Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense)

by Therese Heckenkamp

  In subconscious distress, I began twisting the metal bracelet around my wrist. I looked down at my mother’s engraved initials, and strangely, this calmed me. I could almost feel my mother near me, understanding what I was feeling.

  Most likely the bracelet dropped off in his car or at his duplex . . . This line from the diary flashed into my head. I never had figured out how the bracelet had been found in the mansion, since my mother had written these words before discovering the map. I’d merely assumed she must have found the bracelet and then lost it again, for how else could Philip have found it under the carpet? But she had never mentioned finding it, and I remembered she had also written that if she ever did, she would make sure not to wear it until the catch was fixed.

  Now I examined the catch. It was secure—had to be, because I’d been wearing the bracelet since Saturday and it hadn’t come off. But if the catch was fixed, how had my mother lost it again?

  “Where are you, Robin?” I looked up to see Philip—the old Philip—smiling at me, one hand barely on the wheel, the other hand reaching over to me. Cruising at his customary racing speed must have helped him to regain his confidence.

  “You look a million miles away . . .” His fingers brushed my hair and ran lightly down the curve of my face. Such soft fingers. I closed my eyes, savoring the caress, and forgot the bracelet.

  “Dreaming about the future? California? I bet you can’t wait to get back there. I know I can’t. The beaches, the sun—there’s just no other place quite like it, you know?”

  I settled back against the seat, smiled at Philip’s handsome face, and found myself relaxing. My misgivings had been only natural, but now that we were on our way it was time to leave them behind. No more doubts, I ordered myself. Philip and I are so right together. I closed my eyes again, envisioning the new life we would begin in California, perhaps near the ocean in a little trailer by the sea… I wouldn’t care, as long as we were together and we had love. Money didn’t matter.

  I no longer felt afraid to tell Philip, as I had over the phone last night. This was the right time; holding secrets between one another was no way to start married life.

  “Phil,” I began.

  “I’d prefer Philip, if you don’t mind.”

  I began to shrug and say, “All right,” when the words froze on my lips. I glanced at him and saw he was still smiling, but the rigid way he held his jaw told me his words were not a request. This jarred something from my memory. Again, it was the diary . . .

  “What were you saying?” Philip prompted.

  “Nothing.” My voice came out in a husky whisper. Christopher Renton had refused to be called Chris. An odd demand. How strange that Philip should feel the same way about his own name.

  “Why?” I asked, turning and focusing on Philip’s face.

  “Why what?”

  “Why ‘Philip,’ but not ‘Phil’? It’s just a shortened version of your name. Does it really matter?”

  He shrugged, but the motion looked forced. “I guess not. Personal preference, that’s all. It’s what I’m used to. It’s what my dad always called me.”

  “Oh.” I was still concentrating on his face. This was the first time I’d ever heard him mention his dad. What would you look like, I wondered, with dark hair? And without that mustache? And you have gray eyes, don’t you?

  “Something wrong?”

  I looked quickly, innocently away. “No. Nothing.” But my mind was working, remembering, piecing together madly. “What were you saying about California?”

  “I was saying what an awesome place it is.” Philip’s voice grew eager. “This time of year especially—it’s really alive—but of course you know that already.”

  I was squinting steadily ahead of me, at the sun-glared stretch of road. “Yes . . . but how do you know?” I took a deep breath. “I thought you said you’d never been to California.”

  “Me? Never been to California?” A pause. “You must be mistaken. I never said that.”

  “But you did,” I insisted. “I’m sure of it…back that first day I met you in the store, you said—”

  “I don’t think so,” Philip cut in. “You must have heard wrong.” I noticed how both his hands tightened on the wheel.

  “Must have,” I said.

  But I knew I hadn’t.

  There was silence between us . . . if you could really call it silence. The air was crammed with sounds: the roaring motor, the rushing wind, and my screaming brain.

