“You can stop,” I said. “We’ll never find him.”
Justin made a U-turn. A minute later, he pulled off the highway and into a gas station. When he got out to fill the tank, I leaned over to the driver’s side and saw that the needle of the gas gauge was on empty. I shook my head and leaned back in my seat.
“You’re right, you know,” Justin said a moment later, climbing into the Jeep, then starting it up. “We’ll never find him.”
The terror was embedded so deeply in my heart, I could hardly get the words out. But I had to ask. “What if he comes back? What if he still wants revenge—what if . . . ?” Justin’s hand left the wheel and went to mine, and my words faded as our fingers twined together.
“He won’t be back,” Justin said quietly, but with conviction. “He knows what would happen if he did. He knows he’s lost, and he can’t face it—can’t face being wrong. He never could. He’s the kind who’ll tip over the chessboard rather than lose.” Justin squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry anymore, Robin. It’s over. All over.”
Over. I repeated that word in my mind like a prayer.
It’s over. But after these past two intense weeks, I found that incredibly hard to believe. Maybe I was in some kind of state of shock—and I told myself I certainly should be, after all I’d been through—but I felt lost in an anticlimax, let down, as if things were over too suddenly. I expected something more. Something more than this silent drive back to my uncle’s.
I looked at Justin, wondering what he was feeling. But, as if to make up for his previous flood of words while on the balcony, he remained silent. Finally, I could stand it no longer.
“What are you going to do now?” I wasn’t even sure what I meant by the question, but I knew the answer I got wasn’t the one I wanted.
“It’s still a nice day.” Justin attempted a smile. “I’m going fishing.” He pulled into my uncle’s driveway and left the engine running, obviously waiting for me to get out. I opened my door but paused before stepping down.
“Thank you, Justin.”
“Don’t thank me, Robin.” He didn’t even turn his head to look at me. “I didn’t do anything . . . more than I had to.”
Both my feet were on the driveway now. I looked up at the house, still empty, so large and waiting, and I thought, It’s going to be a long afternoon here, alone.
Justin started pulling away when I turned back to him. “Wait!” I lifted my arm to get his attention. He stopped. Then, without further explanation—just trusting he would wait—I dashed to the house and up the stairs to my room. I rummaged through the closet, pulled my fishing rod from the back corner, and ran outside to join him.
That afternoon I discovered I liked fishing. The peaceful quiet of the park, the sun warm on my skin, the lucid water . . . and Justin there beside me. I liked to look down at our ripply reflections as we stood together on the bank. A couple of times, I think I caught Justin doing the same, and this reassured me.
Because there was still something not quite right, something hanging in the air between us so that we were together, and yet apart; even when he stood close and guided my arms to show me how to cast, the distance remained.
I wanted to speak, and yet I felt hesitant, waiting for Justin. He must sense it, too, I thought, and I told myself he would speak in his own good time.
After what we’d been through, I couldn’t blame him for his silence. If only I didn’t still have so many questions.
“Lake City,” I said, recalling what Justin had said on the balcony. “Is that where Philip lives?” “Used to. With me and my mom.”
“But isn’t—” I hesitated, embarrassed to say it—“isn’t your mom—sick?”
“Sick?” Justin repeated.
“I mean—isn’t she in a mental hospital?”
Silence. Then Justin let out a low whistle. “Did Philip tell you that?”
I nodded, and Justin shook his head. “It’s his mother who’s in the mental hospital. And no wonder. His father drove her to it. Soon after Philip was born.”
For the first time, I realized how young Philip must be. Twenty at the oldest. I imagined him without his cocky attitude, without his mustache, and he looked . . . like a kid.
“Philip never needed that gold,” Justin said, his voice sounding raw. “He’s got plenty of money. It was all about the challenge, all about winning.”
Justin knows a lot about Philip, I thought, and no wonder. They’re cousins. When he told me that his mom had taken care of Christopher and Philip after the car accident, I suddenly made the connection that Justin’s mother was Christine. That’s why Justin looks so much like Christopher. His mother is Christopher’s twin.
“Since they lived with us for a while,” Justin said, referring to Christopher and Philip, “I used to overhear stories . . . crazy stories. And Philip liked to brag. I never did think he was quite right in the head. As I got older, I asked too many questions, dug into the past a little too much—like someone I know.” He glanced at me, his lips making a partial smile. “That’s when I discovered some family history I wasn’t too proud of. But I’ve always liked asking questions. Maybe that’s why I became a reporter.”
I smiled. “All those strange questions you asked me when we first met . . .”
“I needed to find out how much you knew.”
“And you found out I didn’t know anything . . .” My words faded and I focused on my bouncing bobber.
“How did you know to come to the mansion?” I asked finally.
“I knew something was wrong when I heard you were headed there.”
I shook my head. “But how did you know I was going there?”
Justin recast his line before answering. “I went to the bookstore. To talk to your uncle. After seeing you this morning, I decided it was time to explain everything to him—why I’m here, why I’ve been following you, who Philip is, and what he was after. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t get through to Philip, and I couldn’t take this anymore, couldn’t sit by and watch things get worse—”
“You knew I was planning to leave, didn’t you?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t blame you for wanting to get away.”
