WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW
by
Tina Wainscott,
writing as Jaime Rush
(originally published 2004 under
Tina Wainscott, from St. Martin’s Press)
For more information, sneak peeks, and contests, go to www.jaimerush.com and www.tinawainscott.com
Copyright © 2004 Tina Wainscott
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or redistributed. If you would like to share this book, please purchase additional copies for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, please return to your online bookstore of choice and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.
Dedicated to my mom, Christine Ritter and my intrepid critique partner, Marty Ambrose, for never giving up!
My everlasting appreciation goes out to Vicki Hinze for being my literary angel, and to Joan Johnston, Julie Ortolon, Kay Hooper, Lisa Gardner, and Heather Graham for your kindnesses.
And last but not least, this book is dedicated to a writing angel in heaven who fought a valiant battle like a true heroine—Susan MacGillivray.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My gratitude goes out to many people who assisted me in the research aspects of this book. Whether it was just a quick call or a lengthy conversation, that they took time out of their busy schedule to help always touches me. Of course, any errors are due to my misinterpretation of the facts.
Michael Geraghty, Ph.D, who graciously spent lunch answering my many questions.
Joe Agresti for assisting on matters of police procedure.
Sherrilyn Kenyon, who helped me sort out the computer end of gaming.
Brian Housewert of Paradise Computer Repair and Web design for help on updating technology.
PROLOGUE
January 1.
Something wasn’t right. The moment Brian LaPorte walked into his home he sensed it, even as tired as he was from hosting a hotel full of guests for the New Year’s Eve party. He stripped off his tie as he tried to figure out what it was. Dark quiet permeated the house as it always did in the evenings. Shadows clung to the corners and hung in doorways. The scent of pine cleanser hung in the listless air. He looked to the top of the curving staircase to his bedroom. Light crept beneath the door, and he heard a faint tapping sound.
As soon as he opened the door, the person sitting at his computer turned around. The gold and black-feathered mask startled him as much as the person’s presence. The mask ended below the nose and revealed lips painted dark burgundy. Emerald green eyes blinked in surprise through the eye slots, but surprise morphed to a mixture of hurt and determination.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, taking in the black body suit and long, black hair as she stood. A woman. Purple shoes with spiked heels made her look taller than she was.
“Don’t you recognize me, baby?” Her body was thin, muscular, but the suit sculpted small, firm breasts. “It’s Sira.”
A cold chill washed over him. Sira, here. How had she found him? It was a violation of the rules, a breach of trust. “What are you doing in my house? On my computer?”
“You’ve been cheating on me. You used me, and now you want to replace me.”
His anger turned to apprehension. What did she want? She’d gone so far as to track him down and then break into his computer. “You’re not supposed to know who the players are. That’s one of the rules of the game.”
Her smile looked eerie beneath the mask. “I’m playing by half the rules. You still don’t know who I am.”
The playful words prickled at the edge of his senses. “Leave. Now.”
She did leave, only she went gone out the French doors leading to the gallery. There was no exit from there.
He followed her out into the crisp, late December air and grabbed her arm. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”
She pulled free and walked to the end of the gallery where the staircase spiraled to the rooftop deck. Seductively, she slid her fingers along the curving banister. “You’d be violating your own rules. You’d have to tell them where we met…and how you betrayed me.”
He couldn’t tell them the truth, but he had to get rid of her. She climbed the steps to the deck. His fingers gripped the cold metal railing as he followed her. She stood with her arms crossed in front of her, looking as though she wouldn’t leave until she got what she wanted. He’d better find out what that was.
“I’ve watched you up here,” she said, “leaning against this railing. I hoped you were thinking of me.”
She’d been watching him? The thought chilled him even more. “What do you want?” he asked through gritted teeth.
She trailed a finger down his chest. “I want you. I want to be your Queen. I deserve that after all I’ve done for Xanadu.”
Foreboding pressed against his chest. “What have you done?”
“Protected it. Cherished it. Loved it. That’s all I want for myself, to be protected…cherished…loved. I’ve been a part of Xanadu from the beginning. I helped build it. And I am your perfect other half. That woman won’t be a player. She’d never have the guts to do what needs to be done.”
He didn’t like that last phrase. “What needs to be done?”
“Rita Brooks is a shrink! She might tell you we’re all crazy. She might convince you to close us down. She needs to be banished.”
Anger and fear mixed equally. He especially didn’t like that she knew who Rita was. “She’s not playing. She doesn’t even know.”
“Banished, before it’s too late,” Sira said, ignoring him again. “You need a powerful queen. You need me.”
She started to kiss him, but he pushed her back. His anger overrode his fear. “I don’t need you. I don’t want you. You broke the rules.”
“No, I–”
“I’m going to banish you.”
“No!” Fear gripped her features, and she lunged forward and grabbed his sleeve. One of his tie tacks skittered across the deck.