  I’ve been wrong about you, Philip, so very wrong. You’ve played me for a fool, I thought, squeezing my fists. And I fell for it. I had been too caught up in being suspicious of Justin to stop and realize how suspicious Philip’s own behavior was.

  I shot a glance at Philip. He sat so confident and cool that it repulsed me. I edged a little away from him, as much as I dared to without his noticing. But I was still trapped, sitting in his car, letting him drive me farther away from Lorens with each passing second. The wind whipped my hair and grabbed the cold sweat from my body.

  I wanted to say something, but the right words wouldn’t come. Maybe there were no right words. What had started out as an exciting adventure had turned into a frightening mistake. Somehow, I had to fix it. I told myself I would, when the moment was right. But when would that be? And how would I do it?

  A chilling fear took hold of me, breaking out in small bumps over my skin and creeping up the back of my neck.

  Certain things became clear. Justin wasn’t the one who had put the threat in the mailbox. He didn’t know I had found the map, and even if he had suspected, why make the threat? He’d had an ideal chance to get what he wanted today. He’d had me alone a number of times, in fact, but he had never threatened me. And yet I’d come to distrust and fear him. Who had spurred this fear? Philip. Always Philip. I’d accused Justin of seeking me out, of pursuing me. Until now, I’d been too blind to see that this applied to Philip, too.

  Philip had sent me the threat. He was the only one who knew I’d found the map. He was the one who would benefit from scaring me because it would throw all suspicion off himself by putting it on Justin, and make me scared enough to run away. I sat up straighter. I could admit to myself now that deep down I’d never intended to go through with this elopement. Philip must have sensed this and used the threat to push me over the edge, make me feel as if I had to run just to be safe.

  Now I realized what I should have from the start: Philip wanted the map—he was the one who would stop at nothing to get it—not even promising to marry me.

  I couldn’t marry Philip. Funny. This realization didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would have—or should have. And I knew why. I didn’t love Philip. Simple as that. I just had to realize it, and when I did, I understood what had happened. I’d been blinded by Philip’s charm. I’d been lonely, wanting to fall in love so much that I’d let myself believe I’d found it in Philip, simply because he’d made me feel wanted.

  But if all Philip wanted was the map, he couldn’t be serious about marrying me. I swallowed hard. Philip’s own words—“You know I need to be free”—flashed through my mind. He’d told me he would never tie himself down to someone unless he loved her. I knew he didn’t love me; all he wanted was the map. So what did he intend to do with me . . . ? What was I to him but an anchor weighing him down?

  “So where do you want to get married?” Philip asked as casually as if debating wallpaper patterns.

  “In church, of course. You know I’m Catholic.”

  “Thought Catholics weren’t supposed to elope,” Philip said mischievously.

  I should have thought of that earlier and saved myself a lot of trouble. “They’re not supposed to marry non-Catholics, either,” I said, “and you’re not Catholic, are you?”

  “What gave me away?” Philip laughed; I didn’t join in. “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly decided that matters to you.”

  “A little late now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. I don’t need G
od. Neither do you. The only way to get what you want out of life is to make it happen yourself.”

  The sudden bumping of the car over a rutted dirt road jarred me into becoming aware of my surroundings. “This isn’t the main road. Where are we going?” I couldn’t hide the rise of alarm in my voice.

  Philip’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, one of the things I’d thought I loved about him. “Just thought we’d take a little detour before leaving Lorens completely . . . see the mansion one last time. It’s the place that started it all, you know.”

  It sure did, I thought. Years and years and years ago. I gripped my seat tightly. Like Connie Ingerman and my mother before me, I found myself wishing the map had never existed.

  “Besides, you said yourself there’s no hurry. I figure we’ve got just about all the time in the world. No one suspects a thing, and by the time they do—well, everything will be taken care of, won’t it?”

  I smiled and nodded unhappily, feeling sick to my soul. How could things turn out so wrong? Barely eighteen, and what a mess I’d made of my life.

  We rounded a bend of trees and the mansion appeared before us, a forbiddingly massive form with its solid walls, flaking paint, and dark windows looking like thick, black slabs of ice.