There was silence for a moment while I watched the sun glimmering in golden ribbons on the water. “So what did my uncle say?”
“I never talked to him.”
“But you just said—”
“I went into the bookstore, but I never got the chance to talk to him. He was on the phone—to you. And when I heard him mention the mansion, I knew something was wrong, that you’d never go there by choice. I left the store before he even saw me—Hey! You’ve got a bite!”
I caught two big fish that afternoon, and Justin caught one. “Beginner’s luck,” he scoffed, almost like his old self. And yet—not quite. Something was missing from his voice.
It was enough to keep me wondering, enough so that I couldn’t let him go until I knew. Something was bothering him, but it was separate from the terror we had gone through. I needed to know what it was, because anything that bothered him bothered me, too. When Justin took me home, I persuaded him to stay for dinner.
“Your uncle won’t want me,” he protested.
“Just let me talk to him.”
When my uncle arrived home that evening, I waylaid him on the front steps and asked if Justin could stay. “I know why you don’t like him,” I said. I took a deep breath and met my uncle’s eyes. “He told me who he is. I know about my mother and Christopher Renton. I know you didn’t like Christopher, but don’t hold that against Justin. Give him a chance and get to know him. Please.” My uncle frowned. “If you do, I’ll bake a rhubarb pie tomorrow.”
Behind his glasses, I caught a twinkle in my uncle’s eyes.
Justin stayed.
My uncle had brought home two boxes, and this was why he had been late getting home. Out of one of them, he lifted a beautiful bakery birthday cake. It was decorated with roses tinted in pink, and I’d nev
er seen my name look as beautiful as it did in those curly frosting letters.
“So where’s Philip?” my uncle asked during the delicious dinner of grilled fish and corn on the cob. We had crackers, too. I was even eating cheese. This Wisconsin stuff can grow on you.
At my uncle’s question, I stopped chewing. I couldn’t help making eye contact with Justin.
“He’s gone,” I said, “and I don’t think he’s coming back.”
My uncle lifted his own eyes and gave me a strange look, a look that I somehow deciphered as: “At least you had the sense not to go with him.” And I wondered how much I’d misjudged my uncle, how much he’d suspected, how much he’d known all along. Maybe someday I’d ask him.
What really pleased me was that when my uncle and Justin got to talking, they discovered they had a common interest, fishing. And that was enough to begin fanning away the hostile barrier between them.
“He’s not at all like his uncle,” my uncle confided to me when we were in the kitchen getting plates and forks for the cake. “I think I could learn to like him. As long as he likes rhubarb pie, that is.”
I smiled, thinking, Maybe I’ll ask him over for dinner again tomorrow night and we can find out. I took a carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer, the jar of maraschino cherries from the cupboard, and returned with them to the kitchen, feeling a flutter of worry and hope inside me as I looked at Justin.
His eyes avoided mine.
The remaining box was wrapped in funny pink paper, a purple ribbon perched on top. I had no idea what was inside; I certainly hadn’t expected presents. This birthday had already given me enough surprises.
The box contained a diary, a fat blue leather book gilded in gold. I flipped through the blank pages, and instantly I knew what I would use it for.
“I wasn’t sure what to get you, Robin,” my uncle said, picking up the torn wrapping paper. “I hope you like it. Your mother never kept a diary, but I often thought it was too bad she didn’t . . . for your sake.” He crumpled the paper into a pink wad. “Anyway, happy birthday.”
I couldn’t speak, but it didn’t matter. I reached over and hugged my uncle shyly, and I knew that from now on, things were going to get better between us.
While my uncle lit the candles on my cake, I glanced at Justin from beneath my lashes. He saw me looking, and I blushed. I could feel him watching me while I made my wish and blew out my candles. All eighteen of them. So my wish was supposed to come true.
That evening, after the cake and ice cream was eaten and the dishes cleared, I asked Justin to take me for a ride in his Jeep. “It’s such a nice evening,” I said longingly.
Justin took me, and it was very different from those wild joy rides with Philip. Much to my relief.
The sun was sinking in a pink watercolor-washed sky. While gazing out the window, trying to catch a view of the skyline, I had a sudden idea. Before I could lose my nerve, I turned to Justin.
“Remember how you said the best place to watch a sunset is from the mansion’s balcony? Let’s go there now. Let’s see the sunset.”
Justin raised his eyebrows but kept his eyes on the road. “Are you serious?” I knew he was thinking of how I hated and feared the mansion. And after what had happened there today still so fresh in our minds, I must be crazy to want to go back. Yet it was suddenly important for me to do just that—go back and face my fear and overcome it. I took a deep breath.
“Yes. Very serious.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As we approached the mansion, I felt my heart skipping beats. The mansion had never looked more foreboding, wound as it was now in the wispy gray shadows of evening, but I continued walking because Justin was behind me. I didn’t even have to turn to reassure myself he was there. I just knew.
Inside the mansion, the white furniture forms heightened the gloomy atmosphere, but I didn’t give them a second glance. Justin took my hand and guided me past them and up the stairs. I saw Connie Ingerman’s portrait, her sad eyes, her lips that were about to speak . . . and I knew now what she would tell me if she could: love is the only treasure worth sacrificing for.
