A Kiss of Revenge (Entangled Ignite)

by Natalie Damschroder

  She pushed to her feet, inhaling deeply. As far as she’d come, part of her still craved those old patterns. Andrew, for example, practically shouted I can protect you. His interest wasn’t hard to deflect, given her inherent mistrust in law enforcement, the “been there, done that” pain of losing Joey, and the issue of what she did with her spare time. Griff was harder. He was the only one who knew everything about her and liked her anyway. But it was friendship they shared, no more.

  Getting involved with a guy doesn’t require you to subvert your needs to his, that inner voice piped up again. She scowled and stalked to the study. She knew that, but knowing wouldn’t stop her from doing it anyway. It was best not even to think about possibilities.

  Her e-mail was empty, not counting the low-rate mortgage offers and exhortations to find Christian singles in her neighborhood. She stripped off her cotton nightshirt and wrapped herself in a towel from the bathroom, snagging her toothbrush and toothpaste before dialing Griff’s number.

  “Chase Investigations.”

  “You haven’t sent me anything,” she accused around her toothbrush.

  “What do you think I am, a miracle worker? You only gave me this two days ago.”

  “That’s all? Sorry.” She pulled the phone away and quickly scrubbed the brush around her mouth, carrying the phone into the bathroom to spit. “I don’t mean to be impatient. It’s just the first real clue.”

  “Which makes you impatient.” He yawned, then after a pause, asked curiously, “Why aren’t you at the bakery already?”

  “Nightmares.” She didn’t need to elaborate. From that first day when he came to meet her at the rehab center and ended up encouraging her through the whole physical therapy session as she laid out what she needed, he’d been her sounding board. And conscience. And friend. Lots of things she’d never had, actually.

  Sometimes, she realized she forgot to be a friend in return. Speaking of which…

  “Were you working all night?”

  “No comment.”

  “Griff, you’re going to get sick again.” He tended not to take care of himself when he was on a big job, or handling too many at once, and when the flu hit him, it hit hard. Last time he’d been down for two weeks, half of which she spent ferrying chicken noodle soup and fresh-baked bread to the efficiency in Boston where he’d landed after closing said big job.

  “Sheesh, Mom.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, it was just a one-time surveillance gig. I’m going to bed as soon as we get off the phone.”

  “Okay, good. So what have you got for me?”

  His sigh echoed through the phone line. “You didn’t give me much to go on. Do you know how many Alpha Corporations there are?”

  “No.”

  “Too many.”

  She shoved back her frustration. It wasn’t his fault if the information wasn’t there to find, or was buried too deep to find it. “I thought the boat registration would narrow it down.”

  “Not with what you gave me. It doesn’t connect to anything in New England, but the owner could be anywhere. Or nowhere.” He paused. “It might not be the right place, anyway.”

  “It is. There’s no way it’s coincidence.” She flung the toothbrush onto the sink, her heart rate climbing. “The plane Brian was flying was Alpine Nirvana. That boat’s name is Alpine Nirvana. You can’t tell me it’s not owned by his partner.”

  “Okay, okay, calm down. If it’s a coincidence, it’s a big one. But I’m not getting anywhere and I don’t know that I will. He would have covered his tracks. Even if I find the owner of Alpha Corporation, it’s not going to lead us to your guy.”

  So be it. She’d hoped for more, had set too much store in this being enough. But it wasn’t a dead end. It would be pushing her luck to break into this house knowing nothing about the owner, where he was, when he was coming back, or who was taking care of the dog. But if Griffin couldn’t get anywhere, she had no choice.

  He seemed to follow her train of thought. “Be careful.”

  “With what?” She pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from her dresser and dropped them on the bed, bumping the drawer closed with her hip. She winced when the move twisted her knee, making it twinge.

  “You don’t fool me, kid.”

  “Kid,” she said, snorting. “I’m a month older than you.”

  “Nice try. You know I don’t distract so easily.”

