The Heart Has Reasons

by Martine Marchand

“Well, then, I don’t guess we’ll see each other again until the trial.” Two chairs scraped back as both agents got to their feet. Jarvis raised one huge hand to sketch a mocking salute. “So long, and good luck to you. You’re going to need it.” Sengupta tossed him one last derisive smile as the door closed behind them.

  Chase slumped back in his chair. Apprehension twisted his gut into knots, and it felt as if a five-hundred-pound weight were sitting square on his chest. Maybe he should've gone for the plea bargain but, without Kavanaugh here to advise him, he wasn’t about to admit to anything.

  He’d deal with whatever happened. The important thing was that Larissa didn’t spend any more time in jail.

  CHAPTER 32

  Larissa remained in secretion for six days, before monetary concerns forced her back to work. Her eye was still marred by a mottled, greenish-yellow bruise, but at least the swelling was gone and it was now fully open. Lipstick hid the scar on her lip, and the tapestry of bruises covering her body had faded to a sickly mélange of green, brown, and yellow.

  Unwilling to hear any details about the deaths of the three women in California, she’d refrained from watching the news but, according to Brendon, the FBI still had their “person of interest” in custody. She prayed Chase was holding up, and that he knew she’d not identified him.

  She began her first day back with no appointments on the book, intending merely to take the walk-ins. But as word spread of her return, Charleston’s latest celebrity was quickly booked up, not only for that day, for the rest of the week as well.

  When several local camera crews arrived — she and Brendon suspected Sherry had called them — Brendon stationed himself at the front door, refusing to allow them admittance.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t protect her from the customers, all of whom hoped to extract the juicy details regarding what exactly had happened between her and her kidnapper. No one, apparently, believed she’d spent four nights with such a man without him having subjected her to all manner of lechery and depravity. She assured everyone that her kidnapper had not molested her, but politely declined to discuss anything regarding Brian Sparrow. By five o’clock, she was about to drop from both physical and emotional exhaustion.

  As if the day hadn’t been harrowing enough, she arrived home to find that, as promised, Agent Jarvis had returned to Charleston. He and Doctor Harris were idling at the curb in front of her house, and she reluctantly invited them in.

  The two agents had brought an assortment of Chinese take-out. She set three plates on the table and, when she made no effort to serve herself, Agent Jarvis took it upon himself to fill her plate.

  The meal began amicably enough with Jarvis and Harris conversing on everything but the purpose of their visit, as if hoping that, amid all the pleasantries, she might forget the reason for their being there. Jarvis mentioned that he had brought his wife with him to Charleston and, after Doctor Harris had offered several suggestions of places they should visit, Jarvis asked Larissa, “Where would you suggest I take her?

  She shrugged lethargically as she rearranged the food on her plate with chopsticks. “Magnolia Plantation.” Jarvis gazed at her, clearly expecting her to elaborate. Shrugging, she said simply, “I’m sure your wife will like it.”

  Dishing a little more chow fun onto his plate, Harris agreed. “I’ve never been there, but I’m told the gardens are breathtaking.”

  Jarvis paused with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “Ms. Santos, you need to eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “How much weight have you lost?”

  “Who says I’ve lost any?”

  “I do. How much?”

  She blew out an irritated sigh. “Eight pounds.”

  “Eat.”

  “If you’re so worried about my lack of appetite, then maybe you should stop coming around harassing me.”

  Harris stopped eating to regard her solemnly, his colorless eyes grave with concern. “Would you like a prescription for an antidepressant?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “I don’t need them.”

  “Ms. Santos, it’s painfully obvious to me that you’re severely depressed.”

  “To me, as well,” added Jarvis.

  She dropped her chopsticks on the table and blotted her lips on a napkin. “One of my co-workers went on antidepressants. Not only did she gain thirty pounds in three months, the pills made her so apathetic she didn’t even care.”

  “Not all antidepressants cause weight gain.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll pass.”