I left the portrait behind, thinking, I don’t need her to tell me that. I already know.
I passed through the etched glass doors, with Justin right behind me, and walked out onto the balcony. The instant I saw the horizon, all impending fear departed. The sky was smeared in brilliant pink, blending into golden orange before bursting into a fiery fringe around the sun. A few puffy clouds were stained pink, like cotton balls that had been dipped in bright dye.
I don’t know how long I stood there, silently gazing at the beauty, the colors surging through my soul.
Eventually, Justin spoke in a low, gentle voice. “I’m glad we came.”
Reaching for his hand, I said, “So am I.” I no longer felt weighed down by the tragedies that had taken place here, but lifted up by hope.
When Justin said no more, I turned to look at him and caught him staring down at a yellow scrap of paper near our feet. He saw that I saw it. “I’m sorry—” he made a sound deep in his throat, like he was fighting to get the words out—“I’m sorry I destroyed the map.”
My heart constricted inside me. No, I thought, don’t say that!
“It was yours. If anyone had a right to it, you did . . . You found it. I shouldn’t have destroyed it—I had no right—”
“You had every right! Do you really think I wanted it?” I asked, incredulous. At the same time, I wondered if this was what had been bothering him all afternoon. “After the pain it’s caused so many people? I’m glad it’s gone.”
There was a pause. “I’m glad you’re glad.” He smiled. “Man, it felt good tearing that thing to pieces . . .” I returned the smile, but when his smile faded and his eyes slid away from mine, I knew something was still wrong.
“I bet I know what you wished for tonight,” Justin said.
“Oh?” I made my voice sound indignant, hoping to challenge him into a witty response. “Do you think you can you read my mind or something?”
“No.” Justin raked his hand through his hair and gave a strange laugh. “Don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that.” I had a feeling he was making fun of me, but I didn’t mind. In fact, it encouraged me. I was thinking up another witty reply when Justin suddenly turned and walked away.
“Justin . . . wait! Where are you going?” He stopped, but he didn’t turn. Staring at his stiff back, I could take this no longer. “Something’s bothering you. What is it? What’s the matter? Why are you acting like this? You won’t talk to me, you won’t look at me, you—”
Justin swung around. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong—it’s you! It’s all your fault! You and your words and your thoughts . . . and this sunset. How much am I supposed to take? I’ve gotten to like you, and this wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to fall for you!” All the anger dropped from his voice. “You’ve changed my life, and now I have to say good-bye.”
“What do you mean, say good-bye?”
For a panicky second, I thought he meant he was leaving Lorens. Then I realized he meant me. My birthday wish—California. Suddenly it became clear. Justin thought I still planned to go back to California. And he didn’t want me to go! Something caught in my throat—a laugh or a cry—it never came out, so I don’t know.
“What about me?” I replied, too relieved to care what I said. “I never asked you to come into my life and make me want to stay here. Do you think I want to feel this way about you?” We were arguing again and it felt wonderful. “You’re so cocky and arrogant, and you have an atrocious temper—”
“Yours isn’t exactly the sweetest in the world, either, you know—”
“We can never stop arguing—”
“Because you’re as stubborn as a mule!”
“And you’re as bossy as a—well, I don’t know—but you sure are bossy!”
We broke out laughing, laughing so hard that if anyone heard us they’
d think we were crazy. But there was no one around to hear us. It was just Justin and me for miles and miles, and I loved it.
I was still laughing when Justin sobered and returned to stand by my side.
“So—you’re not leaving?” he asked. “Even after all that’s happened? I’d think you’d want to get away.”
I stopped laughing and turned to the sunset.
What Justin was saying meant running away . . . to escape bad memories. But I didn’t want that. I wanted to stay right here and face them. Because that’s the only way I could put them behind me.
“How could I leave?” I asked softly. “Where else would I be able to see a sunset like this?”
It was a question that didn’t need answering.
Absently, I fingered my bracelet. I knew now that my mother hadn’t been careless with it. She’d never found it. Christopher must have had it all along, then passed it on to Philip. That would be just like him. Philip hadn’t found it under the carpet; he’d just said that to pull me deeper into his warped plot.
Justin touched the bracelet and said, as if he didn’t want to, yet had to, “You know, I’m still related to Christopher . . . and Philip. Nothing’s ever going to change that.”
“I know. And it’s funny. I thought it mattered; I hated them so much. I think about what Christopher did—leaving my mother lying on the ground all that time alone and in pain because he needed an alibi—but now, I don’t know, I almost feel sorry for him and Philip. Imagine the kind of life they had.” I shivered, and Justin moved closer. He put his arm around me so lightly I would not have known it was there except for the rush of emotion that filled me.
“So you aren’t afraid I might have ‘bad blood’ in me or something?”
“Don’t worry, any bad blood you have is your own.” The statement came out without my thinking. “So no making excuses by blaming relatives!”
Justin grinned. “I like the way you put that.”
Past Suspicion (Christian Romantic Suspense) Page 29