by Sarah Andre
The hug in the sitting room yesterday popped into her mind. The familiarity of his embrace had tumbled her back in time, like the vortex at the beginning of The Twilight Zone. As if no years and no heartbreak had come between them. What if the team hadn’t walked in a moment later? What if she’d pressed her lips to his boldly—with years of built-up emotion?
“Oh, knock it off,” she whispered. She turned the corner and ran smack into a body so concrete her teeth clicked.
“Christ!”
She gasped at the familiar tone. He gripped her arms and separated her, just barely, from his warm chest. “Devon?”
“Hannah!” The powerful grip on her upper arms tightened. He smelled of toothpaste and shaving cream, and his face was shockingly pale, those long-lashed eyes bloodshot. The burn of his gaze and violent slash of brows caused her to sag in his arms like a rag doll. “Hannah,” he said again in soft anguish.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and her lips parted on instinct. She pressed a trembling hand to his chest, feeling the thud of his heart. He angled his head, his breath hot and close. The nanosecond of suspended time, of pooling need, went on forever.
Kiss me!
He exhaled roughly and pushed her upright and away from him. Her hand dropped lifelessly to her side. “You never saw me,” he rasped, his lips white with tension. He shook her gently. “Did you hear me, Hannah? No matter what, you never saw me today.”
“Huh,” she said. Relief cleared the fierceness in his haggard features, and he released her. She almost stumbled at the sudden freedom and gulped in oxygen. How long had she gone without inhaling? Long enough for her knees to quiver.
He leaned down and grabbed an overnight bag. When he straightened, his expression blended tenderness with pain. “Do you ever wonder what our lives would’ve been like if you’d gone with me that night?” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down hard. “I spent years hoping you’d follow me.”
He brushed past while she stood like a zombie. Years. What was happening? Why this sudden, intimate glimpse? She spun around, but he’d already disappeared—without so much as eliciting the teeniest creak from any of these old floorboards.
Many voices, far off, reached her. The collective hysteria was evident even from here, in a distant hall, where she’d accidentally bumped into someone clearly on the run.
He could trust Hannah. Devon slipped down the back passageway, his stride swift and noiseless. Even as his mind pointed out that the moment union negotiations ended he’d be tearing down her apartment, his gut trusted her blindly. Hannah wouldn’t tell the police she’d run into him. No one would know he’d been in this house or even on these grounds today.
He crept down the ancient wood stairs, spiraling past the kitchen until he reached the door to the basement—or fallout shelter, depending on the decade. He made his way carefully down those steps in the darkness, one hand on the cool concrete wall to his right. The scents of moist earth and mold clung to the insides of his nostrils. He halted, eyes straining to make out the obscure shadows. The silence was so complete that the rapid thumping of his pulse and short breathing cycle seemed to echo. Once his eyes adjusted, he pushed off from the bottom stair, stepping cautiously, in case childhood toys like Rollerblades still lay strewn around.
Finally his palm brushed over the molding around the far basement door, then the bolt, and he unlocked it. He fumbled with the door handle. Please don’t be locked. He had no key and no plan B. Slowly he turned the cool metal handle. The door squeaked shrilly as it opened. A thread of sunlight and fresh air slipped in. He exhaled heavily, opening the door a fraction at a time on its rusty hinges.
Slipping outside, he glanced left, at the white stucco wall of garages ten feet away. Except for twittering birds, he was out here alone. If only he could grab the Bentley he’d driven Todd home in and blitz to an airport. But that wasn’t an option if he wanted to remain invisible. As a teenager, he used to sneak through the forest between this property line and the Dawsons’ next door, until he was close enough to Sheridan Road. That could still work. He’d slip out onto the Dawsons’ driveway; no one in that house would be able to see that far. On Sheridan, he’d grab the bus to the El and ride it to Midway or O’Hare.
