Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense)

by Therese Heckenkamp

  A flimsy window screen was the only thing separating us. And that wouldn’t stop anyone. Even if Justin hadn’t seen me, the music—which was still blaring loudly—gave me away. Apparently I had done just about everything wrong that I possibly could: left the door unlocked, the window open, and the music advertising my presence.

  “Go away,” I said finally, though I knew it would do no good. I stayed pressed against the door, finding a strange, though false, sense of security from the solid support against my back. I didn’t want to move and risk seeing Justin’s face peering in through the black mesh of the screen.

  “Robin, we need to talk. It’s important.”

  For some reason, I smiled at his words, even though I wanted to cry.

  “Please, Robin. Give me a chance.”

  But that was what I could not do. I could not give him the chance to influence me in any way, as he always managed to do, taking me unawares—winning me over—and I never realized until it was too late. He would start off slowly, unraveling my doubts, then—bang! He’d get me.

  “Robin?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut till they hurt. But I wasn’t a child, and I knew refusing to face something would not make it go away. Justin wasn’t going to leave me alone until I faced him. Fine, I thought, gathering all my courage, but I’m keeping my distance—and the door locked—no matter what.

  Warning myself to be on guard so as not to fall for his shrewd tactics, I moved to face Justin at the front window. Dark as the screen made his face, I could tell he needed a shave. He’d probably been up all night plotting against me. “What do you want?” I asked in a stony voice. Not a hint of fear leaked through, and I was almost proud of how in control I sounded.

  “For starters, I’d like to know why you’re hiding from me. I thought we were friends.”

  I almost laughed. So that’s what he thought, did he? He had a lot to learn. I chose my words carefully. “Friends trust each other, and I have no reason to trust you. You’ve been using me, lying to me. You—”

  “Hold it right there.” Justin paused, as if catching himself, then lowered his voice before asking, “What are you talking about?”

  “Lots of things.” Gradually gaining confidence, I squared my shoulders, thinking, I can use the phone to call for help if I need to.

  Except a call would take time . . . and even more time for help to arrive.

  “Like saying you wanted to do a story on my uncle’s bookstore. That was just your way of getting to me. You had no intention of writing that story. I bet you’re not even a reporter. That’s a facade, too.” My face grew hot as my mind ran off with accusations. “You said you didn’t find anything out about Christopher Renton, but you really know everything. You just didn’t want me to know because—” I stopped, causing a terrible hush as I tottered on the brink of revealing everything. Unable to bear the silence, I lost my balance and rushed on—“because you know he’s responsible for what happened to my mother—you know because you’re related to him!” This last accusation hung like a knife between us.

  “You’re right,” Justin finally said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how you’d take it. I’m sorry if I misled you. But I didn’t lie—”

  “You acted as if you knew nothing. Played innocent. That’s just as bad. I bet your name isn’t even Justin Landers—”

  “Wrong,” he broke in, “it is.”

  That took a moment to digest, but for some reason I believed him. “So you’re not Christopher’s son?” This was even harder to believe. “But you are related . . .” My confidence in dealing with this situation was rapidly draining.

  “That’s right. I’m Christopher Renton’s nephew. And I know, I look just like him.” Behind the screen, his face looked black. “Does that mean I’m his twin?” he asked bitterly. “Or that I’m the same person? Is it my fault he did the things he did?”

  It was as if he were reading my mind, shooting down my accusations before I could hurl them.

  “I’m not Christopher Renton any more than you are Tiffany Hutch.”

  I shook my head. “What is it you want? You’ve been after something ever since we met. I know you’ve been following me . . .” I was weakening, giving him a chance to explain. Desperately, from the core of my heart, I wanted him to give me an answer that would banish my doubts and fears once and for all.

  “Maybe there’s a reason for that . . . Look,” he raised his arm, and for the first time I noticed the long rod in his hand, “I got you something for your birthday. A fishing pole. You said you didn’t have one.”

  I could not believe this. This was not what I wanted to hear.

