by Nora Roberts
“With what? With a stack of unsigned letters written more than thirty years ago and a note I scribbled this afternoon?”
“I didn’t say they were unsigned.” Ford turned away.
“Wait. Now wait.” With the first hint of panic, Tom gripped his shoulder. “This isn’t a matter for the police, Ford. It won’t do anyone any good for this to come out. Do you need me to admit the affair? All right, all right. I was mesmerized by her, and I betrayed my wife. I’m not the first man to slip. I’m not proud of it. And I ended it; I ended it before you were born, for God’s sake. When I came to my senses, when I realized what I was doing, I ended it. Why would you punish me, hurt and embarrass Brian and Cathy, over a mistake I made when I was younger than you are now?”
“You tried to get them back, and put a man in the hospital.”
“I panicked.” He held up his hands. “I only wanted to find the letters and destroy them. I panicked when I heard him coming in. There was no way for me to get out. I never meant to hit him that hard. It was instinct, just instinct. My God, I thought I’d killed him.”
“So you shoved the bike on top of him, what, to be sure of it?”
“I tell you, I was in shock. I thought he was dead, what else could I do? I could only think it had to look like an accident. He’s fine now. He’s all right now,” Tom insisted in a tone of quiet reason. “What point is there in making an issue out of any of it?”
Ford could only stare. This man he’d respected, even loved, one he’d thought of all his life as a kind of second father, was shifting in front of his eyes. “He nearly died, Tom. He could have died. And you did that for what, to save your reputation over a slip? To cover up something you thought was already buried?”
“I did it to spare my family.”
“Really? What else have you done to ‘spare your family’? Let’s go back. Let’s go all the way back. Did you kill Janet Hardy?”
MILDLY IRRITATED by the interruption, Cilla went to the door, peeked through the sidelight. Irritation turned to puzzlement as she opened it for Cathy.
“It’s okay, Spock. See?”
He stopped quivering to prance forward and bump Cathy’s legs in greeting.
“I’m so sorry. Not five minutes after Penny dropped me off, I realized I’d left my rings at your place.” Cathy pressed her ringless hand to her breast. “I always take them off at the kitchen sink. At least I hope I did. God, if I lost them . . . No they’re there. I’m just a little frantic.”
“I’d be, too. I’m sure they’re there. We’ll go get them right now.”
“Thank you. Cilla, I feel so stupid. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost them.”
“Just let me grab my keys.” She snagged them off the little table by the door. “Come on, Spock, let’s take a walk.”
The walk word had him shooting through the door to dance on the veranda.
“They’ll be there,” Cathy reassured herself. “I’m sure they’ll be right there. I lost my wedding and engagement rings down the drain years ago. I’d lost weight, hadn’t had them resized. I was terrified until Buddy—whom I called in hysterics—took the pipes apart and found them. So I always take them off before I shower or do dishes, or . . . I’m babbling.”
They crossed the road in the moonlight. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’re right where you left them.”
“Of course they are.” But the strain in her voice had Spock making concerned whines. “I put them in a little glass—I remember—at your sink. If someone didn’t see them in there, and—”
“We’ll find them.” Cilla put a hand on Cathy’s trembling arm.
“You must think I’m an idiot.”
“I don’t. I’ve only had my ring for a day, and I’d be a basket case if I thought I’d lost it.” She unlocked the door.
“I’m just going to—” Cathy made a dash for the kitchen, and, hopeful, Spock raced behind her.
Cilla closed the door, plugged in the security code to offset the alarm, then followed.
Cathy stood in the kitchen, tears streaming down her cheeks with Spock rubbing against her legs in comfort. “Right where I left them. Right by the sink. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. It’s okay.” Moving fast, Cilla got an old stool out of the utility room. “Just sit down a minute.”
“God, thank you. Now I do feel like an idiot. They’re insured, I know, but—”
“It’s not about insurance.”
“No, it’s not. Look at me. I’m a mess.” She pulled a tissue out of her purse to dry her cheeks. “Cilla, could I have a glass of that?” She gestured to the bottle of wine on the counter. “And an aspirin.”
