One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (17)

Chapter 17

Detective Grant saw Liam and nodded at him and smiled. What was this? Rory watched in silence as the two men shook hands and remarked about the passing years. High school classmates, she realized, uncertain how this would affect her.

Grant grew serious and turned to Rory. “If you’ll come with us . . . ?”

“No, I’ll drive myself. But this can’t take too long. I have a sick daughter and I’m not going to leave her for hours on end.”

“Okay,” he said, shooting a glance at Liam. Rory suspected what he was thinking: that she was a flight risk.

“I’ll be there,” she insisted, turning to the older detective, Susskind.

“Want me to take you?” Liam asked her.

“I can handle this.”

None of the men responded and she realized she probably looked like she was about to pass out. She’d been worried out of her mind about her kid, had barely slept in forty-eight hours, hadn’t eaten since she could remember, never even considered a lick of lipstick or touch of makeup. She’d been harassed by about everyone she met.

A bit of humor touched Liam’s eyes. “There’s the girl I remember.”

“Not a girl,” she said. She stepped away from the knot of men, avoided a teenager plugged into his phone, and slapped the button to call the elevator. “Not anymore.” Despite the recent feeling that she could crumple into his arms, she shook her head, her hair brushing the back of her shoulders. “I got this, Liam. I can handle it.” Could she? God, she doubted it. To the detectives she said, “What’s the address?”

Susskind rattled it off and added, “We’ll follow you.”

A warning. Of course. Perfect.

“You’re sure about this?” Liam asked her. “You know a lawyer might be a good—”

“I don’t need an attorney.” The doors to the elevator car opened and she, along with the cops, Liam, and a middle-aged couple all crowded inside. It was a struggle to breathe. As soon as the car landed, she muscled her way into the hallway and through the doors to the lower parking area. The sun was settling lower in the western sky, and she spied Liam’s Tahoe parked one aisle over from her vehicle.

As she yanked her keys from her purse and stalked toward her car, Liam caught up with her and fell into step. “I’m coming with you.”

“So you can be with your cop buddy.”

“No.”

She unlocked her Honda on the fly.

The little car chirped in response, its lights flickering.

Yanking the door open, she noticed the two cops climbing into a nondescript sedan parked in the shade of a struggling sapling, one of several trees planted in an effort to break up the acres of asphalt.

“I want to help. Come on, Rory.”

Help. She didn’t trust his kind of help. “No, thanks.” She slid into the warm interior of her Honda and slammed the door shut. Her heart was hammering and it was all she could do to keep from breaking down. She was going to the police station, a place she’d avoided like the plague all these years, to tell the story she’d kept secret for five years. Everything in her life would change and there was a chance she would be arrested, that . . . that . . . oh, damn.

She opened the door again as Liam was walking back toward his vehicle. “Just . . . if something happens . . .” she called. “If the cops, I don’t know . . . if they keep me too long? Come back here for Charlotte.”

“They won’t.”

“Liam?”

“Yes. Of course.”

She wanted to cry again, but pulled the door shut and plunged her key into the ignition. A grinding noise ensued and she tapped the gas. “Oh . . . God . . . come on!”

The engine coughed, but wouldn’t turn over.

She stopped turning the key, took a deep breath and gave it another go. Then another.

The ignition ground as it struggled and failed to spark. Her left hand held the steering wheel in a death grip. The engine struggled. More coughing, then nothing. Rapidly, she stepped on the accelerator three times, then switched on the engine again.

Click, click, click! No spark. No ignition. No damned thing.

The starter, she thought. Or, the battery. She should have waited for The Magician to look at it.

She wanted to scream. Drawing a breath, she sent up a prayer. Give me strength. Through the bug-spattered windshield, she spied the detectives waiting in their own car. and Liam now at the wheel of his Tahoe. Great. Just . . . great.

Hot, tired, and hungry, she swore pungently inside her mind, then counted to ten. Why? Why now? With everything else, now was not the time for her little car to give up the ghost. She tried once more, already assuming failure. Click, click, click. The starter. Definitely.

