoiding for most of his life, and then he’d move on.

  He was going to have to find a way to get to his brother, and the new wife looked like she was going to be the perfect venue. She had a temper, passion running deep—exactly the wrong kind of woman for someone like David. There must be a reason for such a colossal mismatch. She was unhappy, afraid she’d made the wrong choice but too stubborn to admit it. That would make her vulnerable, though she’d do her damnedest to hide it, but she was tough—he could see it in the back of her clear blue eyes. Funny that he’d noticed they were blue. Most of the time he’d been with her had been in the shadows.

  It would be no kindness to leave her alone. The truth always came with a heavy cost, but in the end it was worth it. He’d pay that cost, and so would she. She’d hate him, but she’d be alive. And in the end she just might be grateful. At least he’d make sure the two of them were safe before he left.

  He started a fire in the woodstove to take some of the damp chill from the air. There were enough construction scraps still lying around to keep him warm for a month or more. Though if he had to stay that long he’d probably just end up in a pool of blood like the architect.

  He shook out his sleeping bag, putting it near the fire. He was going to need to order a mattress. The one he’d left behind had been eaten by mice and christened by half the teenage population of Silver Falls. He was someone who could sleep anywhere—on rock-hard ground, in hammocks, on trains or boats, the desert or a snow cave. But there were ghosts in this house, ghosts in his soul when he came home, and he needed all the help he could get.

  He drained the last of his beer, put it on its side and sent it rolling away from him, then stretched out on the sleeping bag. It had been a hell of a day, and it was only just beginning. He was going to see that drowned face in his dreams, in his nightmares, and it would haunt him, like so many others.

  He closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire, the pounding of the rain overhead, the whipping of the tarp in the wind.

  But he didn’t see the dead girl. All he could see was Rachel Middleton. Who didn’t realize she was dancing on the edge of a precipice. Or that the one person who could help her would just as likely shove her off.

  Rachel dreamed about the black sheep. She tossed in the king-size bed, restless, troubled, and she could hear his voice in the back of her mind, low, raspy, so unlike David’s carefully modulated pitch.

  The covers were too hot, pressing down on her skin, and she kicked them off as she rolled onto her back, then onto her stomach again. The air felt stagnant, decaying, and opening the window would only make it worse. It was too cold for an air conditioner, but the thick air felt like a weight pressing down on her chest.

  She heard the sound, the tiny scratching noise at the door of her bedroom, and she was instantly awake, wary, as light began to filter into her bedroom. She could barely see his silhouette as he closed the door behind him, closed himself inside, with her. And her pulse began to quicken. Not in anticipation. David’s matrimonial visits were brief and pleasant, but a far cry from the desperate passion she’d searched for when she was younger.

  Desperate passion led to heartbreak and betrayal. She was much better off with the safety and comfort David provided, and she lay back, waiting for him.

  He moved forward, and the faint light from the adjoining bathroom illuminated his face. He looked distracted. Different. Odd.

  “Do you need something, David?” she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She was wearing flannel boxers and a tank for nightclothes, not the silky lingerie he’d requested for his visits to her bedroom. And she hadn’t showered since this afternoon—he wouldn’t like that, either.

  “I need you,” he said, and grabbed her. His hands were rough, almost desperate, and he yanked her into his arms, kissing her, his mouth grinding against her, his hips pressing up against her body with urgency.

  She pushed against him, trying to slow him down, but he was stronger than she realized, and he shoved her back on the bed, landing on top of her with a graceless thud. “Please,” he panted, pulling at her clothes. “Please.”

  There was no way she could deny him. No real reason to. He was desperate, fumbling at his own clothes, and she tried to put her hands on his, to slow him down, to calm him, but he shoved them away.

  “David,” she said in a calming voice.

  “Don’t talk! Don’t say anything!” He couldn’t seem to manage her clothes, so she lifted her hips and pulled the boxers off herself, tossing them on the floor, and then leaned back, spreading her legs for him.