  No, he didn’t. “Please save the lectures, Dad.” She landed on her back next to her clothes, weary. “I already know everything you can say. I’ll be fine.”

  “Just…do your homework.”

  “I will.”

  “How’s Brian?” His tone shifted to something more careful.

  She frowned, thinking he was trying not to reprimand her. She hadn’t been to see her husband in over a week. “No change.” None was expected, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear. She didn’t know if she appreciated or hated that he always asked. “Enough about me. What’s on your platter?”

  “You mean, besides your meaty assignment?” Papers shuffled and she heard the click of a stapler. “Nothing, actually. Just finished invoicing for the last big job. I don’t have another one but yours.”

  “Mine hardly takes much of your time, or pays your overhead.”

  “I can manage for a little while.”

  Another reason to feel guilty. She’d always thought he charged her less than his other clients, at first out of pity or compassion, and then because they’d become friends. She was glad he focused so much time on her case, but she didn’t want it to be to his financial detriment.

  Unless there was something else going on.

  “What are you planning?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Just to keep looking for this Alpha guy.”

  He sounded much too casual, and that made her uneasy. He’d already demonstrated his willingness to come to Crestview for no good reason, and he obviously knew what she was planning to do. He’d either come here thinking he could stop her, or planning to help so she didn’t get in over her head. The last thing she wanted was for him to compromise his ethics on her behalf.

  And if there was another, more personal reason he might show up—that was even worse.

  Flustered, she said, “Okay, well, I’ve got to go open the bakery. Protect my cover and all that.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  He hung up, and she wondered if she’d imagined the subtext. “Probably,” she muttered, pulling herself upright. She’d been imagining subtext in all kinds of dangerous places lately. Griffin was the one thing in her life that had always been exactly what he seemed, and she wasn’t going to let herself think any differently.

  She opened the bakery as usual and closed early. Griff had reminded her, intentionally or not, of her wifely duties.

  The nursing home overseeing Brian’s care was a two-hour drive away. The staff all greeted her by name, three of them giving her updates punctuated by smiles of hope. As if there actually was any. Reese’s biggest hope was that Brian would stop lingering. She’d rather be a three-time widow than married to the shell he’d become.

  She paused in the doorway to his room. The one thing all of her husbands had done right was life insurance, and she’d spent little of it before this past year. Now, with Brian’s medical insurance maxed out, her past men were helping pay for her current one’s care. He had a private room with wide windows letting in plenty of sunlight he couldn’t see or feel. A table covered with “stimulators” stood halfway down the bed, in his line of sight if he ever focused his eyes. The photos and souvenirs and stupid toy airplane were meant to give him comfort and remind him of happy times, things that were important to him. Reese hated the damned plane. Even the toy sometimes inspired the early symptoms of a panic attack. She only complied with the suggestion because it seemed to make the staff happy, and they gave Brian excellent care.

  He’d been turned recently. She could tell by the tightly rolled pillow behind his back. After a few minute
s it would start to open and he would twist, his shoulders or hips drifting back. She always wondered if somewhere, lost inside his damaged brain, he was screaming in discomfort.

  She pulled a chair up close to the bed and tugged at one hand the nurse had curled in to his chest. His eyes were open but blank. Except for the faint rise and fall of his breathing, he looked dead.

  Her heart squeezed. They’d been happy for such a short time. She’d finally felt loved for herself and hadn’t been compelled to mirror Brian. He’d never taught her to fly, and she’d never asked. He’d done his thing and she’d done hers, and then they’d done other things together. Their life had been characterized by love and respect, and she’d thought they’d achieved the balance she’d always been seeking.

  Until she found out he’d been lying to her. That he’d betrayed her trust. He’d put whatever crime he was involved in above her, allowed his silent partner to draw him into something nefarious—or had willingly gone into it. If he’d died, as the partner apparently intended him to, that would have been the end. She’d have moved on. She supposed some women still would, even divorcing him. But everything in her balked at that. Brian had broken them, but she intended to be the one to fix it. In a way.