“Sure. Aspirin’s upstairs. I’ll be right back.”
When she came back, Cathy sat at the counter, her head propped in her hand, and two glasses of wine poured. “I know I’m taking up some of that quiet time you were after, but I just need a few minutes to calm down.”
“It’s no problem, Cathy.” Cilla set down the aspirin.
“To wedding rings—engagement rings—and all they represent.” Cathy lifted her glass, held it expectantly, then tapped it to Cilla’s when Cilla picked hers up.
“And I hope that’s the last time you find me knocking hysterically on your door.”
“I thought you held it together pretty well. They’re beautiful. I’ve admired them before.”
“Tom wanted to buy me a new wedding ring for our twenty-fifth. I wouldn’t have it.” Her eyes sparkled as she sipped. “So he gave me a diamond bracelet instead. I’ve got a weakness for diamonds. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you wear any, other than your spanking-new ring. Your grandmother had some fabulous jewelry.”
“My mother has it. And the kind of work I do?” Cilla shrugged, drank a little more wine. “Doesn’t lend to glitters.”
“You don’t need them with your looks. Neither did she. It’s us lesser mortals who require the enhancements. Of course, beauty fades if you live long enough. Hers didn’t. She didn’t.”
“I was just looking through some old photographs and thinking . . .” Cilla pressed a hand to her temple. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was so tired. The wine must’ve topped it off.”
“You’ll need to drink the rest of that. And one more, I think, to finish the job.”
“I’d better not. I’m sorry, Cathy, but I feel a little off. I need to—”
“Finish your wine.” Cathy opened her purse, drew out a small revolver. “I insist,” she said as Spock began to grumble.
“JANET COMMITTED SUICIDE. I’ve regretted whatever part I might have played in that for more than thirty years.”
“She was pregnant.”
“She claimed . . .” Something in Ford’s eyes had Tom pausing, nodding. “Yes. I didn’t believe her, not until we spoke face-to-face. After, after she died, the day she died, in fact, I went to my father. Confessed everything. He was furious with me. He had no tolerance for mistakes, not when they affected the family name. He handled it. We never spoke of it again. I assume he paid off the medical examiner to omit the pregnancy.”
And his political career, Ford thought, had gone down the toilet.
“It was the only thing to do, Ford. Imagine what the public would’ve done to her if it had come out? Imagine what might have become of my family if I was named the father?”
“You spoke, face-to-face.”
“I went to the farm. I wanted her to leave it alone, to move on, but she persisted. So I went to see her, as she demanded. She’d been drinking. Not drunk, not yet, but she’d been drinking. She had the results of the pregnancy test.”
“She had them with her?” Ford prompted. “The paperwork.”
“Yes. She’d used her real name, went to a doctor who didn’t know her. Personally, that is. She said she’d worn a wig and used makeup. She often did when we’d meet somewhere. She knew how to hide when she wanted to. I believed her then, and I believed her when she told me she intended to have the baby. But she was done with
me. I didn’t deserve her, or the child.”
Ford’s eyes narrowed. “She dumped you?”
“I’d already ended it. I suppose she wanted the last word on that. We argued; I won’t deny it. But she was alive when I left.”
“What happened to the doctor’s report?”
“I have no idea. I’m telling you, she was alive when I went home, and looked in on my daughter. I thought of all I’d risked, all I might have destroyed. I thought of Cathy, and the child she carried. How I’d nearly asked her for a divorce only months before so I could be, openly, with a woman who didn’t really exist. I might have done that. I nearly did that.”
He leaned heavily on the deck rail, closed his eyes. “It was Cathy telling me she was pregnant that helped me begin to break the spell. I lay down on the cot in the nursery with my daughter, thought of the baby Cathy would have in the fall. Thought of Cathy and our life together. I never saw Janet again. I never risked my family again. Thirty-five years, Ford. What would it accomplish to bring it out now?”
“You terrorized Cilla. You nearly killed a man, and when that wasn’t enough, you terrorized her. Breaking into her house, writing obscenities on her truck, her wall, threatening her.”