Snapping the keys from the car, she scooped up her purse, flung open the door, and stepped outside. Liam had rolled down the window of his rig. “Problems?”

She fought back the desire to kick one of the Honda’s tires. “Looks like I need that ride after all.”

“Hop in.”

She was already rounding the SUV and reaching for the passenger door. As she settled into the seat, she slid a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose and said, “Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Several hours later, Rory sat staring at the smooth, windowless walls of the interrogation room. She knew she was being filmed, assumed she was being watched and really didn’t care. The two detectives were in the room: Liam’s classmate, Grant, the younger guy with the mustache, at the small table across from her; and Susskind, standing, his graying hair falling over his eyes, one beefy shoulder propped against the door frame.

She’d told them her story, going over it three times, starting with the assault at the wedding by the masked man and finishing by explaining how she’d ended up at Laurelton General Hospital and the Lamplighter Inn. She’d taken a lie detector test and given a DNA sample and even written down Kent Daley and Maude Sutter’s names, addresses, and phone numbers.

Had she sold them out?

Probably.

Right now, dead tired, her stomach rumbling, she didn’t care. She’d told the authorities the truth, every bit of it, and now the cops could do with it what they would. All that mattered to Rory was Charlotte.

When they’d asked her about Teri Mulvaney, she’d been shocked. How in the world did they expect her to know anything about the dead woman?

Still . . .

Though they were noncommittal, it was clear to Rory that the two detectives were skeptical. She believed they still thought she might take off at a moment’s notice. While Grant had asked questions, Susskind had been the gofer and, she supposed, the good cop. He’d listened for the most part, but had left several times to bring her a bottle of water and later, a Diet Coke. Lubrication, she’d thought, to avoid a dry throat and keep her talking, which she had.

Did she know who attacked her?

No.

Was she wounded?

No, not really. She’d given as good as she got, stabbing her attacker in the back of the hand.

Did she have any idea who the shooter could be?

No, but wasn’t it someone named Pete DeGrere? That’s what she’d heard.

Did she know DeGrere?

No!

Did anyone in her extended family know him? Anyone, like Harold Stemple?

They would have to ask him, and since he was in prison, that shouldn’t be too tough.

Who would want DeGrere dead?

She couldn’t answer that because she didn’t know him. Weren’t they listening?

Why did she run? Where did she go? Who did she contact? Why did she change her name? Who would want her dead? Who would attack people at her wedding? Who was the real target? Was she the target? Or Liam? Or Aaron? Why didn’t she contact the police? Why didn’t she contact her husband? Why didn’t she tell Liam Bastian that he was a father? Could that child be anyone else’s? Who, did she think, would want her and her child dead?

“I don’t know,” she repeated to the questions that just kept coming.

On and on it went, over and over again, as the minutes and hours ticked away and she thought she’d go mad. Susskind had spoken to some detective at the Seattle PD and come back with some new questions, which, again, she couldn’t answer because she didn’t know.

The afternoon had bled to evening when she finally said, “I’ve told you everything. Absolutely everything. You’ve asked me the same questions over and over. I fled the wedding to save my life and that of my unborn daughter, and I stayed hidden because we were threatened. I’ve always been scared, okay? Scared out of my mind, afraid someone was following me, afraid they would try again, afraid for my little girl, and . . .” She stopped, aware she was rambling, and added, “Well, you know it all.”

Grant nodded, apparently finally satisfied, but Susskind wasn’t looking quite as convinced. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Rory cut him off.

“If you’re going to stop me, arrest me, then do it. Otherwise I need to go. You took my cell phone information, texts, messages, recent calls, whatever, as well as the license plate of my car and my driver’s license—”

“—in the name of Heather Johnson.” Susskind broke in. No more good cop, apparently.

“But you know who I am,” she said evenly. She scraped back the uncomfortable molded plastic chair where she’d sat for the past four hours. They’d given her her phone back and it was tucked safely in her purse, so there was nothing holding her here. “Charge me, or let me go.”

Grant rubbed the corner of his mustache. “We’re good for now. But don’t go anywhere.”

