Motive, Means... And Marriage?

by Hilary Byrnes

  When he spoke, his voice was the texture of gravel—deep, rough, raw. “Helen, I—”

  A few feet away the door to the bar burst open. A couple staggered out, and the woman crashed straight into Patrick, knocking him backward.

  Patrick caught the woman as she stumbled and nearly fell. Her companion managed to stay on his feet—barely. He leered at Helen through bloodshot eyes.

  “Hey there, honey,” he said with a blast of alcohol fumes.

  She shot him a look of pure disgust. He was exactly the kind of man she’d grown up with, complete with half-unbuttoned shirt, leather jacket, and greasy hair.

  “Get lost, pal,” she said rudely.

  His face closed with anger, in a look she’d seen a hundred other times on a hundred other drunks. Her chest tightened with a fist of remembered fear. Hastily, she took a step backward, darting a glance over her shoulder at Patrick.

  He was trying to steady the drunken woman, who clung to him, giggling. Her cheap blouse was already soaked from the rain, and her breasts were pressed against his arm. As Helen watched with distaste, the woman tilted back her head. In the faint neon glow of the bar sign, Helen caught a glimpse of her face.

  It was her mother.

  Horror rocketed through Helen’s body. She stood frozen, her feet rooted to the ground. Oh, God, she’d worried about running into her mother, but in her worst nightmares, she’d never imagined this....

  As if from a great distance, she watched as the greasy drunk staggered up to Lana and Patrick. He swore at Patrick, grabbed Lana’s arm, and pulled her away. “C‘mon,” he slurred, putting his hand on the back of her skintight skirt. “Let’s get outta here.”

  “Okay, babe.” Lana wound her arms around his neck. “Whaddever you say.”

  Helen opened her mouth. She tried to say something—anything—but all that came out was a strangled sound.

  It was enough.

  Lana looked up, her eyes bleary with alcohol. Slowly, they focused on Helen. “Baby?” Her forehead wrinkled. “That you?”

  “Yeah, Mom.” Her stomach lurched. “It’s me.”

  Beside her, she felt Patrick stiffen in shock. Felt her deepest unspoken dreams shatter into a million pieces. He would never want her now. Never love her. Not now that he knew the truth about her mother, knew the truth about what she herself could become.

  Lana stumbled over to Helen. She smelled of cheap perfume and whiskey and sex—just like always. “Baby, you gotta len’ me some money.”

  Helen swallowed hard. “Mom,” she said, her voice strangled with emotion, “you know I can’t give you money for drinking. If you need food or clothes, I’ll take you shopping, but—”

  “Iss not for drinkin‘.” Lana jerked her head at the man who swayed on his feet just behind her. “Me an’ Bill, we’re gonna go have somethin’ to eat. Isn’ that right, Bill?”

  “Bob. M‘name’s Bob.” His gaze slid to Helen, and he licked his lips. “Whass your name, honey?”

  Patrick clenched his fists and started forward.

  “Don’t,” Helen said, almost choking on humiliation and misery. “Please.”

  He looked down at her, his eyes glinting. “You sure?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Looking at him, she felt her heart begin to crack. Tears burned in the back of her eyes, and she jerked her gaze away.

  She forced herself to reach out and touch Lana’s arm. “Come on, you’ve had too much to drink. I’ll take you home.”

  “No.” Lana jerked her arm away. “Iss too early to go home.”

  “Please, Mom—”

  “I don’ wanna go home.” Lana looked at Bob, her red mouth curving in a seductive smile. “Not alone.”

  Tears blurred Helen’s eyes. “You could come home with me, stay in my apartment.”

  Lana ignored her. “C‘mon, jus’ give me the money.” Her voice rose. “You’re my daughter. M’own flesh and blood.”

  Anguish tore through Helen’s chest. They were flesh and blood. Family. Lana’s blood ran through her veins. Lana’s eyes looked out at her from the mirror.

  Somehow she knew that if she could save Lana—just this once—she could save herself.

