The Witness Series Bundle

by Rebecca Forster

  Licking her lips, Josie inched past a closet. The door was ajar. She pushed it with her foot. Empty. Suddenly, Josie froze. Her ears pricked. She thought she heard something but it was only the sound of her own breath scraping against her lungs. Inching forward, she touched the front door. The knife in her hand slipped as sweat loosened her grip. The systematic ransacking of this place, and the sense that there was something important to discover, were compelling. Now there was no place to go but through the closed doors, into the hallway, into the places that were in shadow.

  Josie scuttled across the living room and crouched near the hall, taking inventory of the rooms she could see: a guest room, an office, another bedroom. Only the office had been touched. There were papers on the floor, the desk drawers were opened.

  Slowly, she backed out and into the living room. It was easier to breathe now. The hand that held the knife was steady. Whoever had done this was specific in their intent and they were probably long gone. It could have been a political foe. It could have been someone Michelle knew. It could have been Grace and that was a scary thought. Whoever had done it had had a key. There was no sign of forced entry.

  Still vigilant, Josie put her hand on the knob of the master bedroom door, licked her dry lips and opened it. There in the dark room, spotlighted by a pale little moon of brightness, Josie saw something that stopped her heart just before it broke. Matthew McCreary looked up from where he sat on the floor surrounded by—almost buried in—his dead wife's clothes.

  ***

  "So what's the bottom line?"

  The men around Helen Crane's dinner table were serious, like-minded, smart men. Even though she would be the one to make the final decision she trusted their input and would hear them out.

  "The way I see it, Helen, Matthew is handling all this very well." Sam Whalen, attorney turned political consultant, spoke first. "Confidence in him has not been shaken by Grace's predicament. A solid thirty percent of likely voters think Grace's arrest has something to do with dirty politics, another thirty are undecided or don't care because they like Matthew."

  "Have any speaking engagements been canceled, Tim?"

  "No, everything is on schedule. Although the Republican Women of Orange politely requested that Grace not accompany Matthew when he speaks to them in two weeks," Tim answered, still uncomfortable about being here without Matthew knowing. But Helen Crane's invitation, a chance to sit in the inner sanctum, proved too tempting. He had promised discretion and she seemed delighted. He should have thought twice, but what was done was done.

  "Voters do seem to be separating Matthew and Grace," added Michael Wells, a media consultant. "I think the more we can keep Grace's picture out of the media and minimize the number of images of Grace and Matthew together, the better we'll be. Bottom line, Helen, I think it's too early to tell whether Matthew needs to withdraw."

  "Then we'll wait for the preliminary hearing," Helen stated.

  The men nodded and murmured and raised their coffee cups for the maid to fill as she came around.

  "But the first sign that Matthew even appears tainted, we pull out. Correct?" Helen asked more for their agreement than their counsel. Everyone's head went up and down. Everyone except Tim Douglas. "Tim? Do you have something to say?"

  "No. no, I agree. He can make another run in a few years. But what about Grace?"

  "What about her?" Helen asked.

  "If she stands trial you're not suggesting that Matthew distance himself from her, are you? I mean, if she's convicted you're not suggesting he abandon her, right?"

  Helen's eyes flicked to the other two men. Neither said a word so Helen did.

  "Of course we're not suggesting that, Tim. How heartless do you think we are?" Helen asked smoothly.

  Before Tim could answer, his cell phone rang. Excusing himself, happy to have a reason to be out of Helen Crane's sight, Tim answered the call from Josie Bates. Josie filled Tim in and told him to get his tail over to the penthouse for damage control. Tim ended the call and wiped his forehead with his fingertips. He was sweating and yet he felt cold inside. He—

  "Is everything all right, Tim?"

  Helen Crane had followed him. He hadn't heard her coming. His fingers tightened around the phone. He composed himself as best he could and then faced her.

  "Sure. Yes. It was Frances. I forgot to do a press release . . . the Times is waiting for it. Are we finished here?"

  "I thought we were," Helen answered and smiled in that way that made Tim feel as if she could look into his soul.

