Chrissy began to twitch. Lenore made a sharp sound, snapping her fingers. “Everything is okay, Chrissy. You’re okay. You’re with us, here now, safe and well.”
Chrissy’s eyes flew open. She looked around at all of them—they were all still watching her, perplexed—and wondering.
“It was George, wasn’t it?” she asked, tears spilling from her eyes.
“Not necessarily,” Griffin told her gently.
David Barnes shuffled his feet behind Griffin and he glanced up; Barnes was ready to bring George Ballantine in for questioning—maybe not a bad thing.
Griffin looked at Jackson to see if they were in agreement. They were. Jackson and Barnes left; he and Vickie stayed with Chrissy and Lenore.
“Even with hypnotism, Mrs. Ballantine,” Lenore explained, “we can entwine what we expect with what really happened. You thought your husband was behind you, but that’s because you always had the sensation it was George when someone was behind you like that in your kitchen.”
Chrissy looked at Vickie and Griffin, her expression a little desperate.
“So, I didn’t help. I didn’t change anything,” she said dully.
“You helped tremendously,” Vickie said with assurance.
“How?” Chrissy asked.
Griffin stepped in. “You’ve helped solidify a point, Mrs. Ballantine.”
“Chrissy,” Chrissy said automatically.
“Chrissy, we know two people were in your house. We had been told that one of the two killers is a woman, but now, that’s a certainty—two witnesses have identified a female voice. You’ve helped tremendously,” Griffin assured her.
“But I haven’t helped myself!” Chrissy said thoughtfully. “I’m either the biggest fool in the world, or I’ve destroyed my marriage with horrible suspicions and distrust.” She started to cry softly.
Lenore patted her hand. “We all have doubts,” Lenore said. “You’re being way too hard on yourself. Mrs. Ballantine, you’ve been through incredibly trying situations—you were nearly killed. You’re really an incredibly strong woman.”
“You are, Chrissy,” Vickie assured her.
“But what do I do?” Chrissy whispered. “Go home—sleep in the house with a man I believe to be cheating on me at best, killing people at worst?”
“Chrissy, let’s think on that for a bit. It’s early. Detective Barnes is making arrangements now to have a question-and-answer session with your husband,” Griffin told her. “For now, you’re safe to go home. We’ll have an officer on with the guard from Hard Core Security—and we have vetted him, Chrissy, he’s a good guy, truly bound to protect you. We’ll be watching George, and we’ll talk to you before the two of you are back together. Unless, of course, you feel really uncomfortable going home. And if that’s the case, we’ll make other arrangements for you.”
Lenore stood and smiled at Chrissy. “Trust in these people. They’re good cops and good agents. And don’t worry about yourself. Not that a good therapist wouldn’t help. I can leave you my card and you feel free to call me for help, okay?”
“Thank you,” Chrissy said, accepting the card.
Griffin thanked Lenore; they all bid the hypnotherapist goodbye.
“Should we make some temporary living arrangements for you, Chrissy?” he asked.
Chrissy shook her head. “I’ll be fine going home. I don’t want to Noah to think his mother suspects his father of...of trying to kill her. I have to be crazy. I have to be all wrong. I mean, he couldn’t have known Bertram Aldridge—I know he wouldn’t have let him into our house to hurt Noah! I’m so sure of it,” she finished softly, almost as if her assurance was really a prayer.
“I can go with Chrissy and hang around with her,” Vickie offered.
He stared at her, arching a brow. “I rather made a promise I’d be with you,” Griffin reminded her quietly.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean every second of every day. I’m sure it does mean you wouldn’t dream of leaving me unprotected, but I won’t be. I’ll be with Chrissy and Noah. And outside will be one of Boston’s finest, and Donald Baugh. And you won’t be long,” Vickie told him.
Griffin heard the steel in her voice. She was determined. And she was right.
He nodded. “Chrissy, you’ll be okay with Vickie?”
“I would love to have Vickie with me!” Chrissy said.
“Then that’s it. We’re off,” Vickie said cheerfully. “And you get to go be an agent, hopefully find out what is going on and let Chrissy have some peace! Remember,” she added quietly, “George Ballantine does know you from before. He’ll be more comfortable with you there.”
She was right again.
“I’ll get Baugh and he’ll see you both to the Ballantine house,” Griffin said.
* * *
“I feel so bad,” Chrissy said.
They were sitting together in the back seat of Donald Baugh’s plain black sedan.
They were being followed by an officer in an unmarked blue Volkswagen Touareg.
Chrissy was still restless and shell-shocked.
Vickie didn’t try to suggest Chrissy shouldn’t feel badly. She had nearly been killed; she didn’t trust the man she loved, the man who should have been making it better for her, day by day.
“Chrissy, there really may be a completely plausible explanation for George’s behavior. He may feel guilty himself, Chrissy. Men can be strange.”
“There’s an understatement,” Chrissy said.
Vickie smiled. “I mean as in, going way back in human evolution. Men were the hunters, women the homemakers. Men were the protectors. Maybe he’s going through something himself because he blames himself for what happened to you. Maybe he was careless with the lock and the alarm.”