  “I know we’re family.” Tears trembled on her eyelashes and spilled down her cheeks, hot against the icy chill of the rain. “That’s why I want to help you.”

  “Then gimme the money!”

  “I can’t give you money.” Pain clawed at her, and she stretched out her hand. “But come with me. Please.”

  Lana stumbled backward, her face twisted with anger. “You don’ care ’bout me. All you ever cared ‘bout was gettin’ away from your ol’ Ma.”

  “No.” Helen choked. “No, that’s not true.”

  Her stomach chumed with guilt at the lie. She’d always wanted to get away from Lana. From the drinking. From the endless parade of men. From the shame of having a mother who didn’t even know who’d fathered her child.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. That was the real reason she’d always worked so hard, why she’d fought to get ahead in her career. She’d wanted to put as much distance between herself and her mother as possible.

  Sure, she paid her mother’s rent and bought her groceries. But she and Lana both knew why. It was blood money. Practically a bribe. A way to keep Lana happy—and out of her life.

  “Iss true.” Lana’s drunken voice dragged her back to the present. “You never cared ‘bout me, an’ you still don’t.”

  Helen forced her eyes open. “Mom, I—”

  “But that’s jus’ too. damn bad. ‘Cause you’re my li’l girl.” Lana leaned forward, so close that Helen could see the cracked lipstick in the corners of her mouth, smell her hot, boozy breath. “An’ that ain’t never gonna change. Never.”

  More tears spilled onto Helen’s cheeks. Choking back a sob, she tried one more time. “Please—”

  Lana spun on her heel. She lurched over to Bob and wrapped her arms around his waist. “C‘mon. Less go.”

  Together, they staggered off into the night.

  Patrick started after them, but Helen grabbed his jacket. “No. Let them go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Patrick slid his arm around her shoulders, but she twisted away from him, wrapped in utter humiliation and shame.

  He dropped his arm back to his side. “I could take care of the guy she’s with, and you could drive her home.”

  “She wouldn’t go,” Helen said hoarsely. “You heard her.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I’ve been through this with her before. Over and over again.” She took a trembling breath. Patrick had already seen the worst, so there was no point in hiding the truth any longer. “She’s been like this for as long as I remember.”

  “Does your father—”

  “My mother doesn’t even know who he was.” Shame burned in her mouth.

  Patrick reached for her again, but she pushed him away. She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the pity and disgust in his eyes. He was being kind, but she knew what he was really thinking. It was the same thing Joe had thought, the same thing everyone had always thought.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  A sob rose in her throat. It didn’t matter that her blouse was Armani, and her mother’s was dime store. It didn’t matter that her hair was naturally blond, and her mother’s was bleached. It didn’t matter that she drove a BMW, and her mother drove nothing at all. Because no matter how far she ran—how different she seemed—she would always be her mother’s daughter.

  It was a legacy she could never escape.

  Gritting her teeth, she forced back her tears. Her throat felt raw and her eyes stung and burned. But she wouldn’t cry any more, wouldn’t add to her humiliation by breaking down.

  “Come on.” She squared her shoulders. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Patrick cast a look over his shoulder. “Helen—”

  She turned on her heel
and walked away. A moment later she heard his footsteps behind her, felt his presence as he caught up with her. But he said nothing, and she allowed the wordless misery to take her as they walked back through the silent, desolate streets.

  Patrick took the keys from Helen’s hand when they reached her car. She gave them up without a word and slid into the passenger seat, ignoring his helping hand. For a moment he just stood there, and then he closed her door and walked around to the driver’s side.

  The interior of the car was chilly and damp. Patrick started the engine and turned on the heater full-blast. He glanced over at Helen. Her face was set and proud, her hands curled into fists in her lap. He thought he saw the faint sheen of tears in her eyes, but it was too dark to be sure.

  He raised his hand to her cheek, but she flinched away from his touch. Slowly he dropped his hand. “You’re upset. Let me take you back to Moira’s.”