Susskind opened the door and escorted Rory through a series of hallways and elevators to the rear parking lot. “I can give you a lift back to the hospital,” the detective offered, but she was having none of it, and fortunately she spied Liam, standing near his Tahoe, cell phone in hand.

For a second a whisper of déjà vu floated through her brain. How she’d first seen him on a rain-slick Seattle sidewalk. He looked up and the ice around her heart cracked, just a little. “Thought you could use another ride,” he said.

“You waited all this time?”

“I told Grant I would come by the station and go over the death of the woman whose body was found at our construction site. We’re not really old friends. That’s how we reconnected. ”

“Teri Mulvaney,” she said. “They asked me about her, too.”

“Really.” He was surprised.

“They asked me pretty much everything they could think of, and I answered every single question. Did you talk to Susskind? Because Grant was with me most of the time.”

He nodded. “It was just routine. I don’t know what they think you could know about Teri Mulvaney.”

“I’m a master criminal, didn’t you know?” Her belligerence actually scared a faint smile out of him, which hadn’t been her intention. He was entirely too attractive when he smiled, so she looked away and said, “That interview couldn’t have taken that long.”

“I wanted to wait for you anyway,” he said. “And I checked on Charlotte. She’s fine. She asked about you, so the nurse—”

“Karin with an I?”

“Yes, she told her you’d be by in the morning. Darlene’s already at the hospital.”

“But I have to go to see Charlotte now.” She was already climbing into his rig.

“Rory, you’re dead on your feet.”

“She’s only four.”

“And she’ll be all right for a few more hours. The last I heard she was sleeping again.” He started the Tahoe, then pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “Pediatrics, please. Nurse Karin White. Yeah . . . I’ll hold.” To Rory, he said, “Talk to the nurse. Maybe she can fill you in better than I can and she’ll let you talk to Charlotte.” He handed her the phone before wheeling out of the lot and heading west, where the sun had set and the lights of the city winked to the rim of mountains, barely visible in the twilight.

* * *

“This is Nurse Karin White,” a cheery voice on the other end of the connection said. Rory identified herself as Charlotte’s mother and launched into all of her questions. The nurse listened, then gave her an update on Charlotte’s condition. “She’s alert, stable, and her temp’s normal. Her appetite’s back and I’d guess that she’ll be released tomorrow.”

“I’m on my way.”

“She’s sleeping now. I don’t think she’ll wake until morning. Maybe early, but who knows.”

Rory hung up and handed the phone back to Liam. Sagging against the seat, the exhaustion Liam had mentioned stealing over her, she said, “I have to go back to the hospital anyway. I guess Charlotte’s sleeping, but I still need to get my car somehow.”

“We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

“Just leave it at the hospital?” she asked as the streetlights sped by and a sports car passed them as if they were standing still.

“The police already know why it’s there.”

That much was true. “I still need . . .”

He shot her a look and she let the sentence die. “Okay. Fine. Take me to the Lamplighter.”

“The what?”

“Where I’m staying.”

One dark eyebrow cocked. She saw the movement as the headlight beams from cars moving in the opposite direction washed over the interior. “I think you’re staying at my place.”

She shook her head. That was not a good idea. Staying at his place, seeing where he lived, the intimacy of it? No way. At least not tonight. “No, I need to be close to the hospital and . . .” She yawned. “I . . . I need to think about things.” Then the penny dropped. “You’re afraid I’m going to leave, even with my child in the hospital!”

“Of course not.” His lips twisted. “Kind of hard now, right? No car.”

“Right.” Her voice was tight.

When he veered off the highway, she thought for a second that he might be taking her to his place after all, damn near abducting her, but she was wrong. Instead he drove her into the line to the drive-up window of a hamburger stand, and when she heard a cheery voice say, “Welcome to Brenda’s Burgers, what can I get for you?” she was transported back to her own job at the Point Bob Buzz. She’d worked there so recently, just earlier in the week, and yet it already felt like a lifetime ago.

Liam ordered two cheeseburgers, French fries, onion rings, a Diet Coke, and a vanilla milkshake, which were bagged and ready in the five minutes it took to crawl to the window. A tattooed waitress with a nose ring and neon pink smile greeted them, took their money, and handed them their dinner.