  He was on her like a crazy person, yanking his trousers down, slamming his hips up against hers, and she lifted, waiting for him.

  He was barely erect. Again. She reached down, to try to help him, but he shoved her hand away, grinding at her in desperation, his flaccid penis rubbing up against her.

  She could have used her mouth to help him, but he didn’t like that. When they made love he liked to be the one in charge, the giver of pleasure. That had all disappeared in his current panic. He kept pounding at her, trying to shove his way in, but it was useless. With a hoarse cry he rolled off her, lying on his back, beside her, panting.

  She turned to him. “David,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, not sure what to say, not sure what had happened. “It’ll get better.”

  He shuddered, scrambling away from her. “Don’t touch me,” he said in a choked whisper. “Don’t touch me, don’t talk, don’t say anything.” He stumbled toward the door, his trousers down around his hips, and a moment later he was gone. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Rachel alone in the dark.

  She got off the bed, found her discarded boxers and pulled them back on, then grabbed the silk kimono she’d bought in Kyoto a decade ago and went after him. His bedroom door was locked, but she could hear him beyond the thick panel, hear the choking noise that sounded like muffled sobs, and it broke her heart.

  Or it should have. “David,” she said through the wood. “Let me in.”

  “Go away.”

  “We need to talk, sweetie. Don’t be upset. You were in too much of a hurry. We can try again.”

  “Go away! Go away, go away, go away!” His voice rose to a shrill shriek. He’d moved, coming up to the door and pounding on it so hard it shook in the frame. “Get away from me!”

  She backed away. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the walnut-encased clock strike three, and the rain beat a steady counterpoint to the throbbing of her heart. This was the third time he’d come to her, unable to perform, but he’d never been so frantic before.

  She headed back to her bedroom, rubbing at her wrist. She’d have bruises in the morning, she thought absently. And she suddenly felt dirty. She closed her door behind her, then, at the last minute she locked it, before heading into the bathroom. She turned on the hot water, then began to pull off her clothes.

  There were too many mirrors in the bathroom—she always hated the unexpected views she’d get of her less than perfect body, and she tried to avoid it, but it was close to impossible. She pulled the tank over her head, and then paused.


  There was blood on her mouth. A smear of blood over her lips, and she realized he’d done it when he’d been trying to kiss her.

  Now wonder he’d freaked out. David had a horror of blood—whenever he had some drawn for a medical test he fainted. The one time she’d scraped her knuckles grating cheese he’d left the kitchen in a blind panic.

  She grabbed some toilet paper and dabbed at her lip. David’s sensitivity was one of the things she loved about him.

  But right now she was feeling more than a little annoyed. He was the one who’d made her bleed—he had no right running off like a scared little girl.

  “Fuck it,” she said out loud, savoring the forbidden word, and climbed into the shower. Tomorrow morning she’d be solicitous and caring. Tomorrow her split lip would be almost healed and he’d come to her bed and finish what he’d started. For now, she was going to savor her solitude.

  4

  Sophie dumped her school books in her locker just as Kristen caught up with her. “How was the guidance counselor?”

  Sophie made a face. “She asked me if I masturbated.”

  “Eww,” Kristen said. “I always thought she was a perv. Did you tell her you and I turned tricks every weekend down at the roadhouse?”

  Sophie laughed. “If I’d thought of it, I would have. She wouldn’t believe I wasn’t having a full-blown meltdown, so I had to placate her with a few tears.”

  “Speaking of which, why aren’t you having a full-blown meltdown? Your best friend was murdered six months ago, and now another girl’s been killed, and you seem to be taking it in stride. Don’t you care? I’d be having hysterics.”

  Sophie looked at her. “I thought you knew me better than that. I don’t have hysterics.” She shoved her locker shut, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder. “There’s nothing I can do about it. It creeps me out that someone was murdered, it reminds me of Tessa. But that happened in San Francisco—there’s no connection. I’m mostly worried about my mom freaking out. She goes into full protect mode and she’s just as likely to throw me in a car and start driving without thinking it through.”