“And then she left you.”
He felt a jet of anger. “We don’t really know that. We don’t know the circumstances yet.”
“True,” she said neutrally. “Let me rephrase: she was suddenly gone from your life, and as a result, you were left feeling alone.”
“Yeah…”
“And what effect did that have on you?”
He stared down at his empty hands.
“To finally experience love,” she continued, “and then for it to disappear so fast like that. Do you remember those feelings?”
He found himself rubbing his hands together.
“Patrick?”
Quietly, he said, “It felt awful.”
“How did you deal with those feelings?”
“I guess not very well.”
“I’m wondering, Patrick, if you ever allowed yourself to feel that pain, to experience it fully.”
He took his attention away from her and across the room, as if probing for answers. When he turned back, his eyes were moist. “I… I don’t think I want to talk about her anymore. Would you mind if… Is it okay if we stop now?”
“Of course,” Dr. Ready said.
On his way down, the elevator stopped on the eighth floor. When the doors opened, Patrick’s stomach curled into a knot—it was her again, the emotional vampire, holding an empty plastic container in one hand.
What the hell? She live down in the boiler room or something?
Her expression did not welcome—in fact, it looked more like a result of intestinal discomfort. She stepped inside, grudgingly.
The doors slid together slowly; the elevator moved even more so—or maybe it just felt that way. They kept their attention fixed to the floor indicator. Without turning his head, Patrick snuck a glance at her hand.
“It’s a piss cup,” she said, not looking at him either.
“Try not to throw that one,” he offered, his smile loaded with sarcasm.
She lavished him with an incensed expression before returning her attention to the floor indicator. It was just a joke, but clearly she wasn’t feeling it.
The quiet continued.
His gaze drifted toward the hair. Interesting color, he thought. Not quite blonde, more bleached and tortured into white submission. Not quite a mullet either, but there was definitely a party going on up top. Not a lick of makeup, no detectable perfume, but she did smell of cheap soap. At least she bathed. In their small, confined space, it was a relief. The woman was interesting in a frightening, freakish way. The kind of person he might intentionally cross the street to avoid but then glance at over his shoulder for a second look.
God, this elevator’s moving slow, he thought, staring up at the panel, tapping his foot impatiently. Get me the hell out of here before she robs me… or knifes me.
Then he found himself staring at her again.
She turned and caught him this time and shot him a surly look.
His eyes darted away.
Two more floors until we reach the lobby. Thank God for that, he thought, splitting his attention between her and the panel.
The elevator made a gentle bump as it touched ground level, and the doors parted. He was about to exit when she stepped directly in front of him, blocking his path. On her way out, she snarled, “Yeah, I’m not too fucking impressed with you, either.”
“Wait,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Save it,” she said, not bothering to look back at him.
And she was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
A crescent of golden morning sunlight glimmered from the place where skyline and sea joined hands. Patrick felt his tension climbing too, the compulsion to list rushing to the surface. He knew he had two choices: give in, again becoming a mindless slave to his obsession, or chase the evil serpent away. He went for the latter, deciding to head for the beach. Bullet was onboard with the plan: his tail flapped a joyful beat against the doorframe as soon as Patrick’s hand touched the leash.
And as soon as his running shoes hit the soft sand, Patrick knew he’d made the right choice. Gentle waves whispered into the wind—no words, just a soothing cadence that carried Patrick forward and away from the dark recesses of his mind. Bullet seemed to be feeling the moment as well, his legs moving in perfect rhythm with Patrick’s.
Back at the cottage, Patrick repeatedly dialed Lilliana’s number but got her voicemail each time. No surprise. She was definitely avoiding. But he knew where to find her.
He parked in his usual spot, aimed his side-view mirror at the house, and waited.
About a half hour later, a black Lamborghini slipped from the garage and down the driveway. Patrick looked into his mirror with interest: a guy, most likely Chet. The car disappeared in a flash. Nice ride; with malpractice suits on the rise, Patrick wasn’t surprised. He continued on with his Lill-Watch. Since she had no job that he was aware of—other than Mall Fashion Patrol—Patrick knew it might take a bit longer.
And it did.
Two more hours passed with no sign of her. Lunchtime was fast approaching, and Patrick was getting hungry; in spite of that, he couldn’t risk grabbing a bite and losing her. It would mean doing this all over again tomorrow, and he was definitely not cool with that. So he kept his mind amused by counting the Mercedes-Benzes as they passed by. So far, he’d seen ten.
At 1:13, Patrick heard a mechanical noise. Feeling a jolt of excitement, he looked into his mirror, then felt his eagerness wane.
It was the next-door neighbor heading out in—he rolled his eyes—another Mercedes.
Eleven.
Patrick took a ribcage-expanding breath and let it out. He yawned. He was now moving from hungry to hungry-and-fed-up. Still, he kept waiting.