  Philip cut the engine and dead silence followed. Even the birds did not sing. I thought this was a bad sign, and tried to remember if I’d heard birds singing the last time I was here. I couldn’t recall. Why didn’t they sing? Did they sense something wrong?

  I knew I did. Danger.

  But wait—get a grip, I ordered myself. Think. This could be a good thing. After all, what opportunity for escape did I have while Philip was driving? This might be my chance to get away.

  Only thing was, I knew I was balanced on the brink of something treacherous; I’d have to be very careful, because I had no way of knowing what was going on in Philip’s mind or what he was planning. Above all, I could not let him know that things had changed between us, that I knew who he really was. Because that just might send him—and me—over the edge.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Philip’s eyes fixed on the mansion. In a grossly hungry way, I thought. “Come on,” he said, hardly glancing at me as he took my arm.

  And my legs walked. They let Philip lead me to the mansion, that fearsome place that I had promised myself I would never again enter. I followed him, wading through itchy grass, stumbling over clumps of weeds, and struggling through the window because I was afraid of what he might do if I refused.

  Use your head, I directed myself. Now’s not the time to run.

  But when would be?

  Then there I was inside the mansion, alone with Philip. Philip Barnstrum. Barnstrum! For the first time, I heard how ridiculous the name sounded, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. I recalled the remarks Justin had made about Philip’s name. Justin knew—he knew Barnstrum was not Philip’s real name. Why hadn’t he told me? Simple, I thought miserably. I hadn’t trusted Justin, and he knew it. I wouldn’t have believed him even if he had told me. I would have made excuses, as I had all along, seeing only what I wanted to see. And what name, I asked myself, should Philip have any reason to keep from me? Of course, I knew the answer: Renton.

  “Upstairs,” Philip ordered.

  I lifted my head to give him a defiant glare, but it was lost in the shadows. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t a stupid lovesick kid ready to fall for his every command, but the words stuck in my throat. I mounted the stairs, which creaked and groaned in protest. I’d never felt more alone.

  As I passed the beautiful young woman’s portrait, the portrait of Connie Ingerman, her eyes reached out to mine, and for a moment it was as if she’d come to life. Now, more than ever, I needed her to speak, tell me how to escape—

  “Let’s not take all day,” Philip’s voice prodded from behind. You just said we have all the time in the world! I thought this, but I said nothing.

  For some reason, Philip led me to the rose room. Connie’s room. He was smiling strangely, as if he knew something I didn’t, and I found myself swallowing rapidly as he headed for the glass doors of the balcony. He pushed them open and sunlight streamed in, falling on the faded carpet and bleaching it white.

  Philip turned around, transformed into a silhouette against the brightness, and motioned me to his side.

  I came. My feet walked against my will and my eyes widened in horror, for at that moment it was easy to believe that I was being drawn out onto the balcony to meet my fate, the fate of both Connie and my mother before me.

  Why did Philip bring me here? This question hammered at my skull, but it never reached my lips. Probably because I didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “Look at this beautiful view, Robin.” Philip clutched my hands, and his palms felt disgustingly warm. I looked down and saw, strapped to his wrist, a silver watch glinting in the sunlight, telling me something . . .

  With a sharp intake of breath, I knew what it was. Though I’d never seen the watch before, I recognized it. I didn’t need to see the underside to know that the initials C.R. were engraved there.

  “Your hands are cold, Robin. They feel like ice.” He began to massage them. “Why are they so cold?”

  I tried to shrug his words aside, even managed a smile. “They’re always cold.” I prayed he didn’t guess the truth, that I was scared to death. My mouth, dry as cotton, tasted sour.

  “No, they’re not, Robin. Something’s wrong.” Philip squeezed my hands. “Tell me what it is.” His voice became tender and he moved closer. His face neared mine, and in that instant I realized he was about to kiss me. My heart constricted inside my chest. Everything about Philip repulsed me. I struggled in horror as his face leaned toward mine. More than anything, I wanted my lips never to touch his and to bear their stain forever. Using both hands, I pushed him away. He wasn’t expecting that, and he staggered back.