  Jarvis and Harris cleared the table of plates and empty take-out cartons, and she turned the conversation to the business at hand by asking the question that was always foremost on her mind. “Is Mr. O’Malley still in jail?”

  “You seem quite concerned about his welfare,” Doctor Harris observed.

  “What concerns me is that an innocent man languishes in durance vile.”

  Jarvis appeared to find this statement amusing. “I assure you, O’Malley has nearly all the amenities of home, including cable television. Perhaps you’re concerned he’ll be attacked and injured while incarcerated?”

  “I doubt a man skilled in martial arts would have anything to fear from his fellow inmates.”

  Like a great white suddenly scenting blood in the water, Jarvis was instantly alert. As his unblinking shark’s gaze locked on hers across the cleared table, she knew she’d just made a dreadful mistake. She struggled not to fidget as the tension in the room ratcheted up several notches, until it was almost crackling, the way it does sometimes before a storm. Clearly aware of the sudden change in atmosphere, Doctor Harris remained silent.

  White teeth glimmered as a slow grin spread across Jarvis’ dark face, and his gaze lowered from her eyes to her throat, where she could feel her pulse going at a frantic rate. His chair scraped back as he got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me.” She watched, frozen, as he let himself out her back door. A moment later, she heard his voice, indistinct and muffled by the intervening rear wall of the house.

  To Harris, she said, “I need a glass of water.” Getting a glass from the cabinet, she opened the faucet at the sink, and parted the café curtains above. Jarvis was on his cell phone. Although his movements and facial expressions were quite animated, his voice was too low to make out what he was saying.

  As she studied his profile, he suddenly turned and locked eyes with her through the window glass, his gaze cool and speculative. She jumped and shrieked as, directly behind her, Doctor Harris asked, “Is something wrong?”

  She spun around to scowl at him. “No.” Shutting off the water, she returned to the table and seated herself, steeling her face into what she hoped was a calm, placid expression.

  Dr. Harris rejoined her. “Ms. Santos?”

  “What?”

  “You forgot your water.”

  She glanced down at the empty glass. Well, crap. “I decided I wasn’t thirsty after all.”

  Jarvis returned shortly to regard her with a bright, cheerful, and utterly predatory smile. “How did you know Mr. O’Malley was skilled in the martial arts?”

  “Agent Sengupta said something about it.”

  “I just spoke to her, and she’s quite adamant that she never mentioned that particular fact to you.”

  She shrugged. “Then maybe I just assumed it. If you’ll recall, I’ve been taking martial arts classes. And, remember I told you about Steve, the ex-boyfriend who’s semi-stalking me? He’s a martial arts instructor. He owns his own dojo. That’s where I met him. I was taking karate classes there.” She was talking too fast, and too much, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “From what little I saw of Mr. O’Malley, he’s muscled like a martial artist, and he appears to be a man who can take care of himself. And, besides, in order to single-handedly beat up a whole group of men, wouldn’t he have to have had some martial arts training?”

  “You’re in love with Mr. O�
��Malley, aren’t you?”

  She’d already put her foot in her mouth, so why not just shove the whole freaking leg in after it? “Agent Jarvis, please don’t be such an asshole.”

  This ill-phrased request apparently made him decide to take a more aggressive approach in his questioning. He got to his feet to loom threateningly over her. “I would appreciate not being insulted.”

  “As would I.” She got to her feet as well and squared off with him. Jarvis still towered over her, but not quite so much now that she was standing. “How could I possibly be in love with someone I met only briefly?”

  “We both know you and O’Malley had five days in which to become acquainted. Sit down.”

  She defiantly remained standing. “Don’t tell me what to do in my own home.”

  “If you aren’t in love with O’Malley, then why do you continue to protect him?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I have told you a thousand freaking times I don’t know Mr. O’Malley. Nor am I in love with the man who kidnapped me.”

