Deceptions of the Heart

by Denise Moncrief

  “So? What do you want me to do about that?”

  “Please, Marnie. What would your father want you to do?” I asked without shame.

  “That’s not fair,” she muttered. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Her face softened. “Okay. Come on. I hate that about you, you know.”

  “You hate what about me?”

  “You always get your way. One little pout and Daddy just…gives in to you. I guess you think I’m as easy as he is.”

  “I do not always get my way,” I uttered my hot denial.

  She turned, absolute repugnance on her face, and waited for me to follow. “Well, are you coming or not?”

  I followed her without another word.

  ****

  Marnie waited by the large picture window in my bedroom, shifting from one foot to the other. I stuffed some clothes into an overnight bag and tossed in a pair of tennis shoes before I reentered the bedroom from the closet. She tapped her fingernails against the windowpane. On the other side of the glass, the rain matched the beat of her digits.

  She turned, panic contorting her face. “I can’t stand this. I can’t just step back and do nothing. What if Daddy’s somewhere bleeding to death?”

  I shook my head to dispel the horrible image. “I’m going to look for him.”

  “Do you know where to start?” she asked, hope covering her face despite the hopelessness of the situation.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Brandon Sairs told us to stay put so let’s go to my house and wait,” she suggested.

  Her sudden reversal jarred me. “Who could have taken him?” I asked aloud for the first time. “My first guess would have been Jackson Prentiss. He denies doing anything to Anson. He only admitted stalking me and terrorizing me and playing mind games and—”

  “He could be lying,” Marnie suggested. “You said he was a magnificent liar. Remember?”

  So Marnie did listen to my ranting.

  “I don’t think Jackson’s lying about that. He took too much pleasure detailing his attempt to…” I couldn’t find the right word.

  “He tried to get you to kill yourself.” She cocked her head and studied me. “I wonder whose blood—”

  “Please, Marnie. Don’t.” Anson’s blood could be on that knife.

  “Jackson Prentiss is an animal.”

  “Yeah.” That was an understatement.

  I reached for the keys to my car. Marnie’s vehicle was still at the beach. The cab driver dropped us at the curb in front of the house. In a downpour. I had traipsed up to the house to get the cash to pay the man, and then trudged back to his car in the pelting rain while Marnie waited in the front foyer, mad as a wet hen and spouting angry epithets at anyone within spitting distance.

  On the dresser next to the keys lay a picture—unframed and ragged around the edges. The tingle of anticipation surged through me. I picked it up and turned toward Marnie. “Who is this?”

  “Where’d you get that?” she asked as if I’d soiled the picture by handling it.

  “It was here on the dresser next to my keys.” Something about the picture terrorized my overwrought mind.

  “I haven’t seen that picture in years,” she mumbled. She kept yakking about something or other. My mind focused on anything but her prattling. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I know her.”

  Marnie pulled her mouth to one side as if puzzled by my assertion. “How could you? She died long before you met Daddy.”

  “I have a memory of that woman. I thought she was your mother. When I described her to your father, he said that your mother looked nothing like this.”

  “You were talking to Daddy about Momma?”

  “Yes. Why does that seem odd? She was a part of his life. He can’t just forget her.”

  Surprise flared in her eyes. My sentiment must have seemed odd to her. “This is my mother’s mother. And no, they looked nothing alike.” Marnie snatched the picture from my hand and placed it carefully on the dresser.

  “Can I see a picture of your mother?”

  “You had all of her pictures removed the day you moved in here.” She stepped back on her heels, hostility in her blue eyes.

  “Aw, come on, don’t be that way. Would you want to move into a house with someone’s ghost?”

  “No, I guess I wouldn’t.” She leaned her hip against the dresser. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?”

  “Some things are starting to come back to me.” I sniffed at the thought. “It’s very tiring.”

  “Well, you do look like hell. Your eyes are all puffy and your hair is a mess and you—”

  “Please stop. I’ll accept your opinion. I look like crap, but you don’t have to say it!”

