by Stacia Kane
“What difference does it make?”
“For fuck’s sake, Megan. You saw her, didn’t you? She showed up while you were broadcasting your presence to every sensitive in a ten-mile radius, right?”
“So what if she did?”
“Are you serious?”
“We got away, we’re fine, I don’t see why you’re so mad at me!” She glanced to her right. Brian was making every pretence of reading her battered copy of The Caine Mutiny, but the speed with which Malleus and Roc looked away told her they’d been hanging on her every word.
Now she looked like some dumb little girl in front of them. “You don’t own me, Greyson,” she snapped. “It’s not up to you what I do or don’t do.”
Pause. “Fine. Do whatever you like.”
“I will!”
“Good.”
“Good!”
This was what her anger and embarrassment had reduced her to. The kind of fights thirteen-year-olds had.
“Just do me a favor, send Malleus home if you’ve decided to commit messy suicide. He’s rather valuable to me.”
“And I’m—you know what? Fine.”
She slammed the phone shut and tossed it back to Malleus. Her entire body shook.
So that was that. He’d yelled at her, she’d yelled at him, and now she’d actually hung up on him. She waited—along with everyone else in the room—for the phone to start ringing again.
It didn’t.
Brian cleared his throat. “It’s getting kind of late, Megan, I should probably call Julie and see if she’ll pick me up. I’m too buzzed to drive.”
She nodded. “Sure, go ahead.”
Malleus, of course, wouldn’t be leaving unless ordered to, and Roc—Roc was enjoying her pain too much. Little demon bastard. Maybe later she’d stub her toe as dessert for him.
So Ktana Leyak was their mother? She could have them, then. Megan would be well out of it all. She could sever the connection, if that was possible—which it must be—and be done with the whole damned thing, and who cared what happened next?
She could build a new practice, out of her house. Lots of counselors did that. Or she could find a little office somewhere, closer to home, where she didn’t have to worry about partners. She could put her rates on a sliding scale, like she’d wanted to before. She could—
Brian had just touched the phone when it rang. Megan watched as he started to pick it up, then glanced at her, realizing what he’d done. She shrugged. Might as well get it over with.
If it was over with. He’d called her back; maybe now they’d both calmed down, they could talk like reasonable adults again, and she’d apologize, and he’d hint at an apology, and all would be well, she thought. They’d never really had a fight before.
“Hello?”
“Megan?”
She knew that voice. She couldn’t quite place it, but she knew it, and for a second the world seemed to twist before it fell back into place.
“Mother?”
“Megan, it’s your mother,” the voice continued, as if Megan hadn’t spoken. So yes, definitely her mother. “There’s been a—there’s been…” She cleared her throat. “Megan, you need to come home. Your father’s died.”
Chapter 9
Hostile shadows hid in the corners of buildings and under trees as Megan drove through what the residents of Grant Falls referred to as “downtown.” Or at least used to refer to as. She hadn’t been here in a dozen years.
The heater in her car was turned up full blast but she still shivered. A funeral and the reading of a will and The Lawyer Says You Have to Be There.
Not “Honey, you should come home and say good-bye.” Not “Sweetheart, maybe it’s time we got back in touch.” No. “The lawyer says you need to be there for the reading of the will. Just a formality, of course.” Which meant she wasn’t inheriting anything, not that she cared.
Megan had left her suitcase back at the dubiously named Bev’s Holiday Hideaway on the outskirts of town—although who would ever holiday in Grant Falls she had no idea—and, grabbing a cup of coffee from the McDonald’s next door, started making her way home.
To her parents’ home, anyway.
Hardly anyone was out on the windswept streets, but Megan still felt eyes on her. She’d left Grant Falls to go to college and never returned. Now it seemed the time away had been just a short vacation, that the town had sat here waiting for her with the patience of a predator at a watering hole.
Her hands slipped on the wheel a little as she made the left turn that would take her to her old home. It was a longer route, but it would allow her to avoid passing the hospital where she’d spent several months of her fifteenth year. She never wanted to see that building again.
Not that she remembered most of it. She’d been possessed by the Accuser at the time, and had blocked the entire experience out of her memory until she’d been forced to confront it all in order to defeat him for good.
A child ran out into the street in front of her. Megan slammed on the brakes. Her coffee spilled all over her jeans.
“Damn it! Ow!” She set the cup down on the seat next to her, wishing for once she was as finicky as Tera, who always accepted napkins no matter where she was.
Megan glared at the child, a boy of about eight, totally anonymous in his red coat and cap. He stuck out his tongue. Brat.
“Michael!” Oh great. The last thing Megan needed now was the kid’s mother. She hadn’t even come close to hitting him, for fuck’s sake, but something about the look of the heavyset woman scurrying toward her and the smug expression on the boy’s face told her that wouldn’t matter.
She was right. The woman marched over and raised an imperious fist to start tapping on the window. Megan took a grim pleasure in rolling it down before she could.
“You need to watch where you’re going! You almost hit my son!”
“Perhaps your son should watch where he’s going,” Megan said pleasantly. “Instead of just darting out into the street.”