  With the best goodbye he could manage, Tim Douglas took his leave. He walked to his car when all he wanted to do was run, but Helen's eyes were on his back. He knew he should turn around and tell her what was going on because—in the final analysis—this was Helen's campaign. But it wasn't until Tim was halfway to Long Beach that he finally made a decision—and it had nothing to do with Helen.

  CHAPTER 25

  "Are they gone?" Matthew's eyes tracked Josie as she joined him on the balcony.

  "Yes," she said.

  The police had come in force and left reluctantly. They came with guns drawn to Matthew McCreary's penthouse, where something horrible had already happened and something worse might be happening. Babcock was the first to arrive, the last to leave and the only one not convinced that everything was okay. He watched Josie settle Matthew on the balcony with a drink and a stroke of his hair. He knew their history. He was curious, and Josie didn't care for the attention.

  Nothing mysterious, Babcock. Grief. Pure and simple.

  That's what Josie told the detective but it wasn't enough to put a wedge between Matthew and Babcock's interest, so she tried again.

  A delayed reaction.

  No time to mourn.

  Anger. Can't you understand that? For God's sake, Babcock, give it a rest.

  Josie said all these things but Babcock suggested another word to explain what had happened.

  Guilt.

  And if it was guilt that drove Matthew to ransack his wife's things, then Babcock had to wonder why it was there, how deep it ran and, most important, whether or not it was warranted. It wasn't unheard of that relatives could conspire against one another. Matthew and his sister against Michelle the outsider. The coming prelim could be the trigger that had made Matthew go ballistic.

  Josie showed Babcock to the door. If anyone was the outsider it was Grace, not Michelle. The city should rethink Babcock's contract if he couldn't figure that out. When he was gone, she put her palm against the door and her forehead against the back of her hand. Exhausted and confused, she couldn't understand what had happened here tonight any more than Babcock could. Just that morning Matthew had agreed with her strategy to block the prosecution's accusations, rather than attempt to disprove them. She would point out that the prosecution was right on every score: Michelle was unhappy, she had reneged on her promise of a cash infusion to the campaign, Michelle had argued with Grace. Then Josie would ask so what? This morning that strategy had kept them upbeat and ready for the court appearance, tonight Matthew was in meltdown. Josie could only hope that Grace wasn't in the same shape. She would deal with Matthew first.

  Pushing away from the door, Josie put her shoulders back and crossed the living room. She gave Michelle's portrait no more attention than it deserved— a look, a glance, a momentary thought of the flawed woman it represented. Knowing that Matthew's people should be informed, Josie had detoured to the kitchen and called Tim Douglas. He was on his way before she got the last words out. Josie went to wait with Matthew on the balcony.

  He sat with his legs apart, one hand rested on his thigh, the other still wrapped around the drink Josie had brought him. A breeze toyed with his hair and then released it in charming disarray. Still, he looked older, worn out, and when she appeared it was a struggle for him to raise his eyes.

  "Tim told me you'd be having dinner with a donor tonight." Josie hunkered down in front of him and touched h
is knee, an affirmation for an old friend who was hurting. "He gave me the key. I wouldn't have intruded if I'd known."

  "I canceled ..." Matthew put a hand over his eyes. I just needed some time alone. I had to take care of Michelle's things."

  "Does Grace know what you're doing?"

  "I don't even know what I'm doing," he snorted, then shook his head. "Look, Michelle was my wife and that trumps Grace as her good buddy, so Grace doesn't need to know everything I do."

  Matthew collapsed—elbows on knees, hands cupping his face, shoulders bowing. She stood up and turned away. In the neighboring buildings life went on. Josie could see the stutter of light as one man clicked the remote and changed the television channels, finding nothing to interest him. The aerobics woman's lights were out. Josie looked back at Matthew.

  "It sounds like you were jealous of their friendship, Matthew."