  When he moved even closer, she forced herself to stand her ground. “Apparently you’re not aware that making a false statement to government agents carries a penalty of five years in prison, a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar fine, or both.”

  Panic grabbed her heart with an icy hand, the chill assiduously working its way to her extremities. Would Jarvis really charge her with a crime? He’d have to prove she was lying and, with only the testimonies of the thugs to go on, that would be difficult. However, if a jury did find Chase guilty, then her only plausible defense would be Stockholm syndrome.

  Her skin felt icy, her lips so cold she could scarcely form the question, “Agent Jarvis, why would I lie to protect the man who delivered me to a serial killer?”

  An ominous smile spread across Jarvis’ dark face. “All along, I’ve assumed your feelings of loyalty stemmed from the fact that O’Malley saved you from the men in the alley. However, last night in our hotel room, my wife made an offhand comment that made me realize something. You didn’t kill Sparrow, did you? O’Malley did.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down her side. “That doesn’t even make sense. If he killed the very man who hired him, he wouldn’t get paid.”

  “He could have killed him after he collected his money. I’ve seen the Photoshopped portrait of you and Sparrow, so it’s clear Sparrow misled him. O’Malley delivered you, collected his money, and left. But something apparently didn’t set quite right with him, so he went back. And when he discovered exactly what Sparrow had in store for you, he killed him.”

  Despite the chill that gripped her, more sweat trickled down her back and ribcage, feeling like phantom spiders crawling on her skin. “Now you’re grasping at straws.”

  When she tried to step around him, his arm shot out, barring her way. “And because he saved you from an unspeakably horrible death, you’re willing to overlook his previous transgressions and protect him from prosecution. Not only that, he somehow managed to talk you into claiming responsibility for Sparrow’s death, knowing full well that, as his intended victim, you’d never be prosecuted.”

  It was all Larissa could do not to shout at him, that wasn’t Chase’s idea, it was mine. When she shoved the blocking arm, it didn’t budge. “And after he killed Sparrow, my kidnapper — who was not Mr. O’Malley — then left me alive to testify to the fact that he’s a murderer as well as a kidnapper?”

  “O’Malley was counting on not getting caught and, had it not been for the incident between him and the men in the alley, he probably wouldn’t have been.” He finally lowered his arm, and she shoved past him. “In any case, I’d like to go back over the events that occurred after your arrival at Ms. Keswick’s estate, up to and including the point where someone shot Sparrow.”

  “We’ve gone over that a hundred times!”

  Jarvis jabbed one huge finger at her. “And we’ll continue going over it until I’m satisfied with your answers. But this time, I want you to tell it to me backwards.”

  She plopped down onto her chair. “Why?”

  From an inner jacket pocket, Jarvis produced his leather-bound notebook. “When lying, it’s nearly impossible to tell the story backwards because there’s no real memory of what happened. Liars rehearse their stories in order, so prove you’re not lying by telling it backwards.”

  She uttered a mental sigh of relief. Thanks to Chase, she could do this. Playing their rehearsals through her mind in reverse order, she said, “I shot Sparrow the second time, to make sure he was really dead. While he was on the floor trying to rise, I shot him the first time. I grabbed the gun after kicking him aside. He dove for the gun after I kicked it out of his hand.” As she continued, Jarvis studied his notebook, his dark eyes only occasionally flicking to hers. She ignored Agent Harris, whose colorless eyes never left her face.

  When she arrived at the point in the story where her kidnapper had delivered her to Sparrow, she stopped and regarded Jarvis with brows raised in silent challenge. Now he’d have to believe her. “Well? Satisfied?”

  He closed his notebook and regarded her with narrowed eyes. “That only proves O’Malley was astute enough to enact the scene with you before departing.”

  “You just can’t accept the fact that I’m telling the truth.”

  “Go change out of your dress and into something comfortable.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re going to demonstrate how you kicked the gun out of Sparrow’s hand.”

  Rolling her eyes, she headed to the bedroom.

