by Mira Gibson
Tucking the driver’s license into her pocket as soon as she’d found it, she returned the purse to its home. She felt indecisive about choosing a coat, but went with a tailored trench. After cinching the belt, she hung her own coat in the closet and made her way out of the house.
It wasn’t until she was driving along Newman that a punch of anxiety hit her chest.
Benjamin wasn’t Tucker’s real father.
What if Rose and Benjamin’s murders hadn’t stemmed from Roberta’s affair with her brother-in-law? What if the girls hadn’t killed them?
What if this was all about Tucker? Had the killer taken Rose and Benjamin’s life in order to get his hands on the boy?
Was Tucker’s real father behind this?
And were Roberta King and Mary Cole in fact innocent?
Speare Memorial Hospital was a two-story brick structure and as Holly passed through the sliding glass entrance, she considered how she might go about this. Would she need the maternity ward or would the front desk be able to supply the test results? Should she have searched for Rose’s insurance card? Was it even required in a situation like this?
Daunted, she placed Rose’s driver’s license on the counter and told the receptionist, “I’m interested in medical records. They could be in my husband’s medical history or perhaps my son’s, Tucker Wythe.”
After eyeing Rose’s ID, the woman behind the counter began typing. “Let’s see.”
Nervously, Holly explained, “There should be a paternity test.”
“It might take a minute to pull it up,” she said, her eyes glued to the monitor. “If you’d like to have a seat?”
Though she felt too anxious to sit, she couldn’t afford to seem difficult—considering the receptionist clearly wasn’t keeping up with the news, she would’ve known she was speaking to a dead woman otherwise, Holly didn’t want to press her luck by hovering—she found an empty chair in-between a mother who was tending to her coughing child and an elderly man with a patch of psoriasis on his cheek.
Restlessly, she fidgeted with the heart pendant around her neck, flicking her thumbnail over the opal.
Behind the counter, a printer began whooshing out sheets of paper and Holly rushed over.
“It looks like we ran two tests,” said the receptionist, doling out the first report. Holly scanned it, immediately catching the name Benjamin Wythe and the word negative. “That one shows Mr. Wythe is not the father, and this one,” she said, placing the second report on the counter for Holly to read, “you ordered yourself.”
Holly stiffened. The receptionist was staring at her suspiciously. “Yes,” she said, playing along. “But I didn’t have a chance to swing by for the results.” Skimming the report, she asked, “Why can’t I find the father's name?”
“Because you didn’t provide a name,” she explained, her finger tapping a line on the report, mid-way down the sheet. “You provided a hair sample, which we confirmed belongs to Tucker’s biological father.”
Frustrated—if it had listed the father, then she would have a solid lead to bring to Cody, get him on the right track and off of Lucas’s back, not to mention quell her own doubts—she turned from the counter, the reports in one hand, the pendant clutched in the other, the receptionist bristling at Holly’s lack of manners, You’re welcome! and crossed through the lobby.
When she climbed in behind the steering wheel, she reviewed the dates on each test more carefully. Benjamin had discovered the truth three weeks ago, but the test Rose had ordered was dated two years back.
She was so fucking close, she could feel it, but she had nothing, and because of it she wanted to scream and kick and tear her hair out.
Holly slammed her palms against the steering wheel and, jumping out of her skin, yanked the pendant off, splitting the chain and lacerating the nape of her neck. Clawing at the bezel, her fingernails chipping, blood seeping from her nail-beds, Holly growling, determined to force it open, force Rose’s secret out, Roberta’s implication bending her mind into agonizing angles...
The pendant popped open.
There in her palm, gazing up at her from the shallow pillbox—soft blue eyes, smile broad, the photo capturing a glimmer of pure joy—was Lucas York.
Chapter Sixteen
Standing in the center of the living room, pivoting slowly, and glancing from one familiar object to the next—the cracked leather couch that had come with the apartment; the end table made of warped wood, the lamp on top, its shade dusty; the bookshelves, mostly empty; the kitchen islet that seemed to invade the living area—Lucas tried and failed to ground himself in his surroundings, desperate to reel in the panic that was threatening to split his mind apart.
He had no idea where he had been all day, what he had done, why he was only now coming to his senses and into his right mind, when night had long since fallen.
Tempering his breathing, forcing oxygen into his lungs to ward off the sudden swell of dizziness that was overcoming him, he willed himself to recall something, anything he had done that day. But his mind kept going blank.
He needed to start small, focus on one task he’d probably done today, and find it in his memory.
Did he remember yesterday?
Yes. The explosion, driving Holly to the resort, Cody interrupting them. It was all there.
But today wasn't.
How had he gotten into his apartment? Mentally retracing his steps, he tried to remember fitting his key into the lock, which he definitely would’ve done; he would’ve had to... But he sensed the recollection he was touching upon had been from another day.
He kept searching his memory for it—the metal key scraping into the lock—wracking his brain, warding off white-hot panic that he was losing it. But again, his mind went blank.
Exhaling loudly, he plowed his fingers through his hair and began pacing, as he conjured a different memory, the last thing he truly could remember—waking up in bed that morning.