  During the half hour she sat with him, none of the staff bothered them. The machine at his bedside beeped with reassuring regularity, displaying acceptable vital signs. She fixed the pillow when it started to unroll and held Brian’s hand, talking about the bakery and bringing him up to date on the Alpha Corporation discovery. She watched his eyes when she mentioned it, but as with every other moment she’d spent with him, he gave no sign he heard her.

  But that didn’t mean he didn’t. “I’m getting closer,” she told him. “But he’s buried his existence. No closure for us yet.” She snagged a tissue and wiped the drool from his slack mouth. “Closure. Nice word. I’ve had a lot of it in my life.” She rested her elbows on her knees. “Every change has been final. Abrupt, but that just defined the parts. The Joey part. The Erik part. The Chris part.” She exhaled, trying to release the rage churning inside her at the limbo her life was in now. “The Brian part doesn’t look like it’s going to end any time soon.”

  “That’s good,” a woman said from the doorway. “We encourage families to talk to their loved ones.”

  Annoyance sparked in Reese as she turned. “I know. I’ve been coming here a long time.”

  She’d never met the woman leaning on the doorjamb, though she wore a white coat and carried a clipboard. Gold wire-frame glasses matched hair pulled back into a loose knot. She smiled warmly, but her gaze belonged to someone with a goal and a plan to achieve it.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m new here.” She stepped into the room, holding out her hand. “Dr. Langstrom. I’ve taken over Brian’s care.”

  Reese stood and shook her hand. She’d known Dr. Mitchell was retiring but hadn’t realized they’d replaced him. “Reese Templeton.”

  Dr. Langstrom nodded and consulted her clipboard. “Not Treget?”

  “I kept my name when we married.” She hadn’t changed it since Erik died, tired of the paperwork.

  “I see. I was hoping you’d be visiting this week. I’d like to talk to you about some new treatments.” Animation lit her face, but Reese was confused.

  “Treatments?” Brian was a vegetable. There was no hope of recovery.

  But apparently no one had informed Dr. Langstrom. “I’ve looked at his records and done some analyses of his condition.” She folded the chart into her arms across her chest and leaned against the table. “Actually, Brian’s the reason I came here. There’s an experimental surgery being performed in Germany. The surgeon has been looking for candidates in the U.S., and surgeons to train. It deals with stimulator implantation…”

  She explained the procedure, but Reese barely heard it; all she could do was stare. Her world had irrevocably shifted in those three seconds.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  Dr. Langstrom stopped talking and looked as surprised as Reese at her words, but she couldn’t stop them. “I’ve been waiting for a year for him to die. Even if you can restore some function, he’ll never be the man he was. I don’t want that for him!” The hair on her arms prickled, then the tiny hairs on her scalp. Tingles raced over her skin. Damn it! Her emotional upheaval was affecting her physical control. The hospital room was full of electrical equipment, far more important and expensive than the switch on her coffee maker. Monitors, lights, the bed—the low hum of the equipment rose. Her heartbeat and breathing increased, and panic crept in, feeding the surge. Electricity seeped out of its confines, seeking her body, and she wouldn’t be able to contain it. Both Brian and Dr. Langstrom were in danger.

  Without another word she ran from the room, all the way out to her car. She felt like a charged balloon as she ran, her hair flying behind her, her clothes clinging, and more and more electricity trying to get to her.

  She reached for the car door handle, which wirelessly connected to the key fob in her pocket. Electricity arced between the door and her hand. She cried out at the shock and jumped back, bumping into someone behind her.

  “Holy—!”

  She whirled. Dr. Langstrom had chased her to the parking lot. She caught Reese’s hand and flipped it back and forth. “Are you all right?” No marks marred her skin, and Langstrom narrowed her eyes at the car. “What was that?”

  Reese had to distract her. “I’m so sorry, doctor.” She drew in an extra-shaky breath and tried to pull herself together. “You surprised me. I reconciled myself to Brian’s death long ago, and your ideas just…shocked me. I wasn’t ready for them.”