The threat backfired. Her reaction was pure panic, her movements frenzied as they struggled.
“You will never banish me. Never!” she said in jerky breaths.
He needed to overpower her and talk sense into her. She was smaller than he was, and he tried not to fight too hard. He didn’t want to hurt her, only to get rid of her.
That turned out to be another mistake. Her strength surprised him as she hit him on the side of his head. He punched her in the face, but he’d still been holding back. She shoved him so hard he was thrown against the short railing. His head spun from the blow, but even through the floating spots in his vision he could clearly see the look of pure madness in her eyes. He held out his hand as he tried to gain his breath. “Sira…”
She rushed forward and pushed him. His stomach took the brunt of the force. He lost his footing—and went over the railing. As his arms and legs flailed, images from his life flashed before him: the swordfight with his brother, his father’s funeral where he’d said hurtful things he couldn’t take back. But his final thought was of Rita. He had to warn her…
CHAPTER 1
January 2.
Dr. Rita Brooks was thinking about falling in love. Considering it, the way one would consider buying a car or a house; the pros and cons, risks, comfort levels. It had been a long time since she’d let herself entertain such a thought. That the man in question lived 1500 miles away in New Orleans actually made things easier. That they’d never met wasn’t important.
As a side hobby, she scrounged through flea markets and resale shops for things she could sell at on-line auctions. Brian LaPorte had emailed her about a dagger, and
soon they were writing back and forth. They had eased right past easy camaraderie and flirting and moved to a deeper relationship.
She ran through the cold rain to her car, her Chinese take out in a brown paper bag. For a second, the air froze in her throat. A shadow shifted behind her car. She blinked, and it was gone. She glanced in the back seat, just to make sure, before sliding into her Volvo. She locked the doors, turned the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot. A car two spots away did the same and fell into place behind her. That was probably the shadow she’d seen; someone else getting into their car.
Heat slowly emerged from the vents. Her cheeks stung from the cold, and she aimed one of the vents at her face. The dark, blotchy sky dumped down slushy rain that glowed in the street lights. The Montreal Express was in full tilt, the northern wind crushing Boston in its winter grip.
She’d been putting off Brian’s request for a photo exchange with excuses about finding the right picture. Truthfully, she had this fantasy of him based on the poetic way he spoke and didn’t want to spoil it. It was time, though. She’d gone through the photos on her computer, most sent to her from friends, and found a decent shot where her light blue eyes weren’t washed out or devil-red and her wavy hair wasn’t a brown cloud. Tonight she’d surprise him and email it.
The next step would be face to face. What harm could come from that? A safe, public meeting of course, in case she’d misjudged him. But she doubted it. She was trained in judging people after all. They’d take it slow, and maybe, just maybe, this would go somewhere. Her heart spun with possibilities.
She couldn’t help but remember how her last burgeoning relationship had ended a year ago, with her running out of his apartment, and Bill calling after her. Rita, what’s wrong with you?
The car that had followed her out of the parking lot was still behind her as she navigated the icy highway. Right behind her. Its headlights blinded her in the rearview mirror. She pushed down on the gas but lifted her foot again. “I’m not going any faster, jerk. You want to kill yourself on these roads, go around me.”
The car did start to pass her. She glanced over, expecting to see it full of teenagers. Her heart jumped at the sight of an inhuman face. Before she could make any sense of it, the car slammed into her.
The wheel pulled out of her hands. She grabbed it as her car swerved toward a concrete barrier. She had no time to scream or pray. Only to realize that in her haste, she hadn’t put on her seat belt.
January 6.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
First the words resounded through her mind in her mother’s voice, a rail-thin woman glaring at the sloppy job a nine-year-old Rita had done making macaroni and cheese.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
Then it was her father Charlie’s voice chastising her for daring to intrude into his sacred office to bother him over a broken finger.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
Bill’s voice now, as she made the passage from one place to another, all in the dark recesses of her mind. When the voices and sounds from the outside world faded, when her friend Marty’s voice wasn’t commanding her to “Wake up from that damned coma! You know how I hate hospitals!” When Rita didn’t feel the prick of a needle or anything else to remind her she was still alive, that’s when she made the journey.
At first she felt herself swimming beneath the sea, the surface becoming a muted reflection of the life that went on around her. Everything was dark and liquid, and she became fluid with it as she tried to swim free. The thickening liquid held her arms and legs immobile. She imagined herself a piece of fruit suspended in a dark blue ring of Jell-O.
That’s when the voices would come, snatches of words and memories. She didn’t know what was real anymore. Was she a little girl again, wishing her mother would come home from the bar she tended…dreading it at the same time? Was she a teenager, wearing an outlandish outfit in hopes that her father might notice her? It seemed odd that she should see the scenes, hear the words, and not feel the pain. Maybe this was the place between life and the hereafter, where one came to terms with their grief, shortcomings, and fears.
