He took a step closer, careful not to touch her, careful not to alarm her, enjoying the pretty pink flush of excitement in her cheeks and the guilty sparkle in her eye.
“Come be a little bad with me,” he invited. “We could grab a cup of coffee.”
She tapped her well-manicured foot in its expensive sandal. “Oh, I don’t know. Bryce . . .”
“Would be welcome to join us, of course,” Macon said promptly. He observed with satisfaction the disappointed downturn of her lips. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t grudge me buying his lovely wife a cup of coffee. For old times’ sake.”
“We-ell.” Leann smiled at him, confident in her ability to attract. Secure in the knowledge she would never, ever cross the line. “I guess for old times’ sake . . .”
“My car’s right here,” Macon said, and swept her away.
THAT fucking bastard stood her up.
Regan narrowed her eyes at Macon’s middle-aged office assistant. “What do you mean, he isn’t in this morning? I had an appointment.”
The woman consulted her desk calendar. “I see that. I don’t know what could have kept him, but—”
“This really pisses me off.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Poole.” The genuine sympathy in her eyes made everything worse. “I’ll tell him you were unhappy.”
“I’ll tell him myself.” She marched toward the door to his office.
The assistant stood. “You can’t go in there.”
Regan barged through, fully expecting to find Macon behind his desk.
Fuck. He wasn’t there. His assistant wasn’t lying about that, at least.
She appeared in the doorway, her pleasant, round face creased in worried lines. “You’ll have to leave.”
Regan tossed her hair. “Why?”
“This is Mr. Reynolds’s office,” she explained. Like Regan was stupid or something.
“But he’s not using it now, is he?”
The woman pressed her dark red lips together. Regan could have told her a lighter shade would be more flattering to her skin tone, but she wasn’t in a charitable mood. “If you’d like to wait, you can do so in the reception area.”
Regan cocked her head. “With you? You really want me out there with you and all the firm’s other clients, complaining about what an asshole your boss is? And how I can’t wait to replace him with somebody who hasn’t ridden his daddy’s coattails all his life? Maybe somebody who, I don’t know, actually knows how to spell barrister.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I thought so,” Regan said in satisfaction. “I’ll wait in here.”
“It’s very irregular,” the assistant complained.
“So is blowing off a really big client, but that doesn’t seem to bother your stupid boss.”
Her point won, Regan sank into Macon’s large leather desk chair. She was sick of being dismissed. Ignored. Just the way her mother had ignored her, just the way her brother ignored her. Richie hadn’t even returned her call last night.
Tears tightened her throat. Asshole. They were all assholes.
Bereft, bored, and at a loss, she looked for something to occupy the time until Macon showed up. All those big fat law books had to be just for show. The man she had gotten to know was hardly the world’s biggest intellect. He probably stashed dirty magazines in his desk.
The thought cheered her. She opened a bottom drawer to reveal a box of thick, cream-colored stationery. Boring. But under it . . . Her lips curled. He had something hidden there. She tugged on a dark corner. A notebook. She pulled it out.
TANYA DAWLER. MY DIARY. KEEP OUT.
Now, why would he keep some girl’s diary in his desk?
Opening it at random, she began to read.
BAILEY lined her pencils in a row and flipped the yearbook open to the section with the seniors. If she was right—big “if ”—all she had to do to identify the father of Tanya Dawler’s baby was find a good-looking upperclassman with the name or nickname Trip. Which could be anyone with a “III” after his name.
Not that a name alone would be enough to win a conviction or even to reopen the case. But she might turn up an actual person for Steve to interview.
Margaret Allen, Evelyn Armstrong, Dawn Ayers . . .
The girls had big hair and fake pearls and velvet drapes pinned firmly between their shoulder blades by Georgina Stewart of Stewart Photography.
Reflexively, Bailey straightened her spine. Ten years after these pictures were taken she had worn the same pearls, endured the same pins and disparaging comments about her lack of bosom. She had hated it then. It was funny now.
The boys’ photographs were funny, too, with their uncomfortable expressions and tuxedo-style dickies Velcroed around their throats.
Daniel Baldwin, Richard Bland, Jr., Steven Burke . . .
Steve.
Gosh, he looked young. All that hair. She smiled. How did he fit that under a football helmet? He looked out from the page with all the assurance of strength and youth, and her heart broke for him a little because his life hadn’t turned out the way he must have planned. She thought of the experience that had etched lines across his forehead and the loss that carved brackets around his mouth. And yet . . . He was the same. Tougher, maybe. Improved with age. But she recognized his dark, level gaze, his firm lips, the confident set of his shoulders.