  “Happy birthday.”

  I felt sick. “I don’t need a fishing pole. I don’t even know how to fish—I’ve never fished before—” This was beside the point, but I kept going, fabricating excuses and not knowing why.

  “Then I’ll teach you. Come on—right now. I didn’t expect anyone to be home. I just wanted to drop this off. But then I heard the music and saw you—” he interrupted himself—“but don’t you think this is kind of silly—talking through a screen? Why don’t you open the door—”

  I took a stumbling step backward, shaking my head.

  He sighed and held up his hands in defeat. “You still don’t trust me. Okay. I understand.” His words rattled with the emptiness of a burned-out light bulb. “But take the pole anyway. I’ll leave it by the door.”

  “I told you—I don’t want it—I don’t need it—I won’t even be here to use—” I stopped. “I’m sure I don’t like fishing.”

  “But you said yourself you’ve never tried it. You won’t know until you do.”

  My head halted in mid-shake when I became aware of familiar music playing in the background, “. . . memories are made by moments like these . . .”

  “They’re playing our song,” Justin said softly, and my mind flashed back to that afternoon of the storm when he had danced with me in the basement and I’d felt safe in his arms. Oh! He was doing it again! Squeezing my heart for every drop of emotion it held.

  “Go away, Justin.” It came out more as a plea than an order.

  I couldn’t be sure because his head was lowered, but I think he smiled when he said, gently, “You don’t really like that Barn guy, do you? You don’t really want to spend the rest of your life with him.”

  I opened my mouth, but the words took a moment to come, and when they did, they were spoken on a highly cynical note. “Can’t you even call him by his real name?”

  Justin lifted his head and squinted at me, hard, through the screen. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

  “Just go away,” I snapped. “And take your fishing pole with you.”

  “Sorry, Robin, I can’t do that.” His voice sounded strained. “It’s not mine. I already have one. I wanted you to have it, but if you really don’t want it . . . well, give it to your uncle. Maybe he’ll use it. Happy Birthday.”

  Justin lifted his hand as if to wave. It reached halfway, then, as if it were too much effort, he let it drop. He disappeared from behind the screen, and when I saw him again he was walking up the driveway. He didn’t look back.

  As soon as he was out of sight, instead of feeling relieved, I felt foolish cowering inside the locked house like a frightened child.

  Behind my thoughts, the song continued, “ . . . but memories fade. Oh, darling, please . . . be more than a memory to me . . .”

  I unlocked the front door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch. The fishing pole leaned against the house, looking shiny and new. I stared at it for a moment, then shook my head and picked it up.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I took the fishing rod inside, hesitated near the stairs, then ran up to my room. I waited till the song ended, then turned off the radio. The tune lingered in my mind as I stood fingering the smooth length of the rod, the translucent line, the peppermint-str
iped bobber. Something like a smile came to my lips. For a moment, I forgot my plans with Philip. I was picturing myself with Justin. We were fishing together, talking, arguing, laughing—

  It was then that I caught a glimpse of my face in the dresser mirror, and it made my heart drop. The starry-eyed, enchanted look vanished, but not quick enough to convince me it hadn’t been there. My mother’s yearbook picture flashed into my mind, her own face captured with that look. Her photo had been taken right after Christopher proposed to her. That’s how you look when you’re in love, I thought. Then, fiercely, I am in love—but with Philip—not Justin!

  Anguish and anger pressed at my heart. I couldn’t love Justin—didn’t want to love him. He was not worth loving. All he wanted was the map, and he would do anything to get it, including stealing my heart. He’s bewitched me, like Christopher Renton bewitched my mother. And no wonder, I thought, it must run in his blood.

  Well, I’d just have to be stronger than the Renton spell. I shoved the fishing pole into the back of the closet, near the chest—as if that would make it disappear—slammed the door, and yanked my suitcase from the bed.

  But putting troubles behind me mentally wasn’t as easy as doing so physically.

