by Joanne Fluke
“But . . . why?”
“Because we love each other.” His father seemed to have aged in the past few minutes, and that made Alan feel bad. But he’d promised Connie he’d tell him everything, so he had another blow to deliver. “Connie’s pregnant. We didn’t plan it, and she suggested abortion, but I wouldn’t agree. She only did it to please me. She wants this baby just as much as I do.”
Alan’s father swallowed hard. A vein in his forehead was throbbing as he leaned forward to put a hand on Alan’s arm. “Listen to me, son. You’re falling into the oldest trap in the world!”
Alan shook his head. “It’s not a trap. I’m the one who insisted that Connie marry me. She knew you wouldn’t approve, and she didn’t want to cause trouble in the family. She was willing to leave and raise the baby herself.”
As Ralph Stanford remained silent, Alan’s hopes rose. Was it possible he’d convinced his father? Would the family accept Connie and the baby?
The library was so quiet Alan could hear the individual flakes of snow as they blew against the windows. It was turning icy as the night approached; the temperature had fallen to single digits. Each gust of wind was followed by sounds like those of a snare drum as snow turned to sleet that hit the glass panes.
At last Alan’s father nodded. “All right. The two of you will continue to live in the condo, where she’ll have every advantage. The family will support her, pay her medical bills, and provide any help she needs. When she gives birth, we’ll do a paternity test; then you’ll have our permission to marry.”
“What!” Alan was so shocked, he stood up. “A paternity test would be an insult to Connie—and to me! I’m telling you, Father, this baby is mine!”
“Perhaps. But we can’t take the chance that you’re wrong. Just remember, son, it’s a wise man who knows the father of his own child.”
“You’re crazy!” Alan was so upset, he found he was fumbling for words. “Listen to me, Connie would never . . . I can’t believe that you’d actually . . .”
Alan’s father rose and took his arm. “Calm down. I’m not accusing her of anything. I’m just saying that before you commit yourself, it’s best to make certain. If it’ll make you feel better, we won’t even tell her about the paternity test. Our own doctor will do it in the hospital and will keep it strictly confidential.”
“There won’t be any paternity test.” Alan’s eyes were hard as he pulled away. “I’ll give you until this time tomorrow to make a decision. You’ll accept my wife and my child—welcome them into the family—or you’ll never see me again!”
Alan’s hands were shaking as he pulled out of the driveway. For the first time in his life, he’d taken a stand. He should feel proud that he hadn’t let his father browbeat him into submission, but he didn’t, not yet. He was too furious about his father’s accusation to experience any emotion but rage.
How dare his father suspect Connie of tricking him into marriage! What gall to say that the baby might not be his! Alan was so upset he took the curve a little too fast and his Porsche started to skid on the slippery pavement.
He knew better than to stomp on the brakes. He’d grown up in Minnesota and was accustomed to winter driving. He steered in the direction of the skid, gained control of the powerful car, and touched the brakes lightly to slow. The Stanford mansion was up in the hills, overlooking Lake Minnetonka. The downhill road was steep and curving, and the snow had turned to sleet. If he didn’t pay attention to his driving, he could skid through the guard rail on his way home.
Connie would be waiting for him at the condo. Thinking about her made Alan’s anger begin to subside. He wouldn’t tell her about his father’s reaction. He’d just say he’d given the family until tomorrow to work things out. And he certainly wouldn’t mention the accusations his father had made; Connie would be crushed. It was up to him to protect her from his family.
Alan switched on the car’s stereo. Connie’s favorite CD started to play, and he smiled. That was when he noticed the lights in his rearview mirror.
A truck was bearing down on him, following much too closely. The driver honked his air horn, several rapid blasts to signify that he wanted to pass, but there was no place to pull over on the narrow, two-lane road.
The truck driver hit his air horn again, one long blast that shattered the stillness of the night. His emergency lights were blinking on and off, and Alan knew what that meant. The driver had lost his brakes and was heading for the escape lane about a mile ahead.
Alan pressed down on the gas pedal. He had no other choice. If the driver had lost control of the truck, he’d be rear-ended.
The next few moments were tense. Alan screeched around the curves, hoping he could outdistance the runaway truck. He came out of the curves much too fast for a road partially covered with icy snow, but the exit for the escape lane was just ahead.
