Promises to Keep

by Susan Crandall

  There was a small stifled sigh, then McMurray said, “I’m sorry. I know you want the murderer caught, but there was absolutely nothing that said this was a crime of passion, or a domestic disturbance. This was a clinical, unemotional taking of life.”

  “I didn’t mean like that. I think she was involved with someone who, underneath a respectable veneer, was involved in something so abhorrent that she felt like she had to hide from him once she discovered she was pregnant—to protect her baby.”

  “Do you have a name for this man—or what he was involved in?”

  Dean recognized the shift in tone; he’d hit on something. “No. But I intend to find out. I’m fairly certain she was involved with him in New York City. For some reason, she’d been keeping the relationship quiet, or it was relatively new.”

  “New York. Why are you thinking that?”

  “She hadn’t been anywhere else. She met me in Rome last Christmas. Other than that she hadn’t left the city—I’ve traced credit cards, interviewed co-workers and friends. I’m certain he was in the city.”

  There was a prolonged silence on the line.

  “Detective McMurray?”

  “Yes, I’m here.” After a pause, she said, “Have you considered the possibility that it was someone she met while in Rome?”

  His investigative antenna quivered, then snapped to attention. “Why?”

  “Just thinking out loud. Perhaps . . . someone on the plane?”

  Police detectives didn’t “think out loud” to bereaved kin. McMurray obviously wasn’t in a position to share what she knew, but once she understood that Dean was onto something, she must have decided to prod him in the right direction. He mentally reshuffled his perspective.

  “I suppose she could have met someone there, but it’s not very likely. We stayed in the same hotel, spent every day together. I can’t say about the plane or the airport. I departed six hours before she did.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What do you know, detective?”

  “That’s just the problem, Mr. Coletta. I don’t know anything. You understand the constraints of our system. I’m operating under certain . . . handicaps.” She paused just a beat. “I want to tell you how impressed I am with your investigative reporting.”

  Now Dean sat quietly for a moment, digesting the oddly placed compliment. “Thank you.”

  “I find the Middle East very interesting these days. The politics are always so volatile.”

  Dean’s stomach turned over slowly. “Has there been federal agency interest around my sister’s death?”

  “Why yes, now that you mention it.” She sounded as if he’d just asked if she liked roses.

  “Can we meet to discuss it?”

  “Oh, absolutely not.” Her tone was impersonal, professional. “But I will keep you apprised of any advancements our department makes in this case. Good-bye, Mr. Coletta.”

  Dean disconnected. His guts were writhing. Federal interest. That opened up a whole horrific world of possibilities.

  Chapter 20

  Dean knocked on Molly’s door at three-thirty in the afternoon. He was more than surprised when Brian Mitchell answered holding Nicholas.

  Dean’s heart jumped. “Is something wrong?” He suddenly realized that if there was some connection between international crime and Nicholas’s father, the potential for danger was limitless. Molly had been right to fear for the boy’s safety. He felt that fear now, too.

  Brian opened the door wider, but whispered when he said, “I heard about the horrible night Molly’s family had, so I came to take care of the baby while she gets some sleep.”

  Dean’s fear evaporated, replaced by bristling irritation; he couldn’t help feeling Brian was walking on his turf. “Well, I’m here now, so you can go.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind staying. I thought I’d take Molly out to dinner when she gets up.”

  “Molly and I already have a date.” He was almost embarrassed by his cutting tone. Brian was a nice enough guy.

  “Really? She didn’t mention it.”

  “She was pretty tired when I left here this morning.”

  His comment had the desired effect. Brian looked dejected. Dean knew he shouldn’t let the man leave with the wrong impression, but decided to anyway. The thought of Molly dating Brian set his teeth on edge.

  A much less happy Brian handed Nicholas over to Dean, then went into the kitchen to retrieve his sport coat. “Nicholas was fed at two-thirty. I just changed his diaper. He should be ready to go down for a nap any time now.” He glanced toward Molly’s closed bedroom door. “Tell her . . . tell her I’ll give her a call tomorrow.” There was just enough challenge in his voice to tell Dean he hadn’t given up.