“He’s horrible. I do always have to remind him. Of course, he’s been better—way better!—since the attack on you and Noah all those years ago. He’s just preoccupied so much of the time. Business and investments. But...he is still a good-looking man. And he’s got confidence, an aura of power. Women like that. He could be having an affair. With someone younger. Someone young and beautiful,” Chrissy said. “If I’m lucky,” she added with a whisper, “it’s just someone young and beautiful, and not someone young and homicidal.”
“Chrissy, George is very good-looking. But you’re an extremely lovely and charming woman. I swear to you, that’s true—I’m not just trying to make you feel better. But right now, you don’t know anything.”
They stopped at a traffic light, near the Paul Revere house and Chrissy’s own home. Vickie looked out the window, watching the mill of people thread through the area.
“No, I don’t know anything,” Chrissy said. “Which might make me the horrible one. I’m just so lost right now—so afraid.”
Vickie started to respond to her, but her words suddenly stopped.
For a moment, she hadn’t realized just what she was seeing. A handsome couple stood just down the street from the ticket booth and entrance to the Paul Revere house. They were a very pretty couple, he tall and blond, she tiny and golden. At first, they were just smiling—looking up into one another’s eyes.
Then, they kissed.
And then, Vickie got a good look at the man’s face, and then the woman’s.
She gasped aloud.
The woman was Roxanne, her best friend...who never picked the right man.
The man was...
Hank Fremont. Hank, suddenly back in Boston from the western section of the state. Hank, who had claimed to be in love with a new woman, the right woman for him, who made him follow the straight and narrow. But he had said her name was June Jensen...
And it was no old-friend-sisterly kiss he had just shared with Roxanne.
“Vickie, Vickie, are you all right?” Chrissy asked anx
iously.
Vickie turned to her. She shook off her surprise.
“Um, yes, sure, of course. I’m sorry. I drifted there.”
“Poor thing, you must be exhausted, helping the police and all,” Chrissy said. “And with having to work—although, you might make enough off royalties for your old books to live okay. But I guess you love your work? I’m rambling. You’re exhausted and you must be starving, and I’m rambling.”
“I’m fine,” Vickie assured her.
It was fine; it was great if Roxanne and Hank had found some kind of happiness together.
But...
Why were they both lying to her?
* * *
George Ballantine hadn’t wanted to come in at first; he’d suggested that it was a bad time.
Barnes had told him that it had to do with his wife and the safety of his family; put in that position—unless he wanted to look like a heedless ass guilty of something—he had little choice.
He was led to the conference room. Barnes and Jackson sat on one side of the table, George Ballantine was at the end and Griffin sat next to him across from the others.
“You know, I am a busy man,” he told them apologetically. “And in my life...there’s just been so much upheaval. I feel like a hamster on one of those wheels, just running and running.”
“Boston isn’t much different than New York City huh? Mile-a-minute pace?” Griffin asked him.
“Not all that different, no,” George agreed.
“I guess you knew that when you moved up here—your family did stretch back to the south side of the city,” Jackson said.
“Huh?” Ballantine said, frowning.
“Oh, come on. Surely, you know your family lived here back in the 1800s,” Griffin said.
“Tough times, back then. Hey, that’s when those grisly murders happened—when those people were shut up in the Pine house, where we found Fiona West,” Barnes said.
Ballantine lifted his hands, as if truly baffled. “Yeah, I had family back here, my dad’s side. I grew up in the city—the city meaning New York City. My mother’s people came to the east from Colorado. What does my background have to do with any of this?” he asked.
“We’re just curious. Because Bertram Aldridge came from South Boston. You didn’t happen to know him at any time—before he broke into your house? He did break into your house—you didn’t just let him in?” Griffin asked.
Griffin watched the man. He’s reaction didn’t seem feigned. His eyes popped with surprise.
Then he frowned.
Then he grew angry.
“What?”
“We have to ask these things, George,” Griffin said.
“Routine, of course,” Barnes said, using his best by-the-book detective voice.
“Routine?” George Ballantine seemed to growl the word, but his voice was low, as if he hadn’t really had the breath to shout. He shook his head. “You’re accusing me of letting a serial killer into the house where my baby was playing? Are you daft?”
“Okay, George, we know you’ve been through a lot. We think you’re a good man,” Griffin said. “So, what the hell is going on with you? Your wife almost died. And suddenly, you’re out at all hours. You don’t come home. What’s up?” Griffin asked.
“What? You’ve been following me?” Ballantine asked.
“Not as well as we should have been,” Barnes muttered.
“George, talk to us,” Jackson said.
The man shook his head, bewildered. “I’m not a killer!” he protested. “You can’t really believe I would...”
“Your wife was found in your own house, George,” Barnes reminded him.
“You were there. You were the one who called it in,” Jackson reminded him.
“I never knew Bertram Aldridge. I never let him into my house. If anything...”
George’s voice trailed.
“If anything, what?” Griffin asked quietly.