Alan watched in his rearview mirror as the truck barreled onto the escape lane. This stretch of roadway climbed gradually uphill, with sand traps to slow the truck. At the end was an absorbent barrier, especially designed to stop a runaway truck with minimal damage.
“Thank God!” Alan reached up to wipe his forehead. Sweat was streaming into his eyes, and he was almost weak with relief. If the truck had rear-ended him, they’d both be dead. But he’d made it through the curves. Now everything was just fine.
There was a sound like a gunshot, and Alan’s Porsche swerved sharply, almost wrenching the wheel from his hands. His right front tire had blown. He was heading straight for the ditch!
He fought the wheel with all his strength, struggling to control the skid. It worked, and he was just thanking his lucky stars, when the unexpected happened again. There was another explosion, and his left front tire blew out.
Alan wore an expression of shocked disbelief as his Porsche swerved in the opposite direction. Then he was crashing through the guard rail, hurtling out into space, rolling end over end to the bottom of the hill.
When the Porsche hit the rocks at the bottom of the ravine, it flipped over several times, coming to rest on its back, its racing tires spinning uselessly in the air. Alan was trapped in the expensive shell of his luxury car. He didn’t hear a passing motorist call out to him, didn’t smell the stench of gasoline, or experience the salty, slightly metallic taste of his own blood. He didn’t see the paramedics flip open his wallet to discover his organ donor card, didn’t feel careful hands pull him from the wreck. The quick action of the well-trained emergency team kept his heart pumping blood and his lungs taking in oxygen, but the brain of the man who had been Alan Stanford showed, when checked at the hospital, a flat, unending line on the graph—death.
CHAPTER 1
Connie Wilson frowned as she stared out at the snow-covered courtyard. The condo association had decorated for Christmas, and this was the night they’d turned on the lights. She had watched them from her third-floor windows, draping the tall, stately pines with strings of multicolored bulbs. Now that the lights were on, the gently falling snow reflected all the colors, but Connie was too worried to appreciate the lovely sight. She didn’t even smile as she spotted the life-size sleigh nestled under the trees with the illuminated figures of Santa and his elves. It was almost ten, and Alan still wasn’t home.
He’d never stayed at his parents this late before. The Thanksgiving dinner had begun at three, and meals at the Stanford mansion were always served on time. Even with all the courses associated with the traditional Thanksgiving feast, they must have been finished by four or four-thirty.
Alan had promised to make his announcement right after dessert. Perhaps that had been as late as five, but there was no way the obligatory snifter of cognac, sipped with his father in the library, could have taken more than an hour. Even if Ralph Stanford had objected to the marriage, as Connie was sure he had, father and son wouldn’t have argued this long.
So what was keeping Alan? She paced back and forth across the white carpet, doing her best to think positive thoughts. Alan love
d her. She was sure of that. And he was determined to marry her, with or without his parents’ permission. He had been ready to slay dragons for her when she’d kissed him good-bye; nothing Alan’s parents could say or do would sway him.
And he wasn’t the type to stop off for a drink. He always called her when he knew he’d be late. Even if there’d been a terrible family fight, he would come straight home to her. But what if his parents hadn’t objected? What if he had convinced them that marriage to her was acceptable? Was it even remotely possible that he was with his family right now, planning the wedding?
Connie thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. Alan had told her all about his family, and she was sure the Stanfords would never approve of her as a prospective daughter-in-law. They were probably laying down the law right now, telling Alan that if he went ahead with this unsuitable marriage, they would disown him.
She pictured Alan coming in the door, his face lined with worry. She’d put on coffee, so it would be ready when he got home. He loved a good cup of coffee. One was bound to make him feel better.
Connie measured out the espresso beans, put them in the electric grinder. She loved coffee, too, and she adored the espresso Alan had taught her to make in his machine. But the doctor had told her that too much caffeine during a pregnancy could cause problems, so she had decided to give up coffee until after the baby was born.
There were so many things to remember. Connie frowned slightly as she glanced at the list she’d tacked up on the kitchen bulletin board. No caffeine, no alcohol, a high-fiber diet, moderate daily exercise, and plenty of rest. She was doing everything her doctor had recommended. Her friends from the past would never believe the fun-loving exotic dancer had stopped drinking, toned down her makeup, and let her bleached blond hair grow out to its natural color. Connie now looked like the girl next door, wholesome, sweet, and totally natural.