  Dean just nodded and opened the front door, shocked by the strength of the jealousy that slithered around his insides. He didn’t know how he and Molly would be able to overcome the gulf between them, but he now realized he wanted to try.

  After he watched Brian get in his car, which was parked on the far side of the street, Dean studied the baby. This was the first opportunity he’d had to really examine Nicholas closely since he’d discovered this was his sister’s child.

  He searched the tiny features for some trace of Julie. But all he could see was a baby—they all looked so much alike. Perhaps the blue of his eyes was near the shade of hers. As he walked around the living room, the light shifted on Nicholas’s face, revealing a tiny, shallow dimple in the middle of his chin that Dean had not noticed earlier. A dimple much like his own.

  As he studied the baby, Dean started to talk to him. He felt funny about it at first; there was no way this infant could understand what he said. But he kept talking, telling him things about his mother.

  Then Nicholas smiled. That affinity Dean had been searching for struck his heart like a steel blade. My flesh and blood. A lilting feeling of joy graced his soul.

  By the time Dean had given Nicholas an overview of Julie’s best qualities and most significant achievements, the baby’s eyes were drifting closed. With care, he opened Molly’s bedroom door. Quietly, he placed Nicholas in his crib and covered him with a blanket. He laid him propped on his side, the way he’d seen Molly do. Then he lingered next to the crib and watched him sleep for a few minutes. The child was at such utter and complete peace. Why do we have to lose that as we grow up?

  Dean turned and looked at Molly asleep on her bed. She was on top of the yellow comforter, still wearing the clothes she’d had on when he’d left this morning. Her dark hair covered half her face, making him want to reach over and lift it away. That lightness he’d felt holding his nephew bloomed again in his chest. She was extraordinary in every way. The things she’d sacrificed to protect Nicholas attested to her selfless devotion to him. Dean’s conversation with Detective McMurray had cast that bravery into new light.

  “Brian?” Molly said sleepily as she turned toward the crib.

  “No, it’s Dean. I sent Brian home,” he said softly.

  Pushing her hair away from her face, she asked, “What time is it?”

  “Nearly four. Nicholas just went to sleep. You should go back to sleep yourself. We can talk later.”

  Lifting herself up on one elbow, she said, “You look like hell. Didn’t you sleep?”

  He shook his head. He should have at least shaved before he came, but with his preoccupation with Molly and Nicholas, it hadn’t crossed his mind until now. “Too much on my mind.”

  She blew out a long breath and lay back down. “I just can’t drag myself up yet.”

  “I’ll just hang in the kitchen in case the baby wakes.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Come over here and lie down before you fall down.”

  He gave her a cautious look.

  “I don’t have a couch, or I’d send you there. Just lie down and take a nap. We both need to be clear headed when we . . . make decisions.”

  He didn’t miss the fact that she included herself in the decision making, as if he didn’t hold
all of the cards. The arguing could wait. For some reason, now that he was back here, his restlessness began to unwind. He did feel sleepy. And half of her bed was certainly preferable to the living room floor.

  She turned on her side, facing away from him.

  He slipped his shoes off and lay down on the bed beside her as slowly and carefully as if the bed were made of eggshells. In his effort not to crowd her, he was nearly hanging off the side of the mattress.

  He felt her moving beside him, but kept his gaze respectfully on the ceiling. He’d been thinking about getting in her bed for days, but this was far from what he’d had in mind. Unbidden, the memory of her on the living room floor loomed large in his mind; the moment in which she’d let herself respond to his kiss had ignited something in them both—something he really shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

  She started to laugh.

  He turned his head to look at her.

  “You’re lying there like an unwilling virgin bride,” she said, the words riding on suppressed laughter. “You can relax and make yourself comfortable. I promise not to take advantage of you.”

