by Brenda Novak
So what’d gone wrong? What made Francis turn out as he did? When had Dustin gotten sick?
The sound of a car made Jasmine freeze. She held her breath, waiting to see if that vehicle would stop in front of the house. But it didn’t. The sound dimmed as the car passed by. She peeked through the blinds in time to see brake lights flash as it parked at a different house.
Close call. Breathing a sigh of relief, she decided to get Romain. They were pressing their luck by staying so long—but then she remembered her purse and her camera and wondered if she’d find them here. If so, she’d have more than her gut instinct to tell her that Mrs. Moreau was criminally involved with Phillip or whoever had stolen them. Maybe she’d even be able to verify a link to Pearson Black….
When she didn’t come up with anything on the ground floor, she went upstairs to the first room on the right, which she assumed was Phillip’s. It was far too utilitarian and messy to be Beverly’s—and it smelled like cheap cologne. A single mattress lay on the floor. The bedding was bunched up with his dirty clothes, as if he blithely walked over it all when he wasn’t sleeping.
He used a crate for a nightstand, which held a lamp with no shade and a cheap digital alarm clock. Except for the electricity, it could’ve been the cubbyhole of some homeless person camping out in the corner of an abandoned warehouse.
The closet stood open. Several boxes filled the shelves at the top; three shirts hung from the pole but no pants.
Jasmine pulled down a couple of the boxes and poked through them, but it was easy to tell they hadn’t been opened in years. One contained a bunch of loose pictures, the other leftover fabric and sewing patterns for little girls’ dresses.
Who’d made these? Mrs. Moreau had no girls, but maybe she had nieces. Or maybe the patterns had been given to her by someone else.
After putting back the boxes, Jasmine turned off the light and crossed the hall to an office. It was overloaded with furniture—a desk, a twin bed that held a sleeping cat, a dresser with a mirror and a side table covered with more photographs.
There was only a narrow path for walking. Jasmine used it to get to the desk and went through the papers she found there, encountering insurance forms, prescriptions for medicines she’d never heard of, bills that showed the Moreaus were behind on their utilities and were paying $1400/month for the house.
An old, inexpensive computer sat to one side. Jasmine fired it up and let it work through its booting sequence while she searched the drawers. Pencils, pens, tape, loose postal stamps and an address book. Along with everything else, Jasmine almost passed over the address book, then thought better of it. Shoving it into the waistband of her jeans, she returned to the computer and checked its Internet history.
Someone, probably Phillip, frequented an Internet gaming site. There was also a Web site featuring doctors and other experts giving medical advice. The rest of the Web sites on the list dealt with craft ideas for children—how to make modeling clay, spider cupcakes, princess “glitter” shoes. Was this for Mrs. Moreau’s work?
The voices in the next room remained low. Jasmine couldn’t grasp much, just a few words out of every sentence, but it sounded as if Romain was asking what Francis had been like as a child, if Dustin had known he was dangerous.
Then a car door slammed outside and Jasmine’s skin prickled with heightened anxiety. Someone was home.
Romain must’ve heard it, too. The talking stopped. Only a creak in the hall broke the sudden silence.
He was leaving, getting out.
Good. Jasmine wanted to say something, to let him know she was in the house, too, but she didn’t dare make a sound. He’d see the truck, she told herself. She’d slip out and meet him there.
Forgetting about her search, she reached over to turn off the light, and that was when she saw it.
CHAPTER 19
It was him. The man who’d taken her sister.
Jasmine couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move as she stared at the picture sitting with so many other pictures on Mrs. Moreau’s cluttered side table. Kimberly’s kidnapper was standing next to Mr. Moreau, the same man Jasmine had seen in the family photo downstairs, both of them years younger than they’d be right now and wearing fishing hats. Dark eyes, deceptively benign, stared back at her as Kimberly’s kidnapper smiled for the camera—just as he’d smiled at her that day in their living room. He had a nice smile, chilling in its ability to mislead, and one arm slung around the shorter, stockier Mr. Moreau.
Were they related? Uncle and nephew? Brothers?
Someone entering the house finally galvanized Jasmine into action. Grabbing that photograph, she snapped off the light and pressed herself against the inside wall. But she’d waited too long to get out. The only exits were downstairs in the kitchen and the front door.
Sacks crinkled as whoever it was came through the living room and went into the kitchen.
Opening the office door barely an inch, Jasmine kept her eye on the hall. Could she reach the front door? Slip through it? She had to do something before Phillip or Mrs. Moreau noticed the damage done to the back door and came looking for her….
“Mom?” Dustin called from the next room.
“It’s me.”
Phillip, not Beverly.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Where do you think? At work,” came the reply. “She’ll be home in a few hours.”
“I thought they weren’t going to have any kids over Christmas.”
“Didn’t turn out that way.”
“All the kids were supposed to have a home. What about Santa Claus?”
“There’s no such thing as Santa Claus, Dusty. You know that.”
“But they don’t. Where’d you go?”
“Out.”
“Would you come up here? It’s hard to yell.”