He had been lying on his side, his cheek pressed to the cool pillow. He had flexed his feet, working his calves into a good stretch.
This felt promising, he thought. He let out a carefully measured breath and sat on the couch, mentally reviewing the shower he’d had that morning, the cup of coffee he’d made, its weak taste. He had opened the apartment door, stepped into the carpeted hallway, then...
His mind went blank.
He tried again. Starting from the beginning, he mentally reviewed getting out of bed, showering, drinking coffee, opening the apartment door, seeing the hallway, then...
Tunnel vision swallowing his sense of sight, his hands and face turning numb, darkness falling all around him. No, not around him, inside of him... until he had vanished.
Lucas bolted off the couch then froze, petrified.
It had never been this bad before.
The blackouts. Losing time.
Zoning out during one menial task at the station.
Slipping away while driving.
A few minutes here.
An hour there.
Never a full day.
But what if he was wrong?
What if today wasn’t a first—ten hours of blackness, his body functioning without him?
He began pacing, his chest breaking out into a cold sweat.
As if the thought of her might have the power to calm him, he turned his racing mind towards Holly.
Yesterday had felt so good, holding hands, talking in her hotel room, exploring their connection that ten years hadn’t changed. But when she had returned to the room after speaking with Cody, a dark intuition took hold.
He had listened to her explain what he’d already known, that Cody believed Lucas had indulged in an affair with Rose Wythe.
Lucas had denied it and Holly had believed him, but deep down he had sensed doubt gnawing at his gut—an affair he’d never had or an affair he hadn’t remembered?
Suddenly, Roberta’s comment echoed through his mind—I thought we went over this last night.
> Inside his parked car, students milling about through the snowy parking lot, he had grabbed her by the collar, his fists balling around the matted fur of her coat. Seething, screaming, What did we go over? What? Tell me? he had slammed her against the door, her head cracking into the car window.
She had looked like a wild animal—her eyes flaring, her mouth snarling, shoving him off, overpowering him despite his rage. His hands had gone strangely numb, trembling, Lucas horrified at himself, at his violence, his lack of control. But the glint in her eye, as he’d breathed heavily in the driver’s seat, had seemed bizarrely empathetic, familiar—why had she acted so familiar with him? Why had he felt she was familiar?
By the time she had climbed out of his car, taking powerful, deliberate steps, he had gotten no answers.
What if Cody was right about him?
Could he have killed Rose Wythe, driven to the resort and murdered Benjamin? Why would he do something like that?
Why?
He plummeted onto the couch, rejecting the idea, but soon the fact that he couldn’t remember where he had been the night of the 12th consumed him.
He had gotten the call from dispatch that night, but he hadn’t been home, though being home was the lie he told Cody. He’d been in his car, flying along... some darkened road? Where had he been?
Struggling to see it in his mind, he began pacing the living room, the snowy road unfolding in his memory. He had been managing the phone call, navigating the slick terrain, his partner’s directives barely registering, as he hooked right at an intersection.
He’d noted the street signs.
Forbes Road and Keewaydin.
Lucas grimaced at the revelation. He’d been driving along Forbes away from Newman Road where Rose Wythe had lain dead and trapped under the ice. Forbes would’ve brought him to Keewaydin, to the resort.
Pinching his eyes shut, he ran his hands down his face.
He could remember every detail of investigating the crime scene—standing on the ice, watching the diver bob in the dark water, discovering Holly Danes on the couch inside the house.
He told himself the fact that he could remember working the crime scene was a good sign and barreled into the kitchen where he slapped a cabinet open, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass from the shelf, and poured himself a stiff drink. But as he brought the glass to his mouth—alcohol stinging his nostrils—he realized his hand was shaking.
Where the hell had he gone after Cody had released him from the crime scene?
The team had planned on going to Shenanigan’s, the only bar open until four in the morning, but Lucas had no memory of having gone there. He’d called Roger, the M.E. from the foyer of the house to order a ten panel on Rose Wythe. He’d humored Cody, following his partner’s orders for another half hour—going through the office, stealing the Joint Will—before he’d been released. He could recall walking out to his vehicle, driving off, then nothing. Nothing whatsoever until the following morning when he’d woken up in his boots and coat, lying on top of the covers.
He shot the whiskey back, refilled the glass, and carried both into the living room where he sank onto the couch.
After swigging half the glass and praying the alcohol would soon flood his bloodstream and smooth out the jagged edges of his tortured thoughts, he began emptying his pockets—jacket, jeans—letting crumpled receipts flutter to the coffee table. He tossed his wallet down and raced into the kitchen where he pulled open drawer after drawer, grabbing receipts by the fistful, which he shoved on the counter.
Methodically, he worked his way through the apartment, collecting receipts—the evidence of his whereabouts at any given time—and when he was satisfied he had left no stone unturned, he returned to the couch and began flattening each one—gas stations, fast food joints, supermarkets, and drug stores.
Overwhelmed, he read the first receipt, studying it closely.
It was dated three weeks ago, time stamped just after eight in the evening. Exxon Mobil—a gas station—and the address was in Center Harbor.