He relaxed his death grip on the overnight bag and breathed in the chilly morning air. Confidence soaring, he strode toward the trees. The crunch of gravel on the drive and purr of an engine came from his left. Instinctively he ducked, sprinting for the side of the garage. He slammed his back up against the stucco, skin prickling with unease. Of all the damn luck! The only people with the authority to drive any of the expensive cars were his father, the chauffeur, Rick, or Frannie. Three out of the four, Devon absolutely had to avoid.
Rattling glass and squealing joints rent the morning air, jolting him before he realized it was only the ancient carriage door opening. The one closest to where he stood. All he had to do was stay still for the next few minutes and wait until whoever it was went into the house. The probability of anyone walking around the corner of the garage to an obscure part of the side lawn was nil.
The distinct sound of sirens wailed in the distance. Sweat trickled down his temple. A car door shut a few feet away, then seconds later another.
“Thank you, Evan.” Harrison. Shit! Devon molded further into the wall, if that was even possible. His heart tripped off rhythm. “I won’t need you again until this evening. Ms. Hartlett and I have tickets to the symphony at eight. We’ll be dining afterward.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll have the Rolls ready at seven.”
So, either his father didn’t know she was dead, or he was creating nice details in a tight alibi by still planning to take her out this evening. The answer was obvious, given Harrison knew she was a fraud. Sirens shrieked closer. Two pairs of footsteps crunched on the gravel. In about five seconds, Devon would be clear to bolt.
The vibration in his pants pocket started a second before the shrill ring of his cell phone. Shit! Shit! Shit!
The footsteps halted in the gravel. “What in the hell…?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Devon jammed his hand into his pocket. As he pulled the phone out, his clumsy grasp hit the Talk icon. Caller ID: Nicole. The line was live.
Sorry, babe. He winced as he hit the End button and disconnected her.
“Hey!” The outrage of the chauffeur’s shout a few feet away was nowhere close to the tone his father used calling his name. Devon tilted his face to the cloudless sky. So goddamn close. Then Harrison stood before him, annoyed and suspicious.
“What are you doing here?” The sirens shrieked in decibels that could no longer be ignored. Confusion washed over Harrison. He spun around as a squad of black-and-silver Winnetka police cars careened into the circle, screeching to a halt with a slide of gravel, right out of some movie action sequence.
The old man faced him squarely again. In a voice ringing with blame and promising punishment—a voice carved into Devon’s memories—he shouted, “What the hell’s going on around here, goddamn it?”
Chapter 17
“What happened?” Hannah asked.
The nearest woman in the frenzied crowd whipped around. “Miss Hartlett’s dead,” she said, eyes widening in fresh horror.
Hannah opened her mouth to reply, but although the name sounded familiar, she wasn’t sure who Miss Hartlett was.
“Mr. Wickham’s fiancée,” the maid supplied in a disbelieving tone.
Honey. Goose bumps chilled Hannah from the inside out. Screaming sirens arriving outside hurt her ears. “Wha—what happened?”
“The gardener says she fell off the cliff.”
Just like Francesca… It was beyond a freakish coincidence. How could two women have plunged to their deaths this way? Her breath stilled. Oh God. Devon! The panic on his face. No matter what, you never saw me today. The stealthy way he’d disappeared. Hannah twisted her fingers together, searching the crowd of shocked faces in the hope she was mistaken. He was long
gone.
She licked parched lips with a dry tongue. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Those cliff steps were so narrow and slippery. And yesterday, Honey had worn heeled flip-flops. If she’d returned later wearing ridiculous shoes, who knew what could’ve happened? Hannah would never have tried those stairs in heels or by herself. “Did the gardener see her fall?”
“No, when he went to rake the sand. Her neck’s broken.”
Hannah shuddered. The sirens abruptly stopped, and she went rigid with anticipation. What was she doing? She quickly texted Walter and Sean a one-sentence explanation, with a strong suggestion that they cancel the rest of the day. She and Sean did not need to be trekking through the house with crated paintings in the middle of this.
Car doors slammed, effectively silencing the crowd around her. She slid past a few servants to go stand near the bottom of the staircase and wait for Sean, but the staff around her jostled and parted like the Red Sea, their bodies effectively closing her in their ranks. Suddenly Joseph strode right past her down the cleared passage, smoothing his cravat as though he was on his way to greet any old visitor. He was still here! She almost smiled but caught herself in time.