  Several minutes later, barefoot and dressed in yoga pants and tee shirt, she returned to the kitchen and preceded Jarvis out the back door.

  While Agent Harris stood in the doorway watching, Jarvis moved to the center of her small backyard and turned to face her. Forming his hand into an imaginary gun, he pointed it at her. “I’m Sparrow. Disarm me.” Without further warning, he lunged toward her.

  As a sudden rush of adrenaline surged, she spun on one foot. The other arced up and around to slam into his outstretched hand, knocking it aside.

  Jarvis massaged his hand. “Not bad. Demonstrate what happened next.”

  She darted glances left and right, hoping no neighbors were watching. “When he dove for the gun, I was right behind him.” She launched herself in the direction the imaginary gun would have flown, stopped abruptly, and drove a heel down into Sparrow’s imaginary head. Grabbing the equally imaginary gun from the ground, she spun around and, aiming at the ground, pulled the imaginary trigger. “Bang!” She took a step forward and pulled the imaginary trigger a second time. “Bang!”

  Jarvis’ expression gave no hint as to his thoughts, but Larissa thought she detected an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “Well?” she demanded.

  “As I said earlier, that only proves O’Malley was astute enough to rehearse the scene with you.”

  “Screw you, Jarvis!” She turned and stalked back inside the house, shouldering Harris aside.

  Once they were all three reseated at the kitchen table, Jarvis remarked casually, as if it were a mere afterthought, “When you struck your abductor in the temple, I’m surprised you didn’t give him a concussion. What’d you hit him with?”

  Picturing the large, mottled bruise, her lips automatically started to form the words, “A rock,” and her stomach lurched as she realized her near slip. “What are you talking about? I never hit him.”

  The sardonic lift to the corners of his mouth was clear evidence he knew she was lying. “Why not? You’re clearly strong, with quick reflexes.”

  She suppressed a smile at the memory of kicking the .45 from Chase’s hand and wrestling with him on the floor. “He never gave me that chance. I was always handcuffed and hobbled.”

  “In any case, I imagine you’d have been hesitant to attack a man a large as O’Malley.”

  “My abductor was nowhere near as big as Mr. O’Malley. Had he ever presented me with the opportunity, I would definite
ly have taken the risk.”

  Although Jarvis’ annoyance was almost palpable, his dark face remained as impassive as always. “I’m arranging for you to take a polygraph.”

  Ah, crap, she’d been expecting this. “I’m not taking a lie detector test.”

  “One would think you’d be anxious to prove your veracity.”

  “You’ll simply claim my kidnapper coached me on how to pass the test, so what would be the point?”

  “Nevertheless, I want you to take it.”

  “No.”

  “I insist.”

  “Insist all you want, Jarvis. I know my rights, and I’m not taking a freaking polygraph!”

  Matters proceeded quickly downhill, with Jarvis aggressively countering everything she said. The unrelenting verbal sparring strained her patience to the breaking point, and their visit eventually ended with her shouting, “Get out!”

  At the front door, he turned to her. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No you won’t. I’m finished talking to you all.”

  “That decision’s not yours to make. We’ll see you when you get home from work.”

  “No, you won’t!”

  “Ms. Santos, you can meet with us willingly, or we can take you downtown. I’m sure you’ve no desire to spend the night in jail.”

  “You wouldn’t dare. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. You have no compunctions about throwing innocent people in jail. What crime will you charge me with?”

  “Obstruction of justice.”

  Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and she forced them open with a conscious effort. Sparrow was dead. If she was willing to exonerate the man Sparrow had conned, why couldn’t they do the same? She was the victim. The choice should be hers. “I haven’t obstructed anything.”

  “You’ve lied to investigating agents.”

  “I have not.”

  “Ms. Santos, I’ve tried to be patient with you but, if you don’t start cooperating, I’ll have you subpoenaed to give testimony under oath in court.”

  “Subpoena me, then. Being under oath won’t change my answers.”