  “I swear, Jennifer, you are a strange one,” she said in her syrupy southern accent. “It’s that California attitude.”

  “California?”

  “They must teach it in school or something.” She didn’t give me time to pursue that hot topic and nudged me to move. “Let’s go.”

  I brushed her hand away. “Where was she from?” I asked, unwilling to let the conversation die.

  “Who?”

  “Your grandmother.”

  “San Francisco.” She glanced at me. “How’d you know she wasn’t from around here?”

  “I don’t know.” I considered her—my adversary, my stepdaughter, my catalyst. The woman in the picture and Marnie shared some facial characteristics. “But then, neither am I.”

  “Well, that’s about the only thing the two of you have in common,” she snipped.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  She stared at me as if I’d asked the stupidest question ever. “Grandmama always wanted to go back to California, but she never got the chance.” Marnie gazed out the window with misty, unseeing eyes, as if looking toward the unknown. “She always said she’d left too much behind. Just like you—”

  “What’d she leave behind?”

  “She never said. Why are you asking all these questions?” The unspoken tail to her question was “as if you care.”

  “No reason,” I mumbled. “Marnie?”

  “What?” Her body inched toward the open bedroom door, one centimeter at a time.

  “It all comes back to California. Whatever is going on here began in California. I have to go back there and find out where this all started.”

  “You can’t leave until we find Daddy,” she insisted.

  “We may not find him unless I do.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” she asked.

  Where do I start? I wish I had a simple answer for her simple question.

  “I don’t know. I just…did.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Despite the high-end quality of Marnie’s sofa, it didn’t offer much comfort. I lifted up on one elbow and punched the thin pillow she provided before I rolled over on my other side. Thoughts of murder and mayhem swirled in my mind. Sleep eluded me like a betrayed friend turned bitter enemy. I sighed.

  Drug-induced stupors don’t provide much rest.

  Marnie paced on the other side of the room divider. Her loft apartment, although luxurious, was too open to afford much privacy. Every footfall rang in my ears. I could stand the alienation no longer. Her pacing ceased, so I made my move. She stood by the far window, looking at the parking lot six stories below.

  “Marnie?”

  “What?” Her tone suggested aggravation.

  And why not? I interrupted her private fretting.

  I pulled her back and stood in front of the window so I could have her undivided attention. The tassels on her elegant window coverings clung to my arm. I brushed off the irritation. “I think I know where he is. Or at least, where he’s been.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really?” Distrust quickly eclipsed hope.

  I prepared for an argument. “Anson told me he would have already killed me if he wanted to.”

  “Oh, please. You expect me to believe my father
said that? Do you think he’s lurking around, waiting for an opportunity to give you what you deserve? Maybe he should have—”

  “He put something in my food to make me sleep.”

  She swelled up like a puffer fish. “Daddy wouldn’t do that.”

  I didn’t want to argue with her. “Just listen. He’s been pushed to the limit. What would you say or do if you were in his shoes?”

  “The first thing I’d do is beat you—”

  “Well, he didn’t. So what’s the next thing?”

  She sneered in my face. “Strangle you.”

  I wanted to punch her. My arm moved into position, but my elbow hit the glass behind me. There wasn’t much room to swing with my back to the window. She blocked my assault calmly, as if she was used to physically defending herself. “Don’t hit me, Jennifer. I’m listening.”

  I shook off the urge and squared my shoulders. “Okay, then…this is what I think. He was deceived by his first wife. He’s been played by his second wife. And his daughter is involved with the man who betrayed him. What do all these things have in common?”

  Marnie stepped back from me as if I’d gnawed on her heart. Denial shown in her eyes. She set her face into a hard mask. “Price.”

  “Yes. Price Whitaker. And in the frame of mind Anson’s in…” I left the rest to her fertile imagination.