The moment he opened the door, Harrison Wickham swept in, his stride imperial, his face a thundercloud of rage. A step behind, sporting a deer-in-the-headlights stare, was a young blond man in a black suit. Devon followed, eyes exhausted and mouth set in a rebellious line. Hannah swallowed hard, staring at him. He couldn’t be responsible for the heinous murder. She bit the inside of her cheek squeezing her biceps, exactly where his strong fingers had held her captive.
Half a dozen officers trooped in after the three men, some immediately sizing up the staff as if they were suspects, while others stared at the grandness of the foyer. Harrison stopped just short of the clustered staff and opened his mouth to speak. When he hesitated and frowned, Hannah followed his gaze behind her.
Francine descended the red-carpeted steps, hair in disarray, thin body swimming in overlarge sweats as wrinkled as Devon’s clothes. She blinked in surprise at the family, staff, and police in the foyer. Silently, everyone stared back. “What’s going on?” she asked absently, glancing around. “Why didn’t someone answer the phone?” She held up a cordless phone. “It’s the caterer. Honey’s not answering her cell.”
Frannie’s statement raised the cacophony echoing in the foyer. Devon closed his eyes. How could she not have heard the commotion—the news? Frannie’s bedroom in the south wing was far, but not that far.
“Silence!” Harrison roared. His command was abruptly obeyed, but the frenzied energy remained in the flushed faces and shifting weight of the onlookers. “Someone tell me what’s going on.”
Devon edged toward the bronze statue of Zeus and leaned a shoulder against it. He’d refused to answer his father out in the driveway, which had only ratcheted up the old man’s temper. But Devon had no intention of either playing along, if his father was establishing an alibi, or being the one to impart the news if he wasn’t.
Joseph stepped forward. “Sir, I attempted to notify you on your cell—”
“Yes, yes, I was on an international call. Now what’s happened?”
“I’m Sergeant Wilson.” An officer with a third-trimester paunch stepped forward, unconsciously palming his holstered gun like a child checking for the presence of his security blanket. “There’s been a report of a fatality on the premises.”
Harrison blinked once then scanned the faces in the foyer. “Where’s Honey?” he demanded in a low voice, and Francine, still halfway down the stairs, wiggled the phone.
This was fucking surreal.
“She’s passed on, sir,” Joseph said. “I’m sorry. I tried to call.”
Except for the dual thunks as Frannie dropped the cordless and sank abruptly on the step, the hall remained hushed. Devon watched his father closely. Harrison passed a trembling palm over his mouth and swallowed hard.
Was this how he’d reacted twenty-one years ago? Was he about to get away with his second murder?
“How?” he whispered.
“The cliff, sir.”
Harrison pitched forward as if an invisible force had just punched him in the stomach. His face drained of color. A murmur swept through the spectators, and Joseph stepped closer.
“Mrs. Farlow, a brandy, if you please,” he ordered, gently clasping Harrison’s elbow. “This way, sir.” He escorted Harrison into the parlor and closed the door firmly behind them.
Mrs. Farlow motioned to one of her staff, who scurried away, then marched up to Sergeant Wilson. “I’m Mrs. Farlow, the head cook for the Wickhams. I’ll show you the way to…the body.”
Wilson nodded to an associate, and then gestured for half the police force to follow him and Mrs. Farlow toward the patio doors, while the associate requested everyone else stay where they were. The remaining cops rummaged for notepads or organized a line for the staff to stand in. Devon caught one by the sleeve as he walked by. “Excuse me, Officer. I have a flight I’m very late for. Could you collect whatever it is you need from me first, so I can head to the airport?”
The cop looked him up and down, his expression surly. No doubt the wrinkled clothes didn’t scream high-income CEO. “Who are you?”
“I’m Devon Ashby…Wickham. I’m Harrison’s eldest son.” Prickles crawled over his skin at trading in on something that normally shamed him.