About twenty minutes later, the garage door opened, and out came the red Roadster. Patrick cranked the ignition, guessing that he was in for a repeat round of Chasing Lilliana.
She flew up the I-5, then onto Highway 8, and Patrick kept losing her as she darted in and out of the fast lane, passing people who were already speeding. He caught up to her as she slipped off onto the Mission Center Road exit and made a hairpin into the mall parking lot.
Another traipse through the mall, he thought. At least they’d already broken the ice. Sort of.
Lilliana made a beeline for the Saks Fifth Avenue entrance. She didn’t even notice Patrick beside her until he tapped her shoulder. The Manolo Blahniks fell out of rhythm and skipped a few beats on the asphalt.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” he said.
“Jesus.” She put a hand to her chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Yeah, well, you gave me a bit of a run yourself.”
“Look. I’m sorry about the beach. I got—”
“My notebook? Yeah. I kind of figured that out.”
“Your what?”
“Want to tell me why you lifted it from my Jeep?”
She squinted an eye, shook her head. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” There went the sailor mouth on full deployment.
“You broke into my car while I was waiting for you at the pier.”
The Blahniks trundled a few tiny steps back. The eyes grew wide. “I didn’t do anything of the sort.”
“Look, lady, I’m in no mood for games. Why’d you do it?”
“The only thing I did was not show up. I don’t know anything about your goddamned notebook.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
She threw her hands up and held them there, eyes so big, the whites gleamed beneath her heavy mascara. “Why the hell would I lie?”
Patrick studied her expression; it looked genuine—genuinely miffed. He hesitated. “You seriously weren’t there…”
“No. I seriously wasn’t, and I sure as hell wouldn’t go rummaging through your sorry-assed car. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”
“I see that,” he said, waving a hand toward the mall.
She c
aught the sarcasm, gave him the stink eye.
Patrick realized he had this all wrong. Lilliana might have been full of piss and vinegar, but she didn’t feel like a liar. He crossed his arms, considered her some more. “So why did you blow me off?”
“I got scared. I backed out.”
“Then who took my stuff?”
“Do I look like a damned clairvoyant?”
She wasn’t off the hook yet. “I still need to talk to you.”
Lilliana started walking, browsing the stores with apparent interest, but Patrick didn’t think she registered anything in the window displays.
He kept up beside her and said, “I get that your husband’s a control freak, but it doesn’t change the fact that your best friend’s been murdered. Which is more important to you?”
She stopped and crossed her arms. Did the lip-curl. “Do not pull that shit with me again. I swear, I’ll rip your balls off.”
“That’s a hazard of the job. Come on, talk to me.”
She started walking again, gaze ahead, lips pressed hard into a glossy, magenta slash.
Patrick knew he was pushing his luck, but he’d had enough of this cat and mouse game. He was tired of chasing her, tired of begging. He stepped out in front, blocking her from going any farther.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said.
He reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and yanked the photograph from it. Held it up.
Lilliana took one look, and her jaw plunged.
“This isn’t just another news story,” he said, his voice determined and stern. “Do you understand? It’s personal.”
Lilliana stepped closer, alternating her glance between Patrick and the picture.
“Please,” he said. “Can you just help me?”
She said nothing.
Patrick waited, his gaze expectant.
She paused a beat, then blew out an exasperated breath and said, “Follow me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lilliana led him to a table partially shielded by faux palm trees at the far end of the food court. Patrick grabbed two cups of coffee while she sat nervously and busily examining her nails and her surroundings.
After he returned and settled, she wrapped a hand firmly around her cup, gave him a long, icy stare, then said, “Why didn’t you tell me up front that you knew Charlene?”
Patrick watched a woman pass, then looked back at Lilliana. “I really am a reporter, and I really am doing a story about what happened.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“I was getting to it.”
She leaned into her seat, crossed her arms. Waited.
“I was afraid it would create a conflict of interest.”
She barely nodded at the comment.
“Look,” he said, “I know this isn’t conventional. I know it might not even be right, but I loved her… I loved her more than anything, and I have to find out what happened.”
“When,” she said. It was a demand, not a question.
“In college.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough to know I was in love with her and that the feeling was mutual.”
“Then why did it end?”
“It was complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” But her tone of voice changed, as if for the first time, she was relating instead of resisting. She studied him and thought some more. “Okay, but I need to lay down some rules.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed.
“Nobody finds out I spoke to you. Nobody.” She glanced vigilantly around the food court. “Especially my husband. Got that?”
“I do.”
“Because if he does, I’m in deep shit, and you’ll be even deeper.”
“What’s his problem, anyway?”
“Wesley was a client.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Nothing as far as I’m concerned. That’s why I called you after the mall.” She took a sip of coffee. “You’re right, Charlene comes first, but he’s put me in a position where I have to choose between him and her, and I don’t like it.”
“In what capacity did he represent Wesley?”
She sipped again. “Some malpractice suit a few years ago. That’s how we all met.”