  Justin’s visit had stirred my feelings into a tornado. How could I marry Philip when I felt like this, so torn between myself I didn’t know what I wanted? My ears roared with blood rushing through my head. I ran to the window for fresh air.

  There’s the mail, I thought stupidly as the little white mail truck puttered past. I turned and walked downstairs and outside, welcoming any excuse as a diversion to my problems. Walking outside was a perfectly normal act, yet I felt as if I were moving in a trance.

  At the mailbox, I was further diverted and surprised to find an envelope for me among the bills. At least, Happy Birthday was typed on the front, so I assumed it was for me. Nothing else identified the plain white envelope, no return address, no stamp. Wait a minute. This couldn’t have been delivered in the mail. Someone put it in the mailbox. Isn’t that illegal? I thought as I tore open the envelope and pulled out a white, rectangular card. On the front were typed the words: You know what I want. Get it, or . . .

  I opened the card too quickly to be frightened. Taped inside was a photo of two familiar graves. I recognized them as the graves belonging to my grandparents, the ones I had seen for the first time yesterday. On the grassy plot beside them, three letters were printed boldly in permanent marker: RIP.

  Now I was frightened.

  The sinister implication of those letters was all too clear. My fingers trembled, almost dropping the card as I stood spotlighted in the sun beside the mailbox. I glanced about, half expecting someone to leap out from the surrounding shadows. Every bush, every tree, was a threat. I raced for the house.

  Cowering inside, I realized that this was worse than I could ever have imagined. I was not blowing things out of proportion. Someone was after me, and he wanted the map desperately enough to kill me for it.

  I let out a low whimper. Every creak of the house made my heart flinch. How come I’d never heard these noises before? My head spun as I thought, I have to do something. Something to escape this feeling of being trapped on a spinning roulette wheel. It keeps spinning faster and faster. Will it ever stop? I wondered giddily. And if it does—what then?—where will I end up? All I’d ever wanted was to have control of my life . . . but I’d never had less control than now.

  I ran upstairs and scrambled to locate the piece of paper with Philip’s number on it, thankful that I had thought to ask him for it, then dialed the phone with as steady a hand as I could manage.

  “If you’d like to make a call . . .”

  I slammed down the phone.

  Taking a deep breath, I picked it up and dialed again.

  Philip answered almost immediately. I don’t remember what I said, only that my words came out in a panicked jumble. But hearing Philip’s voice helped calm me. He told me to hang on and he’d be right over. “Be ready to leave when I get there.”

  Oh, I will be, I thought, hanging up and wishing I didn’t have to break the connection. Being alone in the house made the moments of silence that followed, torture. My numb mind began to thaw, to think. Terrible thoughts.

  Justin had left me this threat. I didn’t want to believe it, but I couldn’t deny it. He had just been here, and he had said himself that he hadn’t expected anyone to be home. He had come here for a reason. To give me a birthday present. Was this it? This horrible card in my hand?

  I went downstairs and sat at the window, waiting tensely for Philip. The moment I saw his car pull in, I ran out to meet him, almost insane with relief.

  “Are you ready?” Philip’s voice was earnest, his arms around me only a moment before pulling me into the house.

  “I’m ready. Philip—” I ran to catch up to him, for he’d headed straight for my room as if he knew my suitcase was waiting there—and thrust the photo into his face. I wanted to be reassured, protected . . . I wanted him to make everything all right.

  “Oh, Robin . . .” He took one look at the photo and clutched me against him. “My poor Robin. That guy’s really serious. He must be crazy. But don’t worry.” He held me so tightly I could hardly breathe. “I’ll take you away from here.” Philip released me, and while I struggled for air, he said, “Let’s go. Get your stuff.”

  This is it, I thought. No more time to think. But I didn’t need more time. I’d made my decision. I handed Philip my suitcase.

  “You have the map?” he asked.

  “The map?” Then, quickly, “Oh, yes.” I grabbed the envelope from the desk drawer and shoved it into my jeans’ pocket. “I’ve got it.”