Instantly the officer straightened. “I can take your information, but until Sergeant Wilson says otherwise, no one is leaving this hall.”
And just like that, Devon was stuck in this godforsaken house. He mentally screamed a string of curse words as more commotion began on the stairs. Two maids crouched on either side of Frannie, who’d collapsed into a sobbing ball. Another death involving the cliff. If her memories were as haunted as his, he hoped she had some Valium.
“I’ll need your contact information—” the cop began, but Devon held up his hand.
“Excuse me, Officer. I need to get my sister out of here.”
“Sir, no one is to leave.”
“We aren’t leaving,” he snapped. “I’m taking her to her bedroom.”
“I mean no one can leave this entry hall.”
Devon clenched his jaw. “Watch me.” He shouldered his way through the milling staff not yet in line and caught sight of Hannah hovering at the edge of the chaos. She stared at him in such horror it knocked the breath from his lungs. Without a thought, he veered her way. She stiffened and glanced around for the nearest cop, and he quickened his steps. As she held up a hand to flag one down, he lunged the remaining few feet. “Hannah.” He kept his voice low and calm. “For God’s sake, it’s not what you think.” He instinctively reached out, but she shied away.
“Don’t.”
“Just listen to me—”
Her gaze strayed over his shoulder, and she nodded to someone. He glanced back in paranoia. No cop. One of the guys from her company stood on the landing, surveying the shitshow. “I need to go talk to him.” Her voice sounded cool and detached, and the second she finished speaking, her mouth formed a grim line.
“I had nothing to do with her death, I swear. I just wanted to get out of here before”—he motioned around them—“this.”
She threw him a do-I-look-that-stupid frown, and then a maid was at his side asking for help with Frannie. Panic edged out reason. He leaned in again, close enough so the peach scent of her rich auburn hair became his oxygen. He hovered a second longer than necessary, surprised she stayed put. “Look at me, Hannah.” He waited in torture until she lifted her chin and stared dispassionately into his eyes. The complete absence of her sweet inner light shook him. “I was only trying to get home. That’s all.”
The second he finished the last word, she studied the black-and-white tiles at her feet, her face giving nothing away. The maid tugged his sleeve again, and he helplessly followed the woman to the stairwell, where a keening Frannie was now surrounded by four female staff, all murmur
ing to her at once.
“Come on, kiddo.” He picked her up effortlessly and hugged her to his chest. As he climbed the stairs, he looked over his shoulder. Hannah watched his progress openly. At least her expression held resignation now, which was better than accusation. But the starry-eyed, joyful soul he’d reconnected with two days ago was long gone. Just another casualty poisoned simply by setting foot in this house. The triumphant Devon who’d stridden in here thinking the world lay within his grasp had imploded too.
“I can’t take any more,” his sister said through her sobs, clinging to him as he got to the bay-windowed landing. Cops descended the ledge cautiously, each disappearing from view. He shielded his sister from the sight and rounded the curve, murmuring words of comfort. Taking the remaining stairs two at a time, he strode toward the south wing, shocked at how bony she felt in his arms. Todd had been much heavier. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen his nephew in the foyer with the others. And Rick was missing, too.
“Where’s Todd?” he asked gently.
The question effectively turned off the waterworks as the maternal side emerged. “He’s still asleep. It’s why I grabbed the damn phone when it started ringing.” She turned her wet and exhausted face to his. “He’s been through so much lately. I don’t know how to tell him this.”
Devon didn’t answer. He and Frannie had suffered a massive shock when they were kids, but without a comforting parent like Frannie to turn to. His father might have remained in this house during the tumultuous days and weeks after their mother died, but Harrison had locked himself in his office until long after they were in bed.
“What should I do, Dev?”
He swallowed a thick lump and focused on his sister’s tear-ravaged face once more. “Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he said with authority. “First you’re going to wipe off all the snot running down your face.” He absorbed the whack on his arm. “I mean, that’s just gross.” Another whack, but mission accomplished. Already the tension in her muscles began to ebb. “Then you’re going to wake him up, and tell him the truth. There’s been a horrible accident, and Honey’s dead.”