  She drew in a sharp breath. “I still don’t think Daddy—”

  “In the last few days, we’ve all had thoughts of murder. Even you.” She lifted her chin, but didn’t deny my summation. “I think we should make sure Price is all right.” Then my suspicions aroused. I nailed her with a stare that demanded explanation. “Price appeared at the cottage at just the right time.”

  Fire leapt from her eyes and illuminated the truth. A planned rendezvous. “Are you sure saving Price’s life is your only motive for going over there?” she asked.

  I was tired of her condescension and jealousy and bitterness and self-righteousness. I was as innocent as she was. I slapped her…hard. Her hand flew to her already reddening cheek. My handprint glowed brightly against her porcelain skin. “This isn’t about Price Whitaker. I don’t give a rip about him. This is about Anson. I don’t want your father doing something stupid.”

  She slapped me back. The force of her blow drove me backward into the window and I stumbled against the glass, grabbed the heavy drapes, and regained my balance by snatching at her hair.

  “Ow!” She shrieked as the hair ripped at the roots.

  I let go of the clump of bleached-blonde hair grasped in my tight fist. She massaged her scalp. We breathed at each other awhile until the anger dissipated or, at least, until it was dulled by inaction.

  The thought of going alone made my stomach queasy.

  If I can’t find Anson, I’m not sure what I might do to Price.

  “Come with me,” I begged.

  She wagged her head back and forth. “I don’t think so.”

  I resorted to cajoling her. “I don’t remember where Price lives.”

  “Your memory problems are just an act and you’re despicable. Go over there if you like, but leave me out of it.” She turned away from me and studied the pattern on her comforter.

  “Don’t you want to know for sure? What if your father is angry enough to take his wrath out on Price? Who could blame him? While we’re arguing, something terrible could be happening. Do you really want to take that risk? Do you really want something to happen to lover boy?”

  “I hate you!” she yelled and grabbed her purse from the chest at the end of her bed.

  ****

  The back door of Price’s house was ajar, the window shattered. I pointed this out to Marnie. Her eyes widened. We pushed through the door and waited, listening for any sign of life. Darkness shrouded the kitchen in shadows.

  I drew in a deep breath to call Anson’s name, but Marnie slapped her hand over my mouth. “Shhh…”

  We followed the rumblings of a strident argument down a long hallway until we came to a closed door. I pushed it open without hesitation, without thinking, without a plan. Inside what appeared to be an office, Anson pointed a gun at Price’s broad chest.

  Anson’s breath sputtered in short, choppy intakes. His whole body shook as if he was enraged. Price quivered with fear, or lack of courage, or both. He glanced at us and flinched as if physically punched. When Anson followed his gaze, Price lunged for the gun, knocking a brass lamp off the corner of the desk. Anson turned in time to retrieve the weapon before Price could reach it. With the gun once more aimed at him, Price froze. He cringed as if he might wet his pants.

  “Get out of here,” Anson demanded over his shoulder without looking at us.

  “I’m not leaving,” I said with more calm than I’d experienced since I woke up in Jennifer’s body with Rhonda’s memories.

  “This is between him and me,” Anson replied. His intent was clear. He wanted no one in his way. No witnesses. No reprieve for the man who stole his pride.

  “No, Anson.” I moved toward him.

  “Get back. Unless you want to get caught in this.” Uncertain. Confused. Out of control. His voice was not gentle, but neither was it rough. Nevertheless, the tone dismayed me. Cold. Flat. Merciless.

  My eyes darted first to Anson’s back and then to Price’s face. Fear and loathing radiated from both of them, evidenced by their tense stances and flexing muscles.

  Marnie remained by the door, her breathing fractured. When she finally found her voice, her words cracked like a whip, glitching the tension in the room for a second. “Daddy, you can’t do this.” Her lower lip trembled.

  His face softened. “Marnie, what are you doing here? Get out of here before you get hurt.”

  “We thought…Jennifer said…Daddy, don’t do it.”

  “I can’t let him ruin your life, too.” He wiped an errant tear from his cheek.