“I broke in. I admit that, too. To look for the letters. And I lost control when I couldn’t find them. It was the anger, the impulse that had me smashing the tiles. But the rest? I had nothing to do with it. It was Hennessy. I realized the letters didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. No one would connect me.”
“Hennessy couldn’t have done all the rest. He was locked up.”
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. Why would I lie about a stone wall, the dolls?” Tom demanded. “You know the worst of it.”
“Your wife knew. Janet called her. You said so in the letter, the last letter.”
“Janet was drunk, and raving. I convinced Cathy that it wasn’t true. That it was alcohol, pills and grief. She was upset, of course, but she believed me. She . . .”
“If you could live a lie this long, why couldn’t she? You claim you slept in the nursery the night Janet died.”
“Yes, I . . . I fell asleep. I woke when Cathy came in to get the baby. She looked so tired. I asked if she was all right. She said she was fine. We were all fine now.” In the moonlight, the flush of shame died to shock white. “My God.”
Ford didn’t wait for more reasons, more excuses. He ran. Cilla was alone. And Cathy Morrow knew it.
“YOU PUT SOMETHING IN THE WINE.”
“Seconal. Just like your whore of a grandmother. But it was vodka for her.”
Queasiness rose up to her throat. Fear, knowledge, the mix of drugs and wine. “The couch wasn’t pink; the dress wasn’t blue.”
“Drink some more wine, Cilla. You’re babbling now.”
“You saw the couch, the dress the night . . . the night you killed her. That’s what you remember—that night, not the Christmas party. Tom wrote the letters, is that it? Tom was her lover, the father of the child she carried.”
“He was my husband, and the father of my child, and the child I carried. Did she care about that?” Fury blasted across her face. Not madness, Cilla thought, not like Hennessy. Sheer burning fury.
“Did she give one thought to what marriage and family meant before she tried to take what was mine? She had everything. Everything. But it wasn’t enough. It never is for women like her. She was nearly ten years older than he was. She made a fool of me, and even that wasn’t enough. He went to her, left me to go to her that night while I rocked our daughter to sleep, while our baby kicked in my womb. He went to her, and to the bastard she made with him. Drink the wine, Cilla.”
“Did you hold a gun on her, too?”
“I didn’t have to. She’d been drinking already. I slipped the pills into her glass. My pills,” she added. “Ones I thought I needed when I first learned she had her hooks in him.”
“How long? How long did you know?”
“Months. He came home and I smelled her perfume. Soir de Paris. Her scent. I saw her in his eyes. I knew he went to her, again and again. And only touched me when I begged. But it changed, it started to change when I got pregnant. When I made sure I did. He was coming back to me. She wouldn’t allow it. Kept luring him back. I would not be pitied. I would not see myself compared to her and laughed at.
“I’ll shoot you if you don’t drink. They’ll call it another break-in. A tragic one this time.” She reached back into her purse, pulled out the large plastic bag, and the doll trapped inside it. “In case you’d rather go with the bullet, I’ll leave this behind. I bought several of them years ago. I couldn’t resist. I never knew why until you came here.”
Struggling against the dizziness, Cilla lifted the glass, wet her lips. “You staged her suicide.”
“She made it easy. She invited me in, like an old friend. Apologized for what she’d done. She was sorry she’d hurt me, or caused me any pain. She couldn’t undo it, wouldn’t if she could. Because that would undo the baby. All she wanted now was the baby and a chance to make up for past mistakes. Of course, she’d never reveal the name of the father. Lying bitch.”
“You drugged her.”
“When she started to slide, I helped her upstairs. I felt so strong then. I nearly had to carry her, but I was strong. I undressed her. I wanted her naked, exposed. And I gave her more pills, gave her more vodka. And I sat and I watched her die. I sat and I watched until she stopped breathing. Then I left.
“I’d drive by here. After they’d taken her away to where she never belonged, I’d drive by. I liked watching it decay while I . . . emerged. I starved myself. I exercised until every muscle trembled. Beauty salons, spas, liposuction, face-lifts. He would never look at me and want her. No one would ever look at me with pity.”