He moved onto the next one, another benign purchase in Center Harbor.
Pulling a receipt from the bottom of the stack, he noted the date—October of last year. Another Center Harbor gas station.
But it shouldn’t have been, not when he had been living in Plymouth.
Frantically, he checked five more receipts; all dated prior to his transfer, all detailing Center Harbor addresses.
Without warning, an image of Holly in red lingerie flashed through his mind. Before he could place where the memory had come from—she hadn’t worn red in the motel room ten years ago—it was quickly replaced with another...
Wearing nothing but two strips of black lace, Holly held his hand, guiding him down a hallway and into a private room, red walls, a heart-shaped bed, something trashy about the establishment, yet the emotions in his heart were real.
But it wasn’t Holly.
Her hair was different—shoulder length and carefully styled—he realized, straining to see her in his mind.
It was Rose.
And it had been real.
Rattled, he drew his GLOCK from his holster. His hands were trembling badly as he dislodged the clip, catching the magazine in his palm. Though he was afraid to look at it, terrified at the thought of discovering his police issued .48 caliber weapon might have two bullets missing, he forced himself to check anyway, but what he found only confused him.
The magazine was empty.
Coming undone, he stalked through the apartment, scanning for signs of Tucker. The four-year old was a critical piece of the puzzle after all. Whoever had killed Rose and Benjamin had taken the child. He shuddered recalling how Holly had looked standing in the snow, watching flames devour the garage—the explosion another critical piece to the war against the Wythes. Had he set off the bomb?
Why had he been so close to the house?
He couldn’t remember.
Lucas thought he might be sick. Bile stung the back of his throat, but he swallowed hard, tearing his bedroom apart, searching desperately for evidence that he hoped like hell he wouldn’t find, all the while flashes of Rose mentally assaulted him, filling his head with the dark possibility that his parents weren’t the only ones he had killed.
Wrestling the mattress off the box spring, he rid the image of Rose—nude, legs spread, smiling in aroused anticipation of him lowering down, pressing into her—from his mind.
He lifted the box spring, angling it against the wall, but the floor beneath was bare.
How could he have possibly gotten involved with Rose when the woman he wanted, the woman he had been obsessed with for years was her twin?
Or was the answer hiding in the very question? Had he been so torn up about losing Holly that he’d chased a cheap imitation?
You found me, she had said, welcoming him into Diamonds, entwining her arm around his, and leading him to the bar. Lucas, stunned yet grinning, hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.
Holly? He had asked, drinking in the sight of her, disbelief commingling with a burning desire to hold her and never let her go.
The woman had pretended she was the love of his life, as they talked at the bar. She had known things about their long-ago night together. She had proved she was Holly...
And then she had laughed.
Her admission came through a cool smile. No, I’m not Holly...
No, I’m not Holly...
Like a slap across his face, No, I’m not Holly...
And Lucas’s heart had bottomed out with soul-crushing disappointment, as a dark fog clouded his mind.
I recognized you from the paper, those murders you solved in Plymouth. Holly’s my sister, my twin actually and she offhandedly mentioned your night together when I showed her the article.
But Lucas could barely hear her, his mind rejecting Rose, rejecting that she wasn’t Holly. Darkness had swallowed him, trapping him in a black hole—to preserve the fantasy, the lie, his need to fin
d the woman who had gotten away?
For years.
He had been seeing her for years.
Having slipped into darkness where the fantasy of Holly went on living, he hadn’t heard her offer, Call me Holly if you like.
He had driven to Diamonds to see her, eventually he’d begun meeting her at her house—his mind wrapped around Holly, his body making love to her twin.
Every tryst, every rendezvous, recorded on a receipt—gas stations and liquor stores.
Lucas couldn’t take it.
In desperate need of whiskey, he refilled his glass, his hands trembling, as he wracked his brain for why he had gone to Diamonds in the first place. What had possessed him to set foot in an escort service? Why risk his career as an investigator?
Beads of sweat had formed across his brow so he wiped his forehead dry with his shirtsleeve and swigged the glass back, alcohol sliding down his throat.
He hadn’t risked his career, he suddenly remembered. He had gone to Diamonds on a hunch, unsatisfied that a case he had wrapped up wasn't truly over.
Lucas had been the centrifugal force in taking down a prostitution ring in Plymouth that had functioned under the guise of an escort service. Closing the case had earned him notoriety and a few articles in the local paper since the crime itself had been brutal, two under-aged girls murdered, their bodies dumped in the Pemigewasset River. Though Lucas had locked up the major players, another had walked. There hadn’t been enough evidence against him. And when Lucas had heard the man had opened a new establishment—Diamonds—he had been eager to investigate and bring Ron Conover to justice.
But he never got that far.
Instead, he had continued to see Rose in secret, slipping into a black hole every time, while some part of him relished the fantasy, the flesh and breath of being with Holly Danes.
This was maddening.
He plowed his fingers through his hair, pacing like a caged wolf—riled up, jumping out of his skin, panic rising into full blown horror, an incredible urge to see Holly splitting his mind apart.