  He inched over to a more restful position on the bed. “It’s not you misbehaving that I’m worried about.”

  Her eyes grew serious. “You don’t hate me then?”

  “Jesus, Molly.” He rolled on his side to face her. “How could you think that?”

  “Just a few hours ago you thought I murdered your sister and kidnapped your nephew. It’s an easy assumption.”

  “A few hours ago, I didn’t know the whole story.” He paused. “You could have made it easier if you’d just told me when I admitted I was Julie’s brother.”

  “I explained why I couldn’t do that. If I had to do it over, I’d do it the same way again. I had to be sure, to think things through; the truth wasn’t going to change overnight just because I didn’t tell you right away.”

  “And that’s why I can’t hate you.” He touched her cheek. “I do believe you have tried to do everything in your power to keep Nicholas safe.”

  “At least there’s one thing we can agree on. We’d better leave it at that until we’ve had some sleep. Nicholas will be up again in a couple of hours.”

  “Right.”

  With amazing swiftness, Dean felt himself sliding into sleep. The gentle sound of Molly and Nicholas breathing in the same room with him acted like a sedative. His last conscious thought was of how tenuous this feeling was. Even without their disagreement about going after the baby’s father—which was bound to be more volatile if he was honest with Molly and told her of his conversation with McMurray—Molly was still going to hate him when he left here with Nicholas.

  Riley rolled over and looked at the clock. Six. He was supposed to be sleeping. He’d avoided a long explanation to his mom by saying he was too tired to talk. But all he’d been doing was flopping from one position to another on the bed. If only he’d been able to speak to Mickey before Clay made him leave the hospital. Mickey’s mother was nuts. She couldn’t be serious about pressing charges against him.

  A knock sounded at his bedroom door. He thought about pretending to be asleep, but that was just going to postpone the inevitable. He was going to have to talk to his . . . parents—he decided the first step was to start thinking of Clay as one of them—about this whole mess. He might as well get it over with.

  “Yeah.”

  He was surprised when it was Clay, not his mom who came in the room. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or pissed.

  “Get any sleep?” Clay asked as he sat at the foot of the bed.

  “Not much.”

  “Me either.” Clay rubbed his palms together between his knees. “I guess we should start with the hard question.”

  Riley swallowed hard. He was prepared to face the fact that Clay was his father, to have that “discussion” his mother had wanted when he’d stormed off to his room yesterday. But what “question” could there be?

  Clay must have seen his confusion. He cleared his throat and asked, “Is there anything that happened between you and Mickey last night that could be, ah, . . . construed as a sexual assault?”

  Riley bolted upright on the bed. His body flashed as hot as his temper. “You think I raped her? Jesus! I thought you were on my side.”

  Clay raised a palm in the air. “Hold on. I didn’t say any such thing. It’s just that, if Mickey’s mother requests an examination,” he paused, “any evidence of intercourse could be interpreted as assault. The burden of proof that it was consensual will be on you—and with Mickey being a minor, it might just not matter.”

  This was too much. “You think just because you knocked up my mom, I’d do the same thing to Mickey?”

  Anger flashed across Clay’s face. He took a couple of deep breaths that flared his nostrils. For a second, Riley thought Clay might just punch him. He watched as Clay’s fists clenched, then opened.

  “I loved your mother then as much as I do now. We had planned to marry.” Then he pushed the air between them, as if to move the comments aside. “But let’s keep these two discussions separate for the moment. Is there any need to worry about Mickey’s mother’s accusations finding solid evidence?”

  Riley didn’t want to answer. He wanted to get up and walk away. But he owed it to Mickey to face this head on. “No.”

  God, what was Mickey enduring at the hands of her nutcase mother right now?

  “All right, then.” He got up. “Why don’t you come down for supper and we’ll have that other discussion.”

  Riley got up and followed Clay downstairs, anxious to get this out of the way so he could go to the hospital and see Mickey.

