by Nora Roberts
Kelsey decided she couldn’t lay the past to rest until she’d spoken with Charles Rooney.
She enjoyed the drive. It was difficult not to appreciate, no matter how crowded the highway, the green banks and bursting blooms of full spring. She had the top down and Chopin soaring. The better, she’d decided, to keep her mind off what she was about to do.
She hadn’t lied, precisely, in giving Rooney’s secretary the name “Kelsey Monroe” when she’d made the appointment. It was merely a precaution, a way to be certain Rooney didn’t immediately connect her with Naomi.
A bending of those stiff codes of right and wrong, she thought. She’d always been amused by and disdainful of people who considered white lies acceptable. Or convenient. And here she was, using that same slippery rope to climb to her own ends.
Evaluate later, she told herself.
Nor had she been completely truthful when she’d made excuses to take the afternoon off. Errands and appointments had simply been evasions. She knew Naomi assumed she was going to meet the family. And she’d let Naomi think just that.
Whatever the outcome of the afternoon, Kelsey doubted she’d pass it along to her mother. For the first time since they’d lost Pride, Naomi seemed relaxed again. No one expected High Water to repeat his Preakness performance in the grueling mile and a half at Belmont.
The point had been made, the victory won. Now they could reap the rewards.
And she could steal a few hours and dig into the muck of the past.
She’d already mapped out her route in and through the city. Though she wasn’t very familiar with Alexandria, she found the building easily enough, and slipped into an empty spot in the underground garage.
Nerves pressed on her, irritating her with damp hands and a skittish stomach. She took her time, deliberately setting the brake, locking the car, tucking her keys into the zippered compartment of her purse.
What could be worse? she asked herself. What could be worse than knowing your mother killed a man? Whatever Charles Rooney told her couldn’t be much of a shock. It was only that she, somehow, wanted it to come together tidily in her mind. Then, once and for all, she would be able to accept the woman Naomi had become and stop dwelling on the woman she had been.
The elevator took her to the fifth floor, up from the echoing concrete of the garage to the hushed, carpeted hallways. Glass doors and windows etched with names flanked both sides. Inside them, people worked, with all appearance of industry, at word processors and telephones.
It made her shudder. How would it feel to be on display all through working hours to anyone who happened to wander down the hall? How would it feel to be trapped behind that glass with spring rioting outside?
Struck by her own thoughts, she shook her head. It hadn’t been so very long ago that she’d been inside, and just as much on display as the exhibits she’d taken her little tour groups to see in the museum.
How completely a few short months had changed her outlook, and her desires.
Rooney Investigation Services took up the south corner of the building. It was not, as she had assumed, a small operation, nor did it convey that vaguely seamy atmosphere so often created in television and movie portrayals of detective agencies.
No rye in the file cabinets here, she decided, as she entered the glass doors into soft background music and the scent of gardenias.
The romantic fragrance wafted from the waxy blooms tumbling out of jardinieres on either side of a pastel sectional sofa. There were prints of Monet’s floating water lilies on the walls and a reproduction Queen Anne coffee table fanned with glossy copies of Southern Homes.
The woman seated at the circular ebony workstation in the center of the room was as polished as the furnishings. She glanced up from her monitor and aimed a professional but surprisingly warm smile at Kelsey.
“May I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Rooney.”
“Ms. Monroe? Yes, you’re a few minutes early. If you’d just take a seat, I’ll see if Mr. Rooney is ready to see you.”
Kelsey sat next to the gardenias, picked up a magazine, and for the next ten minutes pretended to be absorbed in the fussy decor of an antebellum mansion outside of Raleigh. All the while her nerves and her conscience pricked at her.
She shouldn’t have come. She certainly shouldn’t have given a name she no longer used or wanted. She had no business poking fingers in Naomi’s affairs. She should get up and tell the stunning and efficient receptionist that she’d made a mistake.