  She didn’t even look at him. “No.”

  “We have to go back there anyway to pick up our bags. I could make you some tea, and—”

  “No.” She uncurled her fingers and squeezed them tight again. “Forget the bags. I want to go back to Evergreen. Now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  With a jerky movement, she slammed her palm down on the dashboard. “Of course I’m sure! For God’s sake, Patrick, my whole career is riding on this. Don’t you think I want to see Carmel caught as soon as possible?”

  “I know you do. And I understand.”

  “Do you?” She twisted around in her seat to look at him, and this time he saw the glitter in her eyes. “Do you really have any idea of what my career means to me?”

  His mind spun back to the words she’d said to him a few days before. “You told me...that it’s all you have. That it’s your whole life.”

  “That’s right. And now that you’ve met my mother, you know why.”

  “Your mother?” He chose his words carefully. “Helen, what does she have to do with your career?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “Everything, Monaghan. Everything.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not following you.”

  “I don’t expect you to. Not with a family like yours. A family where everyone loves each other, where you have sisters and brothers around you, where your parents are people to be proud of....”

  “But you never had any of that,” he said slowly.

  “No.” Her voice was hoarse. “I just had me. Me...and Mom. And she was always drunk. Just like tonight. Drunk, and sleeping with different men. And I swore—” She broke off with a strangled sound.

  He reached for her hand, wanting to comfort her, wanting to ease the misery he heard in the cracking of her voice. “What did you swear?” he asked gently.

  She yanked her hand out of his grasp, and he saw that her face was tight. Tight and hard with determination and pain. “I swore rd never be like her. Never lose control. I swore I’d grow up and have a great career, a great apartment, a perfect life. All the things I never had when I was a kid. Do you understand that, Monaghan?”

  And suddenly...suddenly, he did understand. He understood why Helen’s career was so important to her. Why her apartment was so perfectly elegant, why she loved opera and antiques and designer suits. She must have fought long and hard for those things. Fought to get away from her past, to create a life for herself that was as different from her mother’s as day to night.

  And he’d destroyed it all.

  Guilt sliced through him like a cold, steel blade. No wonder Helen wouldn’t turn to him for comfort. No wonder she cringed away from his touch. Seeing her mother must have reminded her how much she’d lost—and he was the one responsible.

  He had ruined her career. Ruined her life. Ruined everything she’d worked for, everything she’d fought for. And there was no one to blame but himself.

  This time—this time, it really was his fault.

  The old guilt and anger settled in his chest, and he tightened his jaw. There had been a moment, right before Helen’s mother had appeared—a single, crystal moment—when he’d actually thought, actually hoped....

  But there was no point in thinking about it, thinking about his crazy dreams. Not anymore.

  The only thing he should be thinking about now was getting to Evergreen and seeing that Carmel paid for what he’d done.

  Maybe then Helen could get back her career. Maybe then she could put together the shattered shards of her perfect life, the life he’d smashed into a million pieces.

  Patrick looked at Helen’s set profile. “We’ll go back to Evergreen,” he said, his voice humming with intensity. “Tonight. We’ll head out to Carmel’s place and confront him with what we know. He’ll probably confess on the spot.”

  Her only response was a tiny nod.

  His heart pounding, Patrick rammed the car into gear and peeled away from the curb. He roared up to Olive and headed onto the freeway, racing north toward Evergreen.

  By the end of the night, he’d know the truth about the murders. And this time, he wouldn’t fail.

  This time, he wouldn’t let Helen down.

  Patrick covered the seventy miles between Seattle and Evergreen in well under an hour, but the drive seemed to take a century. A century of silence. A century of watching Helen suffer and knowing there was nothing he could do. Nothing—except get to Evergreen as fast as possible.

  In the rainy darkness, he almost missed the exit. At the last moment he saw the sign and wrenched the wheel to the right. The car screeched down the off-ramp. He slammed on the brakes, coming to a halt just beside the stop sign where the ramp ended in an intersection. Glancing over, he saw that Helen was gripping the dashboard so tight her fingers were white.