“You don’t know what the case was about?”
“I never pay attention to that shit. The job’s like a mistress whore to him. I have to compete for his time enough as it is…” Her voice trailed off, her gaze shifting toward two women entering the food court. “Shit.”
Patrick observed. “You know them?”
“Yeah. Come on,” she said, abruptly standing. “Let’s walk. The last thing I need is to have to explain to them—or my husband—why I was with some young, good-looking guy. And in this case, the truth would actually be worse. We can go out to my car. Nobody’ll see us there.”
It was hot in the car, and Lilliana’s perfume was strong. He lowered the windows and let in the smell of heated tarmac.
“I have to ask you, Ms. DeFrancisco. Do you have any idea what might have happened to the Clarks?”
Lilliana dropped her gaze, began busily working her fingers against one another, as if kneading imaginary dough. “I think he killed her.”
Patrick watched her for a lengthy moment, then said, “Do you have anything to back that up?”
She stopped kneading, looked out her window. “All I know for sure is that Char was in a world of hurt. She’d just moved out to Las Brisas… or I should say, ran out.”
“Why?”
“Because she was scared to death of him. She thought he was going to kill her if she didn’t get away.”
“Details?”
“I didn’t get many. She was gone before I could. All I know is that things were heating up between them. He’d been making life hell, tormenting and threatening her on a daily basis, and the more he did it, the more frightened and unstable Char seemed to get. He was wearing her down. She’d call me, frantic and rambling, sometimes not even making any sense.”
“Did you tell the cops this?”
“I did.” She seemed to be thinking on something. “Then there was the incident with his office.”
Patrick furrowed his brows into a question.
“At the compound. He kept it locked, spent a lot of time there. Alone.”
“Doing what?”
“Supposedly research, but he was super protective of it, wouldn’t let anyone in, not even Charlene.”
“So what does that have to do with her murder?”
“After Char moved to Las Brisas, she started talking a lot about how she wanted to see what he was really doing there. I think she was hoping to dig up dirt so she could get out of the marriage. For good.”
“Do you know if she ever found anything?”
A car drove by. She watched it with mild interest, shook her head. “I don’t, but I keep wondering, what if she broke in? And what if it ended up being the last thing she ever did?”
She was giving him lots of food for thought, but it seemed more like conjecture. He needed something concrete. “Did you actually see anything to support her claims? Did you ever see Wesley acting strangely?”
She gave him a sober look, then laughed mildly. “That almost seems like a rhetorical question. Let me put it this way: there was nothing good about that relationship—nothing at all. It wasn’t about love. It was about something else. Something really warped.”
“In what way?”
“The way he controlled her. The way he’d never let her out of his sight. She was more like his prisoner than his wife.”
“How did he control her?”
“How didn’t he control her, is more like it. Sometimes we’d be on the phone and hear a strange sound and realize he was listening in. So we’d stop talking, and then he’d hang up—just like that. No attempt to even try to hide his eavesdropping. Didn’t care. It was like he wanted Char to know he was monitoring her.”
“Like he was messing with her mind,” Patrick ventured.
“It was constant, and it was really scary. I remember once we were having lunch on a restaurant patio. I looked up, and there he was, no more than fifteen feet away. Again, no attempt to hide his spying. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, giving us this unsettling look. Charlene turned around, and as soon as she did, he casually strolled out of the restaurant. It was so creepy.”
“Do you know if he ever got physically abusive with her?”
She didn’t answer. She just gave Patrick a long look.
“Is that a yes?”
She nodded gravely. “She would never tell me, but I saw things.”
“Like what?”
“One time we were shopping, and we were running late, and she was all sorts of freaked out about getting home on time, worried that Wesley would be furious. Without thinking, she pulled the sleeve of her sweater up to check the time.” Lilliana shook her head rapidly with closed eyes, and her voice wavered. “I swear, the bruises on her wrist. They were fresh. They were just horrible.”
“Did you ask her about them?”
She nodded with regret. “Gave me some story. It didn’t even make sense. But that was Charlene for you.”
Patrick couldn’t help but feel the sting of inner unrest—not for Charlene Clark, but for Marybeth Redmond—wondering once more what kind of mess she’d gotten herself into, and why. The thought mutated externally into a question. “What was she doing with a guy like that in the first place? Was it the money?”
“If it was, that’s one hell of a price to pay for financial security. I honestly don’t know. Maybe it was love in the beginning, but by the time I met her, it just wasn’t happening. She loathed him, and even more, was scared to death of him.”
“And you never figured out why he was so obsessed with controlling her?”
“At first I thought maybe he was just insecure. You know… afraid she’d stray. I mean, she was so beautiful, and he was so… well…” She flashed the icky smile. “And that would have made sense, except in fact it didn’t.”
“Because?”
“Because men who cheat aren’t usually concerned if their wives do.”
Patrick lifted a brow.
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