She never had enough time to contemplate it thoroughly, for soon she would pass into the gray place. It seemed to go on forever, shimmering waves of gray. When she’d first come, she thought it must be where your sins were called up, where you watched every mean, selfish thing you ever did and begged for forgiveness.
There were others in this place. No one spoke or smiled or even looked at her. The gauzy texture of the air made it hard to make eye contact. This was where she went when no one pulled her back to reality. The strangest part, she thought, was that it didn’t seem strange at all. She and everyone else were supposed to be there, together, yet locked in their own worlds. A sense of waiting permeated her whenever she came here. Waiting to go back; waiting to go on.
On this journey into the gray, she felt a throbbing pain in her head, an overwhelming fatigue in a body she had not felt at all for so long. She wasn’t supposed to feel pain here in the gray place. It had followed her, as did some of the other sounds from the world: blips and humming noises, voices. The others seemed gauzier than usual.
Except for the man. He moved through the people, his journey purposeful somehow when everyone else moved lethargically. He came to a stop in front of her. He was handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes filled with urgency and clarity. His presence infused her with warmth. Had he come to lead her onward?
She wasn’t afraid. But when he reached for her, set his hands on her shoulders, violence shattered the peace. A barrage of images flashed through her mind, so fast she couldn’t hold onto any of them. She could feel them, though, shock and pain and fear, especially fear at the end. Then she was falling, her arms flailing, a scream caught in her throat. A scream that was her name. Before she hit the ground, she felt a gust of air rush through her body.
When she came to, she hardly had a chance to register shock that she’d been in a coma for four days. And that her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in three years, had played doting mom for the first time in Rita’s life. She could hardly register the humility of being an inconvenience to everyone. She could vaguely remember the place of bad memories. There was something else, too. Something important, but she couldn’t quite remember.
“How are you doin’, honey?”
Angela Brooks stood beside Rita’s bed two days later, wringing the black knit hat with the Jersey Devils emblem on it like a washcloth. None of the hospital staff saw Rita’s mother sitting vigil as the anomaly it was. Angela had only been a mother for Rita’s first ten years of life, and barely that.
“I’m okay, Angela. Tired, achy. But okay.” Rita’s attention kept drawing back to the green Jell-O on the plate in front of her.
Angela’s face pinched, deepening her wrinkles. “You don’t have to call me by my name. I know your dad made you call him Charlie, the bonehead, but I’m your mama.”
Mama. The word wanted to roll out, but Rita held it in.
Angela awkwardly took Rita’s hand, overly cautious of the IV still imbedded in her wrist. That motion seemed as odd as the woman’s presence, but Rita didn’t pull away. Instead, she studied the thin, wiry woman who looked so much older than her fifty years.
“You know what they call this place?” Angela asked conspiratorially. “Massive Genital. That’s what they told me down at the diner by my motel. That doesn’t sound too reassuring, a big private part. Maybe we should move you somewhere else.”
“It’s just a joke. Mass General is a good hospital.”
“If you’re sure. How’s your doctor? He okay? I can get you another one.”
“I’m fine, really.”
Angela looked around, as though searching for something else she could find at fault and fix to prove her good intentions. When she could find nothing, she went back to mangling her hat. “Honey, I know I wasn’t the best mother.” She laughed harshly. “Or even a good mother. Lord knows I
made mistakes. Let me be your mama now. Let me take care of you, cook for you, make sure you’re okay. They said you have to take it real easy after you’re released.”
Rita ignored the way something inside her ached. “No.” As Angela’s hopeful—desperately hopeful–face crumpled, Rita felt obliged to add, “I don’t need help. I couldn’t…” Her words drifted off, because she couldn’t say them. The truth was, she thought she’d worked through her mother issues during her psychology training in college. That’s why she’d found Angela five years ago. But she was having trouble connecting to her, and a part of Rita couldn’t bear getting used to having her around before she left again. She’d lost her mother once, when the social worker had taken Rita away to live with her father, and again when she realized Angela wasn’t even trying to get her back. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.” She’d once believed that if she didn’t bother her mother, or Charlie, or his mother, Maura, that maybe they’d love her. Needs, wants, boo-boos and colds all fell under that category, so she’d learned to handle them herself. “I’ve been on my own for a long time now. I’ve taken care of myself—”
“I know, since you was a little girl. I dumped a lot on you.” Angela looked away in shame. “At least Charlie gave you food, clothes, a home.”
Rita swallowed the truth. “I had what I needed.” The essentials, but never a home.
“You had to know I was only thinking of your welfare when I let them take you. Even with child support, I just couldn’t make it.”
Rita swallowed back more words, wondering how long she could do that before they all exploded out of her. She and Angela had been here before, when Angela had apologized a thousand times for the neglect and bouts of rage that consumed her when the burden of merely surviving became too much to bear.
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