  Two hours later, after listening to the entire story of how his mother came to be married to his dad again, Riley was finally free. With all of the trouble for Mickey, suddenly Clay being his real father didn’t seem nearly as big of a deal. He was still pissed that they didn’t tell him before, but Mickey had made him see things so much more clearly. It was sort of scary really, to realize your parents—all three of them—were just as screwed up as everybody else.

  He picked up his car keys and started out the door.

  “Where are you going?” his mom asked.

  “I’m going to the hospital to see Mickey. I won’t be long.”

  His mom looked at Clay. He said, “Um, Riley, I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. Not until Mickey’s mother calms down. There’s no need to ask for more trouble.”

  “How can going to see how she is be asking for trouble? She broke her ankle looking for me! If I don’t go to the hospital . . . well, that’s just wrong.”

  “You can’t go,” his mother said, as if there would be no further debate.

  Riley shouted, “What’s all of this bullshit Clay’s been giving me about standing up and taking responsibility? You should only do it if it won’t cause you more trouble? That’s a bunch of crap! It’s my fault she’s in there, it’s my fault her mother’s having a shit fit.” He turned around and shoved out the door. “I’m going to see her.”

  He half-expected to see his mother running out the door after him as he got in his car. But when he looked back, he saw her standing in the doorway with Clay holding her shoulders to keep her inside.

  After driving past Mickey’s house to make sure her mom’s car was home, he went to the hospital. It was after visiting hours, so the lot was nearly empty. He called the desk from his cell phone to see what room Mickey was in. Then he walked in the front door and got on the elevator as if he had every right to be walking the halls. That was usually the trick, just act like you were in the right. Hardly anyone will stop you then.

  The door to Mickey’s room was closed. He inched it open slowly, just in case there was a nurse in there that would run him off. But Mickey was alone, lying in bed with the lights off and the TV on. Her eyes were closed. Her leg was elevated on a couple of pillows and there was a huge cast that went all the way over her knee. An IV bag hung on a hook at the head
of the bed. She looked much more severely injured than she had lying on the ground in the woods.

  He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Mickey didn’t stir. Standing at the side of her bed, he slowly reached for her hand. When he held it, her eyes opened.

  “Hey,” she said, sleepily.

  “Hey.” He glanced at the cast. “Looks bad.”

  She smiled weakly. “They said they had to immobilize my knee because of where the break is. It’s not really that bad.”

  “Hurt?” His thumb rubbed the back of her hand.

  “Not so much. Thanks to the wonder drugs.”

  “How long are they keeping you here?”

  “They probably would have sent me home tonight, but my mom was all, ‘I have to make preparations for an invalid,’ so they’ll keep me for twenty-three hours without actually admitting me.”

  She must have seen the anger build up in his face, because she was quick to say, “I was glad not to have to go home tonight.”

  As long as they were talking about her mother, Riley forced himself to say, “What about the . . . other thing?”

  It took a fraction of a second before her face registered comprehension. Then she put on a cocky smile and said, “Oh . . . I’m officially a virgin.”

  Riley felt like throwing something. “Goddammit! Why did she have to do that to you!”

  “It’s not a b-big de—” Suddenly her words crumpled into tears.

  “Aw, shit.” For a second, Riley turned his back on her looking for something to punch. He ended up just slamming his fist into his palm.

  Mickey fanned the air in front of her face with her hands. “I’m okay.”

  “I’m not.” He might be, once he strangled her mom. “You shouldn’t have let them do it.”

  “It was the only way—” she cut herself off. Tears still slid down her face; he didn’t think she was aware of them.

  “What?” he prompted.

  She shook her head.

  “The only way to keep your mom from coming after me?”

  Mickey covered her face with her hands, unable to hold back her sobs.

  In that moment, Riley felt the same urge to take her away from here that he had after her dad had put bruises on her years ago. Dammit, how could she have such shits for parents? It wasn’t fair.