  "Maybe. I don't know anymore. I wasn't here that often, but Michelle took every opportunity to let me know how different Grace was from me. Grace paid attention to her. Grace understood her. Grace went to church with her. Grace was everything I wasn't," Mathew said wearily. "Even if I'd wanted to I couldn't compete with Grace. But this is my home and Grace doesn't come here every night and look at all these things."

  ''You're right, Matthew," Josie said quietly. "You know after this is all over ..."

  "Oh, please," Matthew wailed, "I hate that word: after. God it's an awful word."

  Matthew's bottom lip disappeared beneath his teeth and Josie had the feeling he was biting to bring blood. His right knee jumped, keeping time to a miserable tune.

  "My dad used to say 'after college decide if you want to go into the business.' But there was only after he and my mom died. After the funeral I was legally responsible for the business and Grace. Then it was after the business got settled, after Grace got out of school, then after Grace was taken care of when she became a problem. After you get over the guilt about Grace. After you're married. After the election. After, after, after…

  Matthew barked a laugh and used the table for leverage when he got up. The crystal glass jumped, toppled, and then rolled off the table, shattering into a million pieces. The liquor left a dark stain on the pale tile, the glass shards crunched underfoot as Matthew trailed the dust of it into the living room. He paused in front of Michelle's portrait, and then disappeared into the bedroom.

  Josie followed as far as the doorway and watched Matthew pluck things out of the mountain of clothes only to fold them haphazardly, awkwardly, angrily.

  "Michelle couldn't wait until after the election. She wanted me to lose, Josie, so you'll forgive me if I'm just a little pissed that all this reminds me just how angry I was with her. Then she killed herself and after that I have all this rage and guilt."

  He threw a colored ball gown on the pile. The satin skirt billowed up like a cloud. He tried to tame it, putting it on the bed, slapping it down only to find another yard of the shimmering fabric puffing up as the air was displaced.

  "If she hadn't tried to jump off the roof, Grace wouldn't have tried to stop her. We wouldn't be going to court . . ."

  Josie winced as Matthew pounded on that gown that was so very close to the color of flesh, so very like the feel of pampered skin. He gave up and left it a mess on the bed only to grab up a pair of slacks. Those he folded once, twice, three times until they were no more than a ball of fabric. He slammed them atop the evening dress. He was on a roll; pent-up anger drove him on.

  "And you know what, Josie? If Michelle hadn't died nobody would have known how miserable my marriage was. Nobody would know about Grace. I would be moving forward, accomplishing something on my own, just for me. There were people who believed in me even if Michelle didn't. There still are, Josie." He raised his head and looked at her as if he was peering through a fever fog. "Hell, Michelle, she never even thought about me after Grace showed up. Everything was about Michelle. Her life was always worse. She was higher and mightier and more righteous. I only wanted her to understand that I had it rough, too, and I needed someone to understand me ... to care about me."

  His tirade ended as abruptly as it had begun and it ended with one sob, a huge, surprising intake of breath that silenced him.

  "Matthew," Josie whispered, as close to tears as she had been since her father's death. She took a step, then two and reached out. "I'm so, so sorry. I wish I had known. I would have—"

  "What? What would you have done, Josie, if I had come to you and told you all these things about my wife and my marriage and my sister? What would you have done if I'd told you I was suffocating and being eaten up from the inside out? If I'd told you Grace and Michelle treated me like a nuisance? Come on. Tell me how you would have made it all better."

  Matthew was wild-eyed in his misery. He kicked aside the fine clothes and, in three long strides, crossed the room and grabbed Josie by the shoulders. His hands were big and his fingers were long. They dug into her skin, pinching muscle and nerve as he yanked her close. Josie's head snapped back and she saw sparks behind her eyes as the nerves were shocked. Another jerk and her hands were wedged between their bodies.

  "Matthew. Stop," she cried.

  "You want to make it better, Josie? Then do it. Make me feel better now," he growled.

  "No."

  Josie could smell his desperation. She had a situation on her hands but figured it out a second too late. Matthew's mouth crashed down hard on hers in a mindless expression of rage. All that rage was directed at her because she was there, but it was meant for the woman he loved, the woman who had betrayed him.