“How dare you! You—Megan Chase!”
Oh, shit. Just as recognition hit the plump, high-blooded face of the woman, it hit Megan. Cassie Bryant, from Megan’s gym class senior year.
There was no point recalling the specifics of Cassie’s cruelty toward Megan. She hadn’t been unique in it.
“Yes. Hi, Cassie.” Megan forced a smile. “Look, if your son is okay, I’m just going to—”
“He’s fine,” Cassie said dismissively. She hadn’t even glanced at her son since her beady eyes had fixed on Megan. “What are you doing back in town? It’s so good to see you! We heard about you, you know, on the radio and everything…”
Ah, so that explained it. “Right. Yes. I really should be—”
“You know, we should go out one night! For a drink. I remember where you live, I could come over and get you.”
“I’m…well, my father died, so I don’t really think—”
“Oh no!” Cassie’s hands, heavy with cheap gold, clasped over her mouth. “Oh, Megan, I sure am sorry to hear that. When is the funeral?”
“Wednesday. I’m sorry, Cassie, but I really have to go.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll tell you what. I’ll call you later, over at your parents’—your mom’s—house, okay? I think you need a night out with the girls to cheer you up. I’m still friends with all of them, you know, me and Amy and Jen, we all still live in town. We could all go out? Sound good?”
It sounded as appealing as an appendectomy with no anesthetic. “If I have time, sure. Sounds fun.”
She gave Michael, sulking by the side of the road, a half smile and drove away. Great. The last thing she wanted or needed was for her meager fame outside the town to haunt her even more than her infamy inside it already did.
“Megan.” Her mother stood in the doorway, her blonde hair tucked into a smooth chignon, her black dress gliding over a figure still slim. No late-life weight gain for Diane Chase. For a minute time seemed to shift. Megan was acutely aware of the splotc
h of cold coffee staining her jeans.
“Come in.”
No hugs, no watery smiles. Megan hadn’t really expected them.
“I see you’re alone.”
“Yes.” What did the woman expect, that Megan would be bringing a dozen friends? Of course she was alone.
At least until tomorrow. Brian and Tera were driving out together in the morning to attend the funeral with her.
Greyson…didn’t know. She hadn’t called him back. Her pride hadn’t allowed it. They’d had a fight, maybe a stupid fight, maybe not—as her temper cooled she’d started to see his anger as the more logical of the two, which didn’t excuse it—but she wasn’t going to emotionally blackmail him into cutting his trip short to be with her. If he even could. Or would.
It wasn’t like she was heartbroken. Saddened, sure. But her father had never been much more than a cipher to her, and they hadn’t spoken since she’d left for college.
She could get through this alone. She didn’t need a crutch. No matter how much she wanted hi—it.
“Take your shoes off, please. The carpet.”
Megan blinked. Her mother nodded toward a rack by the door. “Shoes off, Megan.”
For a minute she thought about running. Turning around, leaving the house, picking up her bag, and just going home.
Instead she just bent and unzipped her boots, placing them neatly on the rack.
“I’ve made coffee,” Diane said. She still had not touched Megan or looked her directly in the eyes. “In the kitchen.”
They trooped past a living room almost unchanged since the day Megan left for what she thought would be the last time. The furniture sitting placidly in the overheated air looked new, but was the same style and color it had been before. The family portraits still hung in the same places on the walls, although Megan noticed the ones with her in them had been moved farther down and some were missing altogether. No surprise there.
“Why am I here, Mother?”
“Sit down.”
Megan glanced at the chairs. Their hard wooden seats and straight backs promised physical discomfort as well as the mental unease of being here to begin with. Why were they even in here? They’d never had meals in the kitchen or even coffee. The kitchen was for unacceptable guests, for contractors giving estimates or—
Answered her own question there, hadn’t she?
She sat. And waited. If there was one thing she was good at, it was waiting for the other person to speak first.
Her mother placed a cup in front of her, along with a little china boat of cream and a matching bowl of sugar cubes. Megan shook her head.
The coffee, damn it, was delicious. Diane always had been a good cook; it was one of the few things aside from her looks Megan had inherited.
“Apparently your father made a new will a few weeks ago,” Diane said, shifting in her seat. “He—”
“How did he die?”
“Don’t interrupt me, please. Our attorney has the new will and he informed me that we all have to be at the reading. That’s why you’re here. Plus I thought perhaps you would like to pay your respects to the man who supported you throughout your childhood. He deserves your quiet and unobtrusive presence.”
“What happens if I don’t go? To the reading of the will, I mean.”
Her mother sniffed and took a dainty sip from her cup. “I didn’t ask. I assumed that when I explained the situation to you, you would of course do the right thing and help your family avoid any inconvenience.”
Megan’s legs tensed, ready to get up and leave. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want anything to do with any of this.
But she stayed. Because if she didn’t this would follow her home. Because she had a good reputation as a psychological counselor and news of a huge rift in her family would shed a bad light on that at a time when her radio show was her only income.
“Fine,” she managed. “How did he die?”
“Heart attack.” Her mother leaned back in her chair and smoothed her skirt. “He’d had several before.”