  He wanted to grab her hands and apologize, to kiss away the fear in her eyes, but he tightened his hands on the steering wheel instead. “Hell,” he said roughly. “I’m sorry.”

  She took a ragged breath and spoke her first words since they’d left Seattle. “It’s okay. I didn’t see the exit, either.” She glanced around. “Does Carmel live out here somewhere?”

  “He lives in Fairview, that new subdivision by the golf course.” Patrick forced himself to step on the gas and get moving before he gave in to the temptation to touch her.

  “Then what are we doing all the way out here? Isn’t this the old highway?”

  “That’s right. Before we go see Carmel, I want to go to the place where Marty was shot and see if I remember anything new. It could give us an advantage when we talk to Carmel.”

  She glanced over at him. “Okay.”

  Patrick swallowed hard. Even in the darkness, the force of her gaze made the blood sing to his head. He could feel her eyes on his face, feel it like a physical touch. Almost instantly, he was hard and aching with need.

  With difficulty, he kept his hands on the steering wheel. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? Wasn’t it enough that he’d already destroyed her life?

  If he was going to fix the mess he’d made, he had to keep his mind on the case and his body under control. He couldn’t get distracted—not by anything. He had to concentrate on trying to remember what had happened out here that night.

  Remembering would give him an edge. And he needed every advantage he could get.

  Frowning, Patrick peered ahead. This stretch of the old highway ran through forest and farmland, and the county had never gotten around to installing streetlights. The few houses were set back from the road, hidden by giant cedars and Douglas firs.

  At night, in the rain, the road was pitch-black, almost eerie in its utter stillness and silence.

  The thin beam of the headlights provided the only light, picking out ramshackle barns, barbed-wire fences, and muddy driveways. The single lane of blacktop, slick with rain, stretched like a satin ribbon into the night.

  Patrick shoved his hand through his hair. The rain. The darkness. The sense of isolation. Just like it had been on Monday night Only then...then, he’d been in the passenger seat, instead
of driving. And he’d been with Marty, rather than Helen.

  He couldn’t remember any more.

  Patrick gripped the steering wheel even tighter. An old barn loomed out of the darkness on the left. He knew he’d seen it before, but he couldn’t remember when.

  His gut twisted with a sick feeling. Instinctively, he knew. They were getting close. Close to the place where it had happened.

  He tried to force his mind back, to remember more, but the elusive images danced away. Questions swirled through his mind. Where had it happened? And what had happened, exactly?

  Why the hell couldn’t he remember?

  The darkness that surrounded them pressed ever closer. In the passenger seat, Helen seemed to feel it, too. She wrapped her arms around herself, her shoulders tense. He wanted to comfort her, wanted to—

  Grimly, he forced his mind back to the case.

  The rain beat down harder than ever, slashing across the windshield in waves. Patrick slowed the car and peered ahead through the sheets of rain. Suddenly he thought he saw a flash of movement up ahead. Was something blocking the road? His head throbbed with a burst of bright, sharp pain.

  Pieces of memory slid across his mind in a kaleidoscope of confusing images. Monday night. Darkness. Rain. Marty driving too fast. A large dark shape, blocking the road. A...brown car. With a man standing beside it. A man he knew.

  But it couldn’t be!

  Patrick slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a halt, tires squealing. He heard Helen gasp, but he didn‘t—couldn’t—stop. Not now.

  He shoved open the door and lunged out into the rain. The road. The road was familiar. Memory thudded through him, growing clearer, stronger.

  The other car was just ahead, parked sideways across the yellow line, blocking the road. Marty slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt. He wrenched open the door and climbed out.

  “Get the hell out of the road!” he shouted “This wasn’t the arrangement!”

  Patrick climbed out of the car. The rain slashed against his face, and he cursed the endless downpour. Dammit, he was sick of the rain. And even more sick of Marty. Just what the hell was going on here, anyway?