He’d left town shortly after graduation, just like her. Just like her, he was back.
But for different reasons. Steve had come home for his daughter. For Gabrielle. Bailey understood and respected his decision. But once their hearts healed, once they’d both made peace with their loss . . . what then? Was Stokesville enough for him and Gabrielle?
Was it enough for her?
She sighed and turned the page. Andrew Carroll, Matthew Clark, Eugene Cotton . . .
She was working her way through the M’s (McDonald, McKinney, Mitchell) when someone knocked on the door.
Bailey raised her head with relief. It was almost ten. Could Steve be back from the prison already?
But when she checked through the peephole, she saw her sister standing there with her weight on one foot and a stricken expression in her eyes.
She jerked the door open. “Leann, what’s wrong? Is it Daddy?”
Macon Reynolds III stepped in from the side, his jacket over his arm and his swathed hand pointed at Leann’s head. “It’s not Daddy. It’s me.” With his free hand, he pushed Leann toward the door. “Get in.”
STEVE whipped his truck to the curb in front of the fire hydrant. No matter how disliked he was in the department, no cop would ticket another cop for a parking violation. Besides, right now he didn’t give a good God damn.
He slammed the door of his truck, trying to quell the panic pounding in his chest. Bailey was fine. He was in time. He had a genuine lead at last, and Macon Reynolds didn’t even realize he was under suspicion.
But an irrational urgency drove him.
A bell suspended above the law office door jangled as he entered.
A pale older woman with a slash of red lipstick looked up at the sound. “Good morning. May I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Steve flashed ID. “I’m here to see Macon Reynolds.”
She glanced over her shoulder nervously. “I’m sorry, he’s not in.”
Steve followed the direction of her gaze to where an office door stood half open. “You don’t mind if I see for myself.”
“Well, really, I—”
He strode inside; stopped in surprise. Regan Poole curled in the big black leather chair behind the desk, her chin propped on one hand, a notebook in her lap.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
She stretched indolently, calling attention to the long line of her legs, the thrust of her breasts. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Steve glanced around the empty office. “Where’s Reynolds?”
“Wow, another good question.”
He leveled a look at her.
Regan flushed
. “I honestly don’t know. Frankly, I don’t care if I never see that bastard again.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Catching up on my reading.” She flashed the notebook at him.
Printed in bold, black letters on the purple cover were the words, TANYA DAWLER. MY DIARY. KEEP OUT.
Steve’s heart hurtled into this throat. Cold sweat broke out under his arms and down his back. “Where did you get that?”
“In his desk. It’s pathetic, really. He knocked her up, and she actually thought he loved her and was going to marry her and make her life all better.” Regan laughed shortly. “I could have told her how that one turns out. What are you doing?”
He ignored her, already punching Bailey’s preset number into the cell phone gripped in his hand.
Pause. Click. Ring.
Come on, sugar, he thought desperately. Pick up.
Ring. Ring.
BAILEY’S cell phone shrilled from her purse. Ring. Ring. Ring.
She knelt at her sister’s feet, tying Leann’s ankles to the chair legs with bras from her own overnight bag. A third bra secured Leann’s hands behind her. Macon’s handkerchief was stuffed in her mouth. Bailey’s fingers fumbled. Her eyes swam with terrified tears. She could barely see the knots she was making. She tied them as loosely as she dared. Given enough time, Leann might be able to work herself free.
Too bad they’d both be dead before then.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Bailey jerked. She turned her head to Macon, sitting on the edge of the mattress. With an effort she focused on his face, ignoring the muzzle of the gun, which stared at her like a third, blank eye. “I should probably answer that.”
Macon sneered. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
Stupid. Sick. Psycho.
Bailey’s heart pounded in her chest. She did her best to answer evenly. “I think you’ve been lucky. But your luck can’t hold out forever. If I don’t answer my phone, someone’s going to guess something’s wrong.” Please, God, let Steve guess something’s wrong.
“Or they’ll think you’re in the shower.” Macon smirked. He stood, looming over them both. Leann shrank. “Where are the tapes?”
Bailey’s mouth dried. “What tapes?”
“Don’t play dumb. Everybody always says what a bright girl you are. I want the interview tapes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will,” he promised. “Of course, by then it may be too late for your sister.”
Leann whimpered.
It was too late anyway. He couldn’t afford to let either of them live now. But maybe Leann hadn’t realized that yet. Bailey hoped not.
She didn’t say anything.
Macon waved the gun. “Over there.”
Bailey scuttled to the dresser on her knees. If she could distract his attention from Leann, maybe they had a chance. If Leann could get her hands free . . . If Bailey could stall him long enough . . . Sooner or later, Steve would come looking for her. She just had to keep them alive until then.