Megan didn’t bother to ask why no one had called her then, and it didn’t matter anyway because a rattling sound from the living room indicated someone was walking into the house.
Diane’s face lit up. She pushed herself out of her seat and practically floated from the room. “David!”
“Mom! Mom, are you okay?”
Megan turned in her seat and peeked out from around the open doorway of the kitchen to see her older brother, his fair head bent as he embraced their mother, who sobbed theatrically and clung to him.
If she’d thought about it, she would have known he’d be here. Dave was the fair-haired boy in more ways than one.
They entered the kitchen, her mother and brother—her family—and Dave helped their mother into a chair. He glanced up.
“Megan. Oh. Hi.”
“Hi, Dave.”
“I didn’t think—well, wow. It’s nice to see you.”
Her smile felt painted on. “Yeah, you too.”
They all sat in silence for a minute before Megan stood up. “Well, I should go. Um, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Don’t be late. Eleven o’clock, at our church.” The look Diane gave her clearly indicated she thought Megan was planning on showing up drunk halfway through the service.
“Um…our church?”
“United Methodist,” Dave said. Like Megan was supposed to know. “On Oak.”
“Okay, well, I’ll be there. See you tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Dave stood up. She had no idea what he was doing these days, if he was married or had kids or…anything. The last time she’d seen him he was still doing some low-level dealing out of his bedroom.
He took her arm and led her to the door. “Listen…,” he said, while she shoved her feet back into her boots. “There’s going to be a lot of people there tomorrow, you know? A lot of friends of Mom and Dad’s.”
“Yeah?” For the first time since she’d walked in the door, she had the urge to lower her shields. Idle curiosity, really. But the memory of Gerald’s sister’s pain and the reaction it had caused put her off the idea before it even finished crossing her mind. Dave would be upset about their father’s death, and she would feel that, and…no.
“So…” Dave’s blue eyes, so like her own, widened. “So it would be nice if you wouldn’t make a scene, you know? Maybe just keep to the back, out of the way…?”
She stared at him. Once, when they were children, they’d been close. Only three years separated them. Now it felt more like fifty. “Sure, Dave. I’ll try to remember not to pee in front of the altar.”
She was out the door and gone before the puzzled expression left his face.
One day she would learn to stop paying attention to the little voice in her head that told her to lighten up.
She’d listened to it this time, and that’s why she was stuck in a booth at Kelly’s Tap with Cassie, Amy, and Jen, three women who’d had nothing but nasty things to say to her for years and now seemed to think their mutual attendance at the same high school meant they were bonded like Vietnam vets.
Which for Megan wasn’t an entirely inappropriate analogy.
She couldn’t blame just the voice in her head, though. Her craving for a drink and anything to look at other than the bland hotel furnishings had something to do with it as well. So had Rocturnus, who was actually spending the evening at Megan’s mother’s house. There was plenty of misery to go around over there.
And here. Or maybe this wasn’t misery. Maybe it was filth. She’d never been in such a sticky place. A thin film of whitish grime seemed to cling to everything and everyone. Even the music coming from the aged jukebox—a mixture of soft rock and modern country—sounded distorted and fuzzy, like the speakers were clogged with phlegm.
She shifted in her seat and drank her beer, while the ladies discussed memories they shared, which had nothing to do with Megan. Once they’d ascertained she didn’t know any ce
lebrities, wasn’t married, and didn’t have children, they’d completely lost interest in her.
Not surprising.
She shifted in her seat, lifted her bottle again. This was a huge mistake. As she tuned out the chatter of the women at her table she became aware of other conversations, less friendly ones, taking place around her. It hadn’t taken the locals long to figure out who she was. Their suspicion and resentment beat against her skin.
Nine o’clock. The liquor stores would be closed, but there was a gas station not far. She could buy her own beer and sit in her hotel room and drink it. Even being alone with her thoughts—of Gerald, of Greyson, of her family—would be better than feeling the eyes and anger of Grant Falls’s drunks focused on her like a lightning rod.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. Cassie, Amy, and Jen ignored her. So much for catching up.
The sticky floor sucked at her feet as she made her way to the back of the room and the dull illumination of the cracked bathroom sign. There might be a storeroom, another way out, so she didn’t have to walk through the small crowd again.
There wasn’t. She ducked through the ladies’ room door anyway, to gird herself.
In the bathroom mirror she looked sallow, half dead. The flickering bug light above the rust-stained sink did not flatter. Megan thought of the women who came in here to check their lipstick or brush their hair. What did they see when they turned their drunk gazes on themselves? Did the ugliness of their lives reflect back at them?
Silly thought. They saw what they wanted to see.
She turned back and opened the door, keeping her head down. She could probably slip past the girls without them seeing her; hell, they probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone. If she couldn’t gossip with authority about various useless heiresses and the general misery of raising children, they weren’t interested.
Megan clutched the strap of her purse and entered the bar, only to be assaulted by hostile glares. Coming to the bar had been the wrong thing to do. Leaving it, even worse.
Keeping her head down, she tried to push her way through the crowd, but the bodies would not budge.