  “I understand.” She released Reese’s hand and stepped back, pulling out a folder and handing it to her. “Why don’t you read this over, then come inside and talk to me? I’ll go over data on the procedure and explain what we can and can’t do, based on Brian’s trauma and the limits of the new procedure.”

  Reese hesitated. After the way she’d just acted, she really should do as the doctor suggested and counter that awful first impression. “Of course.” She felt the thickness of the folder and its contents. “Is half an hour okay?”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you inside.”

  Reese thanked her and slid into the car, glancing in the rear view mirror to watch the doctor go back into the building. As soon as the woman was out of sight, Reese slumped in her seat and tilted her head forward against her hands on the steering wheel. The electricity drained away with her tension, seeping out of her and going—wherever. The hair on her arms and back of her neck settled, and she could finally breathe normally.

  The procedure the doctor proposed was a game changer. Reese had resigned herself to losing Brian. This whole vengeance quest helped keep the limbo of his condition from driving her insane. As she’d said to him, she’d grown so used to her life having definitive markers. It wasn’t hard to change things when nothing was the same. But she couldn’t move on from him as long as he was alive, and if pressed, she’d probably admit that deep down, she thought once she found their attempted killer and ended this, Brian would end, too. That he was lingering only because he wanted to see justice done.

  In that same deep, dark well, she knew “ended” had only one meaning. The preliminary investigation had focused harder on her than any other theories. After all, she had two dead husbands already, and Brian’s survival was miraculous. But so was hers. Even if she wasn’t supposed to be on the plane, she had been, and they’d been unable to prove infidelity or other motive for her to tamper with the controls. She doubted she’d be able to find definitive evidence of Brian’s partner’s involvement in the crimes, never mind his intent to kill them, but she was afraid he had enough to frame her if investigators got too close. If she thought that was a viable backup plan, why wouldn’t he? Or he might just decide to kill her outright, forget trying to make it look like an accident. As long as the possibility was out there, anything she tried to do with h
er life would feel tenuous. So she needed to confront her enemy, and how it finished would be how it finished.

  Except…what if Brian had this surgery and it worked? Then there would be no ending. She’d be married to a man who’d lost her trust and most of her love, and any remaining relationship would be based on duty and obligation. She didn’t want that. She never had.

  She skimmed the literature the doctor had provided, then went back and read it more carefully, but it was full of sales talk that didn’t tell her much. She stared at the building, half considering driving away so she didn’t have to face making a decision today. But that was childish and would serve no purpose in the long run.

  She went inside and asked at the desk for directions to Langstrom’s office, where she found the door open and the doctor just hanging up her phone.

  “Ms. Templeton, great! Please, come in and sit down.” She motioned to the chair next to the desk. “You’ve read the literature, then?”

  “Yes.” Reese shifted on the squishy chair. “It was a little vague on how it actually works.”

  “It’s based on the premise that when one portion of the brain is damaged, other portions can take on some of those tasks.” She pointed to a cutaway drawing of a brain on a flip chart. Her voice grew more and more animated as she talked. “We’ve always been stymied in our attempts to make this happen, though, probably because of our lack of understanding in how it works. What Dr. Studtgart does is implant a stimulator to create pulses of electricity—just like what travels through your nerves—so other areas of the brain think the damaged area is still working.” She flipped to the next diagram, which showed a red device inside the brain and yellow lightning-bolt shaped symbols, presumably meant to demonstrate the stimulator working.

  “How many surgeries has he done so far?” Reese asked.

  “A few dozen. Ninety percent of the patients have shown some functional improvement. This man—” The doctor fumbled through files and papers until she found a thin binder, then a page with before and after pictures. She held up the book so Reese could see. “He damaged the same area of his brain that your husband did.” She pointed to the first picture, where the man was lying on his side, fists curled into his chest, one of Brian’s frequent positions.