“In a minute. I bought you some of that pie you like. You want it now?”
“Could I get some painkiller first?”
“I gave you a shot before I left.”
“I need more.”
There was a long pause and the answer, when it came, sounded hopeless, as if Phillip was thinking, Please, God, not again. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to wait.”
“Come on, Phil…”
The pleading set Jasmine’s teeth on edge. She couldn’t imagine being in the position of constantly having to deny someone in terrible pain the medication he was begging for. She knew Phillip might be the one who’d locked her in the cellar, but she had to pity him. “We go through this every night, Dusty. You know what Mom said.”
“Help me out, man!”
“Turn on the television. Distract yourself. I’ll bring you your pie.”
Jasmine wondered if Romain had seen the truck. What was his reaction to finding her gone? She had to reach him before he panicked and called the police or came to the door. She wanted to get out without alerting the Moreaus that she had the picture and the address book. The slightest threat could send Kimberly’s kidnapper into a rage against another woman whose only crime was a resemblance to her.
But she couldn’t do anything until Phillip left the downstairs part of the house.
“Dustin?”
Jasmine’s blood curdled at the change in Phillip’s voice.
“What?”
They were yelling over the sound of the television now, which Dustin had turned on as Phillip suggested.
“Was there someone here?”
Jasmine’s heart, already pounding hard, seemed to reverberate all the way to her fingertips.
The television went off, but Dustin didn’t answer.
“Dustin, I asked you a question.”
There was movement in the kitchen, then a loud curse and something fell.
Jasmine covered her mouth to avoid a startled yelp and edged away from where she’d been peeking out of the office as Phillip came charging up the stairs. “Someone broke the back door!” he said, charging into Dustin’s room. “Did you hear anything? See who it was?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“They broke the glass for crying out loud! You must’ve heard something!”
Dustin groaned, as if the pain was too much for him. “Right now, someone could cut off my head and I wouldn’t notice.”
There was a moment of silence, of confusion. “But you’d tell me if you did hear something, right? You’d tell me if someone bothered you.”
No answer.
“Dustin! You could get Mom in a lot of trouble. Do you understand that?”
“Mom needs to be set free. You both do.”
“Stop talking like that. You don’t even know what’s going on.”
“I know it has something to do with me, and I don’t like it. I’m tired of seeing the fatigue in her face, Phil. I’m tired of being a burden.”
Jasmine was dying to hear the rest of the conversation, but she knew Romain wouldn’t wait more than a minute or two before taking some kind of action, which would interrupt what she was hearing, anyway. It’d be better not to give herself away, better to escape with what she already had in her possession. With any luck, the missing address book and photo wouldn’t be noticed for several days.
Stepping into the hall, she tiptoed down the stairs and made her way as quietly as possible to the front door. There was no sound as she opened it, but she nearly ran into Romain, who’d just raised his hand to knock. Making a quick gesture to indicate silence, she noted his expression of relief as she shut the door behind her. Then she grabbed his hand and they both ran for the truck.
* * *
Romain wanted to go back to Portsville and, after their close call in the Moreau house, Jasmine didn’t argue. He liked the idea of putting some distance between them and New Orleans. He knew they needed a safe place to recoup, to sleep. But he had little desire to speak on the ride home. Jasmine seemed eager to figure out what the items she’d taken might mean in relation to her sister’s kidnapping and talked a lot about the possibilities, but all Romain could think about was returning to the truck to find her gone.
Plagued with visions of Phillip pulling her out of the truck and strangling her, then stuffing her body in the trunk of his car, he’d felt just as helpless in that moment as he had when Adele went missing. If Phillip had dragged her off, what could Romain have done about it? Almost nothing. Like Adele, Jasmine would’ve been dead before he could even try to save her. And dead was forever.
Romain had been planning to force his way into the house to search. But if he hadn’t found her, he couldn’t have counted on the police for help. They believed he’d shot Francis. The authorities would be so busy protecting the Moreaus’ civil rights they’d do nothing until there was actual proof of Jasmine’s disappearance, giving Phillip all the time he needed to dispose of her body. And then it’d be too late.
It hadn’t turned out that way. But it could have. And that was enough to remind Romain that he didn’t want to care. About anyone. Least of all a woman who was asking for trouble.
“What’s wrong?” Jasmine finally broke into his thoughts.
Romain wasn’t in the mood for confrontation. Slinging one arm over the steering wheel, he shot her a forbidding look.
“That’s not an answer,” she said.
“What do you think is wrong?” he asked. “You had no business going into that house. You were supposed to wait in the truck.”
“You’re still upset about that?”
That was no small thing. It’d scared the hell out of him. He almost said, “I can’t take care of you if you won’t let me!” And then he realized she didn’t expect him to take care of her. He was the one who wanted to protect her, regardless the loyalty he felt to Pam. “I’m not upset,” he lied.
“Yes, you are. You haven’t said more than two words since we left.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You could tell me what you and Dustin were talking about.”