Surely she wouldn’t be the first person to make a panicked dash from a detective’s office. And even if she were, what did it matter?
She should be back at the barn, working with Honor, not sitting here smelling gardenias and staring at a picture of someone’s overly decorated living room.
But she didn’t get up, not until the receptionist called her name again and offered to show her in.
There were several doors on either side of the inner corridor. No glass here, Kelsey noted. Whatever went on inside those rooms was private. Discretion would be an integral part of the business.
And because it was, why did she expect Charles Rooney to tell her anything, even after twenty-three years?
Because she had the right, she told herself, and straightened her shoulders. Because she was Naomi Chadwick’s daughter.
“Mr. Rooney, Ms. Monroe to see you.” The receptionist opened one half of the double oak doors, scooted Kelsey inside, then retreated.
It was a simple room, furnished more like a den than an office, with glassy-eyed big game fish mounted on the walls, models of ships lining shelves. The man who rose from behind the desk might have been everyone’s favorite uncle. Slightly paunchy, slightly bald, round-faced and narrow-shouldered. His tie was slightly askew, as if he’d recently tugged against the restriction.
He had a quiet, friendly voice meant to put the most nervous client at ease.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Ms. Monroe. Would you like some coffee?” He gestured toward a Krups coffeemaker on the table behind him. “I keep a pot in here, to keep the juices flowing.”
“No, thank you, nothing. But you go ahead.” She made herself sit, using the time he gave her while pouring his own mug to study him and his milieu.
Such an ordinary man, she thought, in an ordinary place. How could he have had such a devastating influence on so many lives?
“Now, Ms. Monroe, you indicated you needed some help with a custody case.” He seated himself, idly stirring his spoon around and around in the mug. Already a fresh legal pad was waiting for his notes. “You’re divorced?”
“Yes.”
“And the child? Who, at this time, has primary custody?”
She drew in a long breath. Now that she was in the door, it was time for the truth. “I am the child, Mr. Rooney.” With her hands clutching her bag, she kept her eyes on his. “Monroe was my married name. I don’t use it anymore, as I’ve taken back my maiden name. It’s Byden. I’m Kelsey Byden.”
She knew the instant it clicked. His hand hesitated, his rhythmic stirring skipped a beat. His pupils widened, so that for a moment his eyes seemed black instead of green.
“I see. You’d expect me to remember that name, and that case. Of course I do. You look remarkably like your mother. I should have recognized you.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. You’d have seen her quite a lot back then. You had her under surveillance.”
He didn’t miss the faint distaste in her tone. “It’s part of the job.”
“This particular job took a sharp turn. My father hired you, Mr. Rooney?”
“Ms. Byden—Kelsey—it’s difficult for me not to think of you as Kelsey,” he said, measuring her and his own heart rate as he spoke. “Custody suits are never pleasant. You were, fortunately, young enough not to be involved in the more difficult aspects. I was hired, as I’m sure you know, to document your mother’s . . . lifestyle in order to strengthen your father’s case for fu
ll custody.”
“And what did you discover about her lifestyle?”
“That isn’t something I feel free to discuss.”
“A great deal of it’s public record, Mr. Rooney. I can’t believe you’re bound by client confidentiality after all this time.” Hoping to influence him, she leaned forward, let some of the emotion she was feeling leak into her voice. “I need to know. I’m not a child who needs to be protected from those difficult aspects any longer. You must understand that I feel I have a right to know exactly what happened.”
How, he wondered, had he looked at that face and not seen? Looked into those eyes and not known this was Naomi’s child? “I sympathize, but there’s very little I can tell you.”
“You followed her. You took pictures, notes, you made reports. You knew her, Mr. Rooney. And you knew Alec Bradley.”
“Knew them?” He inclined his head. “I never exchanged a word with Naomi Chadwick or Alec Bradley.”
She wasn’t about to be put off with so shallow a technicality. “You saw them together—at parties, at the track, at the club. You saw them together that night, when he came to the house. You were, technically, trespassing when you took the pictures that convicted her.”