Macon watched her cross the floor, his gun pointed unwaveringly at her head. “That’s good.”
She stopped.
Casually, he reached across his body with his free hand and backhanded Leann across her face, snapping her head against the chair.
Bailey’s cry merged with her sister’s scream, a high, thin sound from behind the gag. Above her distended mouth, Leann’s eyes were wide and terrified, the left one already rapidly swelling shut.
After one horrified look, Bailey fixed her gaze on Macon, willing him to look at her. To focus on her.
“Oh, those tapes,” she said.
He chuckled, smoothing his hair. His hand trembled slightly. His knuckles were red. “Now she remembers,” he mocked.
“I was confused before.” She didn’t have to pretend to produce that quaver in her voice. She would beg, she would cry, she would do whatever it took to stay alive.
Whatever happened, she vowed fiercely, Steve would never have to question her will to fight.
“The interviews aren’t actually on cassette tapes,” she explained. “They’re computer files. Like music downloads,” she added when he frowned.
“I don’t believe you.” He raised his hand again.
Leann cringed.
“Stop! I’ll show you,” Bailey said desperately. Her muscles ached with tension. Her hands shook with fear. “If you’d listen . . . it will only take a minute.”
He considered her thoughtfully. In the silence, her phone trilled again, three short rings before voice mail routed the call. Bailey held her breath.
“This computer?” Macon asked finally.
She exhaled. “The interviews aren’t . . . um . . . actually on the computer. They’re stored on a flash drive in my purse. I’ll just . . .” She reached cautiously for her purse on the floor by the bed.
He kicked her in the side, so swiftly she didn’t see it coming, so hard the pain detonated along her ribs and forced the air from her lungs. White pain. Red light. Her mind went blank.
She lay with her cheek pressed to the carpet and tried to breathe while above her Leann moaned.
Not Leann, Bailey realized gradually. The moans were hers.
“I told you not to answer the phone,” Macon chided.
“No . . . phone,” Bailey gasped. “Just . . . flash drive.”
Every breath stabbed like a knife. Had that bastard broken her ribs?
“You have to ask.” He plucked her cell phone from its pocket and dangled her purse above the floor, smiling at her like a fifth-grade bully spotting his victim across the playground. “Nicely.”
She hated him more than she had hated anyone in her life. Which was good. Hate made her strong.
“Please,” she whispered.
Please don’t let him open my purse.
Please don’t let him look inside.
Please let Steve come soon.
Please.
Macon let the bag drop.
Bailey crawled forward, her sides aching, and dragged her purse to her by its strap. With shaking hands, she pawed through the contents. Tissues, Tic Tacs, condoms, mace . . . Her heart hammered against her ribs. She panted with fear and triumph. Curling her fingers, she withdrew the flash drive and the mace together.
“Got it.”
R ACING toward the motel—lights, no sirens—Steve prayed, as he hadn’t prayed since Teresa was first diagnosed with cancer, negotiating with God.
Please let me get there on time.
Please let Bailey be all right.
Please strike that fucking bastard with lightning.
And finally, breathlessly, hopelessly, just . . . Please.
If Macon was holding Bailey hostage . . . Steve’s heart shuddered.
Fuck the chief ’s notions of jurisdiction. He needed a SWAT team. He’d already broadcast to the dispatcher requesting all available backup. Every cop in radio range, from the Stokesville PD to the county sheriff to the state patrol, knew a crisis situation was brewing at the Pinecrest Motor Lodge.
Bailey had told him he wasn’t responsible for his wife’s choices or her death. But if he lost Bailey, it would be his fault. It would be because he hadn’t been smart enough or quick enough to save her.
He had survived losing Teresa. He wasn’t sure he could survive loving and losing Bailey.
He should have told her.
After all his big talk about living in the moment, he had wasted too many moments with her.
He only prayed he’d get another chance. Please.
TWENTY-TWO
EVERY breath hurt.
Bailey stared at the computer keyboard. Her vision blurred. Her head swam. She pressed her thighs together, squeezing the tiny canister of mace between them. She couldn’t use it. She didn’t dare. Macon wasn’t close enough.
So she would fight him with every other weapon at her disposal. With trembling hands, she depressed a few keys, closed and opened windows
, searching through PLAY and RECORD.
On the other side of the room, Macon moved restlessly, his gun at the ready. “You said this would only take a minute.”
Every minute she delayed was another minute she could live. Another minute for Steve to find them. All we have is the time we’re given, he’d told her. The words took on a terrible significance now.
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