  He caught his balance, then seemed to freeze. I watched him emerge like a monster, moving slowly, coming to life as the ice that had been keeping him frozen—and me safe—thawed. A nerve on his face twitched, making one side of his mustache convulse. His jaw muscles tightened. His eyes locked on mine.

  The chilling silence lasted for at least a minute, during which time I spent trying not to tremble, and in which time I could tell Philip spent evaluating me, coolly calculating.

  At last, he spoke. “Good. The game’s over, Robin.” His voice was calm. “Now, no more fooling around. You know what I want. Give me the map.” As he held out his hand, his watch flashed in the sun.

  Anger that I didn’t know I could feel ignited inside me. I hated Philip for what he’d done to me, how he’d deceived and used me. I hated him for who he was.

  “Your name’s not Barnstrum—it’s Renton!” I was wearing Tiffany’s bracelet because I was her daughter. Philip was wearing Christopher’s watch because—“You’re his son! You’re Christopher Renton’s son!”

  “Congratulations, you win the prize,” Philip sneered. “Figured it out a little too late though, didn’t you?”

  How I detested the smugness in his voice and on his face. It gave me the strength to retort, “It’s not too late. At least I didn’t marry you—” Philip moved threateningly near, and I tried to shove him away again. But this time he was ready. Grabbing my wrists, he yanked me toward him and to the edge of the balcony. My courage gone, I cried, “How could I have been so stupid?”

  “I don’t know,” Philip snarled. “Maybe it’s in your blood. I’m sorry things had to turn out this way,” and he smiled his flawless smile, showing he was anything but sorry. “I wouldn’t have minded marrying you, you know. Someone to take care of the food and the kids.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “I wanted a son someday, Robin.”

  “Why, Phil? So you could poison him the way your father poisoned you?”

  Philip’s nostrils flared, and his mustache contorted, making him look sinister. “I said don’t call me that!” He drew his
hand back as if to slap me. I braced myself, but he dropped his arm and spoke with composure. “My father was smart. If it weren’t for him, the map never would have been found. He had a right to that gold. It was your mother who was stupid, for holding out on him.”

  “What are you talking about? She had amnesia—she didn’t remember the map!”

  “Sure, that’s what she claimed. But she was lying. My father told me all about it. Your mother just wanted it for herself—”

  “That’s not true!”

  “She took off and cheated my father out of what was rightfully his.”

  “No! You’re wrong—my mother never—”

  Philip ignored me. “Your mother thought she was so smart.” Philip’s grip tightened on my wrist. And those eyes, those eyes that for so long I had thought of as gentle gray, turned into cold steel. “Like you think you are, just because you figured out Christopher Renton was my father. But you’re not. You’re stupid.”

  Philip ran his fingers up my arm, making my flesh crawl as if a centipede were racing up it. “See this?” he asked.

  I blinked. My scar—the scar my mother had told me I’d gotten from a broken glass vase—

  “You know what that’s from? How you got that? Bet your mother never told you about the accident, did she?” Philip regarded me smugly. “Stupid. She should have told you—then you could have watched out . . . for me.”

  It began to make sense why my mother had been afraid to let me out of her sight. Who wouldn’t be, with a lunatic like this on the loose?

  “By the way,” Philip said, “how did she like the flowers I sent her in the hospital? A nice reminder of my father?”

  The lilacs. Philip had sent them.

  He smiled. “It’s what he would have wanted me to do, to let her know she hadn’t won. She thought she’d gotten the best of my father after her fall. When she got out of the hospital she thought she would just go on without him, forgetting that if it weren’t for him, she’d never have found the map. But he didn’t let her forget. He did things to remind her, like sending her meaningful gifts, climbing up the oak tree to her window at midnight and tapping on the glass; but she still wouldn’t give him the map or tell him where she’d stashed it—”