He hadn’t forgotten it. He hadn’t forgotten any of it. “I walked a thin line, agreed. And perhaps I crossed it in my zeal to do my job.” He offered a small smile while his memories swarmed through his mind. “With today’s technology, I could accomplish the same thing without the question of trespass.” He paused, took a moment to lift his mug. “But the line still gets crossed, Kelsey. It’s crossed every day.”
“You formed an opinion of her. I imagine part of your job would be to remain objective, but it would be impossible not to form an opinion of someone when you’re monitoring her life.”
He began to stir his coffee again, even though the heaping spoonful of sugar he’d added had long since dissolved. “It was over twenty years ago.”
“You remember her, Mr. Rooney. You wouldn’t have forgotten her, or anything that happened.”
“She was a beautiful woman,” he said slowly. “A vibrant woman who got in over her head.”
“With Alec Bradley.”
Annoyed with himself, Rooney set the spoon aside, staining his blotter. “With him, yes. In the public record you spoke of, Naomi Chadwick was arrested for the murder of Alec Bradley, and convicted.”
“And your photo of the shooting helped convict her.”
“It did.” He remembered, vividly, hoisting himself up into the tree, his camera bumping against his chest, his heart pounding. “You could say I was in the right place at the right time.”
“She called it self-defense. She claimed that Alec Bradley threatened her, intended to rape her.”
“I’m aware of her defense. The evidence didn’t support it.”
“But you were there! You must have seen if she was afraid, if he seemed threatening.”
He folded his hands on the edge of the desk, like a man about to recite a well-rehearsed prayer. “I saw her let him into the house. They had a drink together. They argued. I can’t now as I couldn’t then testify to what was said between them. They went upstairs.”
“She went up,” Kelsey corrected. “He followed her.”
“Yes, as far as I could tell. I took a chance and used the tree, thinking they would go to her bedroom.”
“Because he’d been in there before?” Kelsey asked.
“No. Not that I had observed. But this was only the third night I had gone onto the property, and the first that I knew the rest of the household was absent.”
He kept his hands linked, his eyes calm and level on hers. “Several minutes passed. I nearly climbed down again. But then they came into the bedroom. She entered first. It appeared that they were still arguing.”
He remembered the look on Naomi’s face, the way it had filled his viewfinder with beauty, with anger, with disdain. And yes, he remembered, with fear.
“Her back was to me for a short time.” He cleared his throat. “Then she spun around. When she came back into view she had a gun. I could see them both, framed in the window. He put his hands up, backed away. And she fired.”
The chill ran through Kelsey like a blade. “And then?”
“And then, Kelsey, I froze. I’m not proud of it, but I was young. I’d never seen . . . I froze,” he repeated. “I watched her go to where he’d fallen and lean over. And I watched her go to the phone. I got out of there and sat in my car until I heard the sirens.”
“You didn’t call the police?”
“No, not immediately. It was foolish of me. It could have cost me my license. But I did go to them, took in the film, made my statement.” He loosened his hands, abruptly aware that his fingers were aching from the pressure. “I did my job.”
“And all you saw was a beautiful, vibrant woman who got in over her head and shot a man.”
“I wish I could tell you different. Your mother served her time. It’s over.”
“Not for me.” Kelsey rose. “What if I hired you, Mr. Rooney. Right now. Today. I want you to go back twenty-three years, take another look at the case. I want to know all there is to know about Alec Bradley.”
Fear sprinted up his spine, stiffening it. “Let it rest, Kelsey. Nothing can be solved, and certainly nothing can be changed, by picking at old wounds. Do you think your mother will thank you for making her relive all of that?”
“Maybe not. But I intend to go back, step by step, until I understand. Will you help me?”
He studied her, but it was another woman he saw, a woman sitting pale and composed in a crowded courtroom. Composed, he remembered, except for the eyes. Those desperate eyes.