He knew he should tell her and be done with it, but that moment of sheer panic still rankled. “Or maybe you could tell me why you didn’t stay put.”
She glared at him. “Why do you think?”
“Because you’re reckless? Because, for some strange reason, you can’t appreciate danger and stay the hell away from it? Because you think you’re bulletproof, that it can’t happen to you, only to other people? Well, I’m here to tell you it can happen, damn it! It happened to me, didn’t it?”
He thought she was going to shout back at him. But her chest lifted as if she’d just taken a deep breath, and she reached out to touch his forearm. “I’m fine, okay? I’m right here, alive and well.”
Embarrassed that she’d read through his tirade so easily, he shook her off. “Stop it. You don’t mean anything to me. I don’t care about anyone. Not anymore.”
She turned to stare through the front window, but she didn’t raise her voice. “I scared you, and for that I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, okay? I did it because you scared me first.”
He didn’t want understanding or even explanations. He wanted a target.
Spotting a motel off to one side of the road, Romain slammed on his brakes and pulled into the parking lot.
Jasmine braced herself with a hand on the dashboard and one on her seat belt, but he didn’t bother to apologize. “What are you doing?” she asked, still maddeningly calm. “Where are we going?”
“We’re not going anywhere. I’m leaving you here. I’ll give you the money you need to get out of the mess you’re in, and that’s it. I don’t want anything else to do with you.”
Finally, some real anger sparked in her eyes. “Why? Because I know you care about me, even though you don’t want to? Because I saw the relief on your face when you found me at the door?”
“I’d be relieved to see anyone at that door. Especially anyone stupid enough to go in knowing a man had been murdered there.”
“You went in!”
“I can defend myself!”
“Like the man in the cellar defended himself? What are you going to do against a bullet?”
The tires ground in the gravel as he stopped and shoved the gearshift into Park. He opened his door, but she caught his arm. “Tell me something, Romain. How are you letting your first wife down just because you want to make love to me?”
“I don’t want to make love to you.”
“That’s a lie. You enjoyed our time together. You want more of it. And it’s eating you up. You feel guilty because you can go on living and loving and enjoying life and Pam can’t. But it’s not your fault that she got cancer, and it’s not my fault, either!”
Life was so much easier when he didn’t have anything to lose. He’d made the adjustment, knew how to deal with each day. So why was he getting involved with Jasmine? Caring, without the old assurance he’d possessed that fate would be kind to him, was new territory. And he didn’t want any part of it.
Jerking away from her, he stalked to the office, where the buzzer on the front desk roused a sleepy middle-aged man who rented him a room. When Romain walked back outside, it was drizzling, but he didn’t have to encourage Jasmine to get out of his truck. She was already standing in the rain, hair and clothes damp, suitcase in hand.
Although he tried to take it from her, she refused to let him carry it as they located the room. He unlocked the door but, using her suitcase to block him, she pushed past him and grabbed the key from his hands before slamming the door.
Romain stood there, feeling far too many things to sort them all out. He knew he was being unreasonable. He regretted his actions. But he couldn’t deal with the emotions she brought to life, and if this was the only way to put a stop to them, so be it.
Isolation. That was what he needed. He’d known it when they let him out of prison; he knew it now.
Telling himself it was for the best, he returned to his truck, got in and drove away.
* * *
Wet and miserable, Jasmine sank onto the bed with her suitcase at her feet, blin
king hard against the tears that had started to fall. She told herself Romain didn’t deserve such an emotional reaction, that she barely knew him. But she didn’t have the reserves to deal with the hurt any other way, so she tried to convince herself that she wasn’t crying over him. She was crying because she was exhausted and confused and…lost. Always lost.
Stripping off her wet clothes, she kicked them aside and decided to take a hot shower. She had a picture of the man who’d taken Kimberly. An actual photograph. And she knew that someone connected to the Moreaus would be able to identify him. That was a giant leap forward. She should be happy right now, not mooning over someone she had no business wanting in the first place.
Adjusting the faucet, she waited several minutes for the hot water to kick in, then stood under the spray, trying not to think about Romain. Or the fact that she didn’t care whether or not they made love, she just wanted to be with him.
* * *
Romain drove for ten minutes, but every mile was harder than the one before. He kept picturing Jasmine standing there in the rain with her suitcase—and kept wondering what the hell was wrong with him that he could be such a jerk. He’d learned to get angry when he felt threatened, learned to fight. Prison had taught him that, and so had the tough breaks that’d led him to prison. He couldn’t choose what he shut out. He had to shut it all out. But he knew Jasmine didn’t deserve the way he’d treated her. She’d had a few tough breaks of her own and didn’t need him to make her situation any worse.
But besides that, she was right. He wanted her now more than ever. And it made him feel disloyal—because he could no longer remember the subtleties of Pam’s expressions during those intimate moments, could no longer rely on the absolute dedication that’d made other women a very remote temptation. Feelings he’d thought would never change were dimming, slipping away, and he found himself yearning to let it happen, to move on despite the loss of his wife and the subsequent loss of his daughter.