  While Marnie had distracted him, I moved closer, placing my hand on his upper arm. “Anson, don’t do this.” He looked at me, gazing at me as if no one else in the world existed. The fire in his eyes diminished, but not enough for him to lower the gun. The weapon trembled in his outstretched hand.

  This was Price’s moment to act, but inexplicably he remained rooted where he stood, breathing deep, his chest expanding and contracting. His fear disgusted me, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. Metallic. Hard. I glanced at Marnie and pitied her. Is Price worth fighting for? Maybe. Maybe not.

  “Anson, please, don’t do this. Killing Price won’t change anything or make it right,” I pleaded.

  “He…he…” Anson’s breath escaped in ragged rasps.

  “I know, Anson. You’ve been pushed beyond your limit. We all have. We’ve all thought about it…killing someone. All of us except Price…maybe. And I’m not so sure about him.”

  “Come on, Jennifer.” Price stuttered his disbelief at my bold, skeptical statement.

  I ignored him and engaged Anson. “You felt like killing me. Marnie felt like killing me. Jack…” I stopped. Am I ready to tell him everything? “Someone tried to kill me tonight and I wanted to kill him. We’ve all faced the desire. But you don’t have to do this. You can’t leave me this way. You can’t leave Marnie this way. We need you.” I plucked at his shirtsleeve. “Did you hear me?”

  The tension in his shoulders relaxed. His breath escaped in a loud rush. The regret in his eyes told me he was willing to listen. I ran my palm down his arm until I covered his hand with mine. His fingers tightened. The gun felt cold and solid in his grip. “Give me the gun, Anson.” He closed his eyes. Marnie moved toward us. I waved her away with my other hand.

  Price came to life. “Jen—”

  “Shut up, Price,” I bellowed, my command enough to freeze him into inaction.

  Anson turned his head away. I placed my hand on his cheek and nudged his attention back to me. “Anson, give me the gun.” His fingers loosened. I pried the gun from his grip, removed the clip and emptied it, tossing the unspent bullets into
a nearby aquarium.

  What is it with doctors and aquariums?

  I shook the irrelevant thought from my head and stuck the gun in my waistband.

  Price rushed Anson. Anson fell to the floor with a thud, lifted himself on his elbow, shook his head, and tried to rise. Price moved in for another hit, but Marnie clipped him on the shin. He stumbled and rubbed his leg. I pulled Anson to his feet. He was bigger, so I gritted my teeth and tugged until he stood.

  Marnie tackled Price as he attempted another run at Anson. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

  “Tell him the truth, Jennifer,” Price yelled, straining against Marnie’s lock on his upper arm.

  “What truth?” I asked, dumbfounded, my arms around Anson’s waist, pulling him away from the sight of Marnie and Price together.

  Price turned on Anson, who stood ready with his fists clenched—his lips pressed together in a firm line. He spat his ire at Anson. “Jennifer and I weren’t having an affair, you moron. She made that up. She was trying to…trap me.”

  Anson jolted and pushed toward Price. I placed my body between them. Anson’s eyes locked with mine. “What’s he talking about?”

  A pain punched me in the chest. “I don’t know.”

  “We weren’t having an affair. She just let you think that.” A vindictive gleam sparked in Price’s eyes.

  “Why would she do that?” Anson asked.

  “Tell him, Jennifer,” Price demanded.

  I looked at Price, and then at Anson. “You know I don’t remember anything.” Both men made derisive snorts. “Brandon Sairs said he knew about the affair,” I said aloud, trying to make sense of the senseless.

  “Brandon Sairs?” Price fumed. “Of course he thinks we were having an affair. He thought I was having an affair with Claire. That idiot is ready to think the worst of me without proof. Besides he’s still licking his wounds from the trouncing you gave him. Half of Virginia Beach thought we were having an affair…on his say so.”

  “So you’re saying you never had an affair with either of us? Claire or me? Why should we believe you?”