“No, I won’t. I’m going to ask you to think this through, consider the consequences.”
“I have thought it through, Mr. Rooney. And I keep coming back to one conclusion. My mother was telling the truth. I’m going to prove it, with or without your help. Thank you for your time.”
He sat where he was long after the door closed behind her, long after he’d willed his hands to stop trembling. When he was steady, he picked up the phone and dialed.
Her next stop was the university. The long wait in her father’s cramped office calmed her considerably. It was always a balm to be surrounded by books, the scents and sounds of academia. That was why it always lured her back, she supposed. In this world learning was the primary goal. And every question had an answer.
Philip entered, chalk dust on his fingertips. “Kelsey. What a wonderful way to lift my day. I’d have been here sooner, but my seminar ran over a bit.”
“I didn’t mind waiting. I was hoping you’d have a few minutes free.”
“I have the next hour.” Which he’d been planning to use to prepare for his final lecture of the day. But that could wait. “If you can spare the rest of the afternoon, I’ll treat you to an early dinner when I’m finished.”
“Not tonight, thanks. I still have another stop to make. Dad, I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t want you to worry about your grandmother. I’ll deal with that.”
“No, I’m not worried about that. It’s not important.”
“Of course it is.” He took her by the shoulders, his hands moving up and down her arms. “I won’t tolerate this kind of a breach, nor her using your heritage against you.” Furious all over again, he turned to pace the narrow confines of his office, as he would while contemplating a thesis. “Your grandmother is an admirable woman, Kelsey. And a formidable one. Her blind side is the family, and her tendency to confuse her own set of standards with love.”
“You don’t have to explain her to me, or excuse her. I know that, in her way, she loves me. It’s just that her way hasn’t always been easy.” Had never been easy, Kelsey corrected. “I also know she isn’t used to being crossed. This time, she’ll either come to accept what I’m doing with my life, or she won’t. I can’t let it influence me.”
He paused, pick
ed up a smooth glass paperweight from his desk. “I don’t want you to be at odds.”
“Neither do I.”
“If you and I went to see her, together . . .”
“No.”
Sighing, he took off his glasses, polishing the lenses out of habit rather than need. “Kelsey, she’s no longer young. She’s your family.”
Oh, she thought, the buttons loved ones push. “I’m sorry I can’t compromise on this. I know you’ve been shoved right into the middle of it, and I’m sorry for that, too. She can’t have what she wants, Dad. And if we’re honest, I’ve never been what she wanted.”
“Kelsey—”
“I’m Naomi’s daughter, and she’s always resented it. I can only hope that in time she’ll come to accept that I’m just as much your daughter.”
Carefully, he folded his glasses and set them on his cluttered desk beside a timeworn copy of King Lear. “She loves you, Kelsey. It’s the circumstances she’s fighting.”
“I am the circumstances,” she said quietly. “I’m the motive, the reason, the child two people wanted long after they didn’t want each other. There’s no getting past that.”
“It’s ridiculous to blame yourself.”
“Not blame. That’s the wrong word. But do I feel a certain sense of responsibility? Yes, I do,” she said when he shook his head. “To you, and to her. That’s why I’m here. I need you to tell me what happened.”
Suddenly weary, he sat, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. “We’ve done this, Kelsey.”
“You gave me an outline, a sketch. You fell in love with someone. Despite some family disapproval on your side, you married her. You had a child with her. Somewhere along the line things went wrong between you.”
She moved over to his side, hating to hurt, needing the truth. “I’m not asking you to explain all of that. But you knew the woman you married, you had feelings for her. If you were willing to fight her for the child, to go to court, to hire lawyers and detectives, there had to be a reason. A strong one. I want to know what it was.”
“I wanted you,” he said simply. “I wanted you with me. Selfishly perhaps, not altogether reasonably. You were the best part of us. I didn’t believe growing up in the atmosphere your mother thrived in was right for you. Was best for you.”