  Tears of pain burned in Josie's eyes. She tasted blood and was shot through with a strange and fascinating thrill when Matthew let her go. This had been an aberration. Her Matthew was back again but her hopefulness was short-lived. He clamped his hands on either side of her head, cupping it as his fingers spread over her skull and pressed into her temples.

  The heels of his hands were over her ears so that his voice was muffled and his words became nothing more than a low, insistent pulse. He could crush her should he choose, crush her if she resisted.

  Josie struggled but it was useless. While they were equal in height, Matthew had the weight, the strength, the sinewy muscle of a deceptively strong man. Josie's head hit the wall behind her. Matthew's mouth was everywhere at once. Her lips, her throat and lips again. This was madness and Josie panicked until, in the next instant, she was blinded by a bright white light. Disoriented, Matthew fell against her, bracing himself against the wall.

  Gasping, narrowing her eyes against the glare, Josie looked first at Matthew, who still stood so close. He was pale, panting and unable to account for how he had gotten to this place. Not that anyone was asking. Indeed, Tim Douglas's mouth was set in a grim line as if he wasn't surprised by what he was seeing.

  Not that Josie cared what Tim Douglas thought. It was Grace McCreary standing by his side, staring at them as if they had just killed Michelle all over again, who made Josie shrink inside her skin.

  ***

  Grace looked at her brother sprawled on the big bed. Poor Matthew. He was exhausted. He hated himself and he really shouldn't be held accountable. Things happened. Everyone was flawed. Grace had learned that lesson when she was only a child. She didn't blame him for his weaknesses.

  "Matthew?" Grace called softly.

  He didn't hear her. Maybe he didn't want to hear her and that was a sad thought. They should talk about what had happened with Josie. But there would be time to talk when he woke up. In the meantime, Grace would pick things up because it pained her to see Michelle's beautiful clothes strewn about. Sitting on the floor she picked up a red chiffon dress and a blue satin one. Grace reached for the flesh-colored gown, gathering up the yards until she crushed handfuls of silk between her fingers. Slowly she got to her knees and pulled the gown close. She closed her eyes and behind them she could see Michelle. She dropped the gown and raised her head. Life was what it was. You
dealt with the things that needed tending to, you accepted the bad with the good and you went on. Slowly she smoothed the skirt of the gown and then put it with the other dresses.

  Grace tried to go on with her task only to be distracted by so many beautiful things, by the quiet and the soft sound of Matthew's breathing. Her mind wandered. It was warm in this house so she took off her suit jacket. She unbuttoned her blouse. Unzipped her skirt. Then her lingerie fluttered to the ground. If Matthew had awakened he would have seen her standing naked in the bedroom he had shared with his wife. He would have seen that Grace was beautiful in this faint light, her body tight and voluptuous as it had been ever since maturity took its explosive course all those years ago. He would have seen Grace touch her breasts and her hips. But he wouldn't have known what she was thinking. Matthew never did know what she was thinking deep down inside.

  Slowly Grace walked around the huge room, lifting Michelle's clothes with her toe, bending to look more closely at something that interested her. Finally, she found what she wanted: The lavender negligee that Michelle had favored. Grace had admired it from the first moment she saw Michelle in it.

  Grace held up her arms. The cool silk drifted over her body, the lace of the décolletage, as delicate as a spider web, was strained. She looked in the mirror and admired herself as she had admired Michelle when she wore this. Grace was just thinking about Michelle when she looked up and realized hers wasn't the only reflection in the mirror. Michelle was her first thought. But this was no ghost. It was Matthew looking at her. Risen from the bed he looked as if he was raised from the dead.

  Grace turned around. She smiled, happy to have his company. She raised her hands but before she could comfort her brother, he took her wrists and held tight. He didn't pull her close nor did he push her away. Grace's smile faltered. Her dark, close-set eyes narrowed. Matthew took a step back and let go of her.

  "Take it off, Grace," he said. Grace's smile returned. He wasn't angry with her. He just seemed a little sad—a little defeated. She would have to make him happy again.