An image, Cilla thought. An illusion. “I’ve done nothing to you.”
“You came here.” With her free hand, Cathy added more pills to Cilla’s glass, topped it off with wine. “Cheers!”
“I was wrong,” Cilla mumbled. “You’re as crazy as Hennessy after all.”
“No, just a lot more focused. This house deserved to die its slow, miserable death. She only went to sleep. That was my mistake. You brought her back by coming here, shoved it all in my face again. You had my own son plant roses for her. You seduced Ford, who deserves so much better. I’d have let you live if you’d gone away. If you’d let this house die. But you kept throwing it in my face. I won’t have that, Cilla. I see what you are. Hennessy and I are the only ones.”
“I’m not Janet. They’ll never believe I killed myself.”
“She did. Your mother attempted it—or pretended to—twice. You’re fruit from the tree.” Casually, Cathy tucked back her swing of hair with her free hand. “Pressured into becoming engaged, distraught over causing the death of a man whose life your grandmother ruined. I’ll be able to testify how anxious you were for everyone to leave you alone. If only we’d known.”
“I’m not Janet,” she stated, and tossed the remaining contents in her glass into Cathy’s face.
The action had Spock leaping up, the grumbling going to a snarl. As his head rammed against Cathy, Cilla grabbed for the bottle, saw herself smash it against Cathy’s head. But, impaired by the pills, she swung wide and barely grazed her temple.
It was enough to have Cathy tipping in the stool. Cilla lurched forward, shoved while the dog jumped against the teetering stool. The gun went off, plowing a bullet into the ceiling as the stool toppled.
Fight or flight. She feared she had little of either in her. As her knees buckled, she let herself fall on Cathy, raked her nails down Cathy’s face. The scream was satisfying, but more was the certainty that even if she died, they’d know. She had Cathy Morrow under her nails. She grabbed Cathy’s hair, yanked, twisted for good measure. Plenty of DNA, she thought vaguely as her vision dimmed at the edges. And Spock’s snarling barks went tinny in her ears.
She swung out blindly. She heard shouting, another
scream. Another shot. And simply slid away.
FORD’S HEART SKIDDED when he saw Cathy’s car in his drive. He wouldn’t be too late. He couldn’t be. He slammed to a stop behind the Volvo and ran halfway to his door before his instincts stopped him.
Not here. The farm. He spun around, began to run. It had to be at the farm. He cursed, as he’d cursed for miles, the fact that his phone sat on Brian’s bar.
When he heard the shot, the fear he thought he knew, the fear he thought he tasted, paled against a wild and mindless terror.
He threw himself against the door, shouting for Cilla as he heard Spock’s manic barks. Someone screamed like an animal. He flew into the kitchen. It flashed in front of him, etched itself forever in his memory.
Cilla sprawled over Cathy, fists flailing as if they were almost too heavy to lift. Cathy with blood running down her face, her eyes mad with pain and hate as Spock snapped and growled. The gun in her hand. Turning, turning toward Cilla.
He leaped, grabbing Cathy’s wrist with one hand, shoving Cilla clear with the other. He felt something, a quick bee sting at his biceps, before he wrenched the gun from Cathy’s hand.
“Ford! Thank God!” Cathy reached for him. “She went crazy. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what she’s on. She had the gun, and I tried—”
“Shut up,” he said coldly, clearly. “If you move, I swear to God, for the first time in my life, I’ll hit a woman. Spock, knock it off! And I’ll make it count,” he told Cathy. “So shut the fuck up.” He aimed the gun at her as he edged toward Cilla. “Or I may do worse than knock you out. Cilla. Cilla.”
He checked for wounds, then lifted her eyelid as Spock bathed her face frantically with his tongue. “Wake up!” He slapped her, lightly at first. “Move one more inch,” he warned Cathy in a voice he barely recognized himself. “Just one more. Cilla!” He slapped her again, harder, and watched her lids flutter. “Sit up. Wake up.” One-handed, he pulled her up to sit. “I’m calling for an ambulance, and the cops. You’re all right. Do you hear me?”