When the coffee was ready to brew, she went into the huge living room. She glanced at the clock and sighed again. It was almost ten-thirty. Should she call Alan at his parents’ house to make sure everything was all right? She debated for a moment, even going so far as to pick up the phone, but she replaced the receiver in its cradle without punching in the number for the Stanford mansion. A call from her might rock the boat, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.
She sat down on the couch and stared at the snow falling outside. She was just thinking how pretty it was when the telephone rang. She reached out to it, crossing her fingers for luck. It just had to be Alan!
“Mrs. Stanford?”
The voice sounded official, and Connie could hear other voices in the background. “No. I’m not Mrs. Stanford. Is this a sales call?”
“No, this is Central Dispatch, Minneapolis Police. Do you know an Alan Stanford?”
“Yes.” Connie swallowed hard. “Alan’s my fiancé. Is something wrong?”
“Two officers are on their way to talk to you. They should be there any minute.”
“But . . . why? What’s happened?”
“Just relax, Miss . . . ?”
Connie clutched the phone so hard, her knuckles were white. “Connie Wilson. But can’t you tell me—”
“I’m sorry.” The voice interrupted. “I’m just a dispatcher, and I don’t know. They just told me to call this number to confirm that someone was home.”
Connie’s head was spinning. Had Alan been arrested? She was about to ask, even though the dispatcher probably wouldn’t know, when she heard a sharp knocking. “Someone’s at the door. It must be your officers.”
“Please let them in. And thank you, Miss Wilson.”
There was a click, and Connie dropped the phone back into its cradle. Her legs were shaking as she rushed across the carpet to answer the door.
“Miss Wilson?” The older officer flashed his badge. “May we come in, please?”
“Yes. Of course.” Connie stood to the side so both men could enter. “But . . . how do you know my name?”
“The dispatcher told us. We were in radio contact. Please sit down, Miss Wilson.”
Connie had a wild urge to refuse. If she didn’t sit down, perhaps they would leave. And then Alan would come in the door, and—
“Miss Wilson? Please.”
The older officer gestured toward the couch. Connie sat. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“There’s been an accident, Miss Wilson.”
The blood rushed from Connie’s face, and she swallowed hard. “But . . . Alan’s all right, isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid not.” The older officer shook his head. “Do you have anyone who can come to stay with you, Miss Wilson?”
“No. There’s no one. But I don’t need anyone to stay here. I have to go to the hospital to see Alan!”
“There’s no need for that, Miss Wilson.”
“Alan’s dead?” Connie’s eyes widened. “No! That can’t be true!”
“I’m afraid it is. Why don’t you let us call someone for you. A friend? Family? You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”
“No!” Connie shook her head so hard, she became dizzy. “You’ve got the wrong person, that’s all. It was someone else. You just thought it was Alan. Alan’s alive! I know he is.”
“Calm down, Miss Wilson.”
The older officer tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but Connie shrugged it off. “You’ll see. It’s a mistake, that’s all. Alan’ll be coming through that door any second, and we’ll all have a good laugh.”
“Miss Wilson . . . I know how hard this is to accept, but we made positive identification at the scene.”
“Nooooo!” Connie started to sob, and tears poured down her face. Alan couldn’t be dead! Not Alan! Then she was hit by a terrible cramping. She screamed in pain.
“Miss Wilson . . . Connie. Please.” The older officer looked terribly concerned. “Are you ill?”
She opened her mouth to tell him, but nothing came out. She felt so weak she could barely move, and dark spots swirled in front of her eyes. Another cramp struck, as if it were trying to split her in two, and she looked down to see that the couch was wet with blood.
“The . . . the baby! Save the baby!” Connie forced herself to choke out the words. She heard the younger officer radio for an ambulance, but just as he was giving the address, everything went black.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 1986 by Joanne Fluke
Previously published by Dell Publishing in August 1986
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8981-0
ISBN-10: 0-7582-8981-2
First Kensington Mass Market Edition: December 2015
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8981-0
First Kensington Electronic Edition: December 2015
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