  I didn’t even have time for one last look around the room—the room where, in a way, I’d come closer to my mother than I’d ever come before. Here I’d discovered her past. She’d left this room behind, and now it was my turn.

  I galloped down the stairs at Philip’s heels. Philip, so capable. I was in his hands now, and glad to be. I was safe, and this was what I wanted. He would take me away. I would escape all this turmoil. Escape, run away . . . I slowed. Was that what I was doing? Running away, as my mother had?

  No, I told myself slowly. This is different. My mother was running from the past. I’ve discovered all I can. My work here in Lorens is done. Now I’m running for my safety.

  I was almost to the door when the phone rang. Philip was already outside, tossing my suitcase into the back of his car. I hesitated. “I’ll be there in a second!” I called, turning. I dashed to the hall phone, grabbed it and let out a winded, “Hello?”

  “Robin?” The voice belonged to my uncle. My hand tightened on the receiver. Oh, why did I answer the phone? I lamented silently. I’m in no condition to carry on a conversation. If I had any sense at all, I’d have let it ring. I don’t live here anymore.

  I strove to keep my voice sounding normal as a thousand thoughts surged through my mind. I heard my uncle saying that he would be home a little later than usual this evening, that he had some errands to run after work . . . I was only half listening.

  This is it, I thought as my eyes swept the pictures on the walls, the annoying old clock, the faded wallpaper . . . I realized how much I had taken for granted during my stay. Two weeks—such a short time, really. I hadn’t taken advantage of the time to get to know this house, my uncle, or the town. But it was too late now. Through the open door, I saw Philip striding toward me.

  My uncle, however, was in no hurry. “So what have you been doing so far? Keeping busy?”

  “Yes . . . Actually—I was just heading out the door.” Philip was almost to the front porch. My heart pounded faster as I became increasingly conscious of what had previously been stirrings of uneasiness, turning into a torrent; and pricks of regret, into stabs. “Philip is taking me to see the Ingerman Mansion. We—we’re going to spend the afternoon there.”

  “The Ingerman Mansion?” My uncle’s voice lifted with n
otable concern.

  “Yes.” I waited expectantly, not sure why I had said that. Philip came to stand beside me. Possessively, I thought. I had a sudden hope that maybe by telling my uncle that I was going to the mansion, he would forbid me—maybe even say he was coming home to prevent me.

  Of course, he didn’t. I knew it was a long shot. My uncle had already made it clear that he thought I should make and be responsible for my own choices. “Well, just be careful,” was all he said now. “And happy birthday. I’ll see you later.”

  No, you won’t, I thought.

  I said, “Good-bye.” The words sounded so final. And as I replaced the phone, with Philip standing impatiently beside me, I knew that was because they were.

  “That was my uncle,” I said.

  Philip swore, shocking me. “Why did you answer it?”

  “I had to,” I defended myself. “He knew I was home, and if I didn’t answer he would wonder where I was. Besides, now I know he isn’t going to be home until at least five-thirty. So we’re in the clear—we’ll be well on our way by the time he gets home.”

  Slowly, Philip nodded. “Good thinking.”

  But I was wondering what my uncle would think when he finally got home. It didn’t seem right to just take off and leave him forever wondering what had happened to me; he must have gone through enough worry with my mother. Maybe I should leave a note.

  Suggesting this to Philip, he said, “Let the old geezer figure it out for himself.”

  “Don’t call him a geezer!” But Philip only grabbed my arm and pulled me out the door to his car. I tried not to fight him. Of course he’s tense and worried, I reasoned, because of what we’re doing. I’m nervous, too.

  But as we drove off, I kept throwing Philip sideways glances, uneasiness swelling inside me. His lips were set in a thin, firm line, and he hardly seemed to realize I was here. This was not the way I would ever have expected our elopement to be. This was supposed to be an exciting, romantic escape. So why didn’t I feel free? Why did I feel more like I’d just become a prisoner?