George Ballantine’s head suddenly dropped into his hands.
The man sobbed.
“It was my fault. It was all my fault!” he said.
13
When they reached the Ballantine house, Vickie’s mind was still plagued by the deception being played on her by her friends.
It made no sense.
Why didn’t they just tell her the truth? She and Hank had been over nearly a decade ago! As far as Roxanne went, her friend was known for picking the wrong guys, but from what she had seen and heard from both of them, Hank Fremont was on his way to improving his position in life. And she had never been enemies with either of them; she and Hank hadn’t had any kind of a tumultuous split. High school had ended; they had gone their own ways. And she had stayed friends with Roxanne all through her years in NYC, even if it had been mostly through emails and social media and the occasional visit.
She wished Dylan was here, but she hadn’t expected him to be at the house. If he hadn’t been with his mother, he was probably doing his ghostly best to stand guard over his brother.
“Vickie? Tuna sandwiches okay for lunch?” Chrissy asked.
“Lovely,” Vickie assured her. “Will you excuse me for a minute? I’m going to call my mom.”
She did so, thinking it would be a very good thing for her parents to be reassured earlier, rather than later. She told her mother that she was at the Ballantine house, that Chrissy wasn’t doing so well and that a policeman and an armed private security guard were right outside.
“I guess we can’t stop Griffin from doing his job,” her mother said. “As long as he trusts the cop and the guy outside, right? I watch TV. I know cops can be dirty.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. Griffin and Jackson and their people are thorough. They check out everyone,” she assured her mother.
Was that really true? She didn’t know. It sounded good at the moment.
“I’m so sorry for Chrissy. She’s having trouble bouncing back from the attack?” Vickie’s mother asked her.
“Yes, but I think she’ll go into therapy now. That will help,” Vickie said. She hesitated. She was an excellent researcher—it was one of the things she did, along with trying to make sure she strung together what she learned with entertaining words.
She was really good at researching the past.
That should mean she could research the present just fine, too.
“Mom, I don’t remember if I mentioned this when we were at dinner. Did you know Hank Fremont was back in Boston?”
“Oh, Lord above us!” her mom said. “Vickie, you’re not thinking about...Hank?”
Vickie laughed. “No. I’m sleeping with an FBI agent—with your blessing, remember?”
“Ouch, oh, daughter dearest! Must you be so blunt?”
“Hey, you were the blunt one. You weren’t born yesterday, remember?”
“Okay,” her mother said softly, “so I’d much rather you have a healthy sex life that I know about rather than lie awake each night worrying. Of course, I’d like it best if you just came home, you know.”
Vickie laughed. “Not too cool. I think that would make you and dad uncomfortable!”
“Ohhhh...so! What about Hank, then?”
“Did you know he was back in town?”
“No. We were kind of friendly with his parents, but they moved to South Carolina years ago,” her mother said. “I heard he was doing okay, though. That he was working—at a real job with prospects. I never particularly thought he was right for you, but I think he’s a decent enough human being these days.”
“Yeah. I’d like to think so,” Vickie murmured.
“Why? Has he been bothering you? If so, I’ll call that G-man new guy of yours myself and see Hank leaves you alone!”
“Mom, he hasn’t bothe
red me in the least. Through the years, though, you’ve stayed kind of friendly with my friend Roxanne, right?”
“Of course, darling, she was always one of your best friends. If you recall, Roxanne was over here on Christmas Day. Oh, and we saw her at church on Easter and went to brunch with her after the services. You know she’s a sweet thing! I worry about her, too.”
“Yep. Okay. So, I’m with Chrissy, and two good guys with guns. Talk to you tomorrow, all right?”
Her mother agreed. Vickie hurried back into the kitchen, hoping to catch Chrissy in time to stop the tuna sandwiches.
“Chrissy!” Vickie said.
Chrissy started, dropping a can of tuna.
“Let me get that!” Vickie said, hurrying over to fetch the fallen tuna. “Would you mind, I’d like to see a friend who owns a great Italian restaurant, Pasta Fagioli. Do you think we can get Donald and the cop to go to lunch with us?”
“Go to lunch?” Chrissy said.
“Yes, just go out to lunch. I’d like to see my friend Mario for a minute.”
“I...”
“Going out will be good for you, and Noah isn’t due home for hours, right?”
“No, we leave here to pick him up right at three. He hates it, of course. Prefers to hop the bus and walk with his friends. He’s such a good kid. So wise beyond his years! He knows we might still be in danger, and so he just bites down hard, forces a smile and does what is needed.”
“Noah is extraordinary,” Vickie assured her. “I’m going to step out front. Donald will be right there and I’ll tell him we want to go out.”
She didn’t know if Mario would be able to tell her anything about Roxanne and Hank, but he did seem to be her best hope.
Although...
She didn’t know why it bothered her so much.
They were lying to her.
They were apparently a couple.
And they both knew the city of Boston like the back of their hands.
No. She was becoming as paranoid as Chrissy.
Dying Breath--A Heart-Stopping Novel of Paranormal Romantic Suspense Page 23