“Next time it will be more elegant,” Liam promised as he engaged the Tahoe again and drove unerringly toward Laurelton General. The odors of charred beef, dill pickles, and grease from a fresh batch of French fries mingled and teased at Rory’s nostrils and it was all she could do to leave her burger wrapped in its cocoon of paper, though she did find herself picking at the hot fries. Just before they reached the entrance to the hospital, Rory pointed out the turnoff to the motel.

Liam turned into the access road leading to the motel with its glowing gaslights and aging façade. “Don’t say it,” she warned as Liam eased the Tahoe into an empty space delineated by faded stripes marking the pavement in front of the units.

“Say what?”

“It’s cheap, doesn’t require a credit card, and is close to the hospital. Everything I need.” She was out of the door and heading up the stairs to her room as he cut the engine.

She heard him behind her, packing their white sacks, taking the steps two at a time, and it crossed Rory’s mind that this was a mistake as well, that never in her wildest imaginings would she think that she’d be here, at a cheesy motel . . . with her husband.

What a difference a week had made.

Within minutes, they were seated at the small table, Liam in the only chair, she perched on a corner of the bed and devouring her burger. She had to force herself to take sips from her drink rather than bolt down every last onion ring and French fry, but slowly, her hunger was sated to the point that she didn’t finish the last bit of bun, just couldn’t do it.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes. Lots. Thank you.”

“De nada.”

She eyed the detritus of the meal—wrinkled sacks, globs of catsup from used, open packets congealing on the paper that had wrapped their burgers, empty cups, and straws. She couldn’t stifle the yawn that overtook her. “Look, I think I have to lie down. Do you mind . . . ?” She began picking up the trash.

“I’ll leave,” he said, helping her stuff the remainders into an empty sack.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll be back,” he said, and walked to the door with the trash. “I’ll take this with me since you may not want to wake up to the smell of old grease and onions.”

“Is it worse than stale air, dust, and some kind of air freshener?”

“Slightly.”

She watched him walk outside and shut the door behind him. She instantly felt bereft, alone, and it kind of pissed her off. She slipped between the covers and stretched, sighing. Her muscles instantly started to relax. It was heaven, even in the Lamplighter’s too-hard bed with its faded coverlet that matched the long, blue curtains framing the window.

She’d just let her eyelids droop closed when she heard the door open again, and the sounds of the night—a dog barking, traffic rumbling on the highway, a car’s radio blasting heavy-metal as it passed—reached her ears over the steady hum of the air-conditioning unit rattling beneath the room’s single window. As he closed the door again, she listened to the whine of a motorcycle accelerating through its gears. “That reminds me,” she said, the sound fading.

“What? What reminds you?”

“The motorcycle that just passed. Earlier today I ran into Cal. On a bike. Dressed head to toe in leathers.”

Liam paused. “Redmond?” he asked, surprised.

“He was actually looking for me.” Forcing herself up, she propped herself on her elbows as Liam stood at the door. She quickly told him about Cal and his need to unburden himself in his own version of a twelve-step program. Seven, in Cal’s case.

“I never liked the guy,” Liam stated flatly. “Never trusted him.”

Liam had known Cal more from pictures and what Rory had told him rather than direct contact. She said, “That was probably a good idea, but he seems to have turned over a new leaf.”

“If you believe in that kind of thing.” He fiddled with the blinds, drawing the curtains over them, blocking out any chance of light entering or, she thought, unwanted eyes peering through.

“You obviously don’t.”

“No.” He twisted around the chair he’d been sitting in, straddling the back and facing the bed.

“He seemed sincere, but . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I was glad when it was over.”

Liam nodded, his hair seeming darker in the dim room illuminated only by the bedside lamp. “What happened with the cops?”

“I told them everything I knew.” She gave him a quick recap of those hours of interrogation, finishing with, “I half expected Pauline Kirby to be waiting for me when I got back here, that she’d found out where I was staying.”

“She’s known for her deep ‘investigative reporting.’”

“Right.” She shook her head. “Your cop friend asked me about everything and everyone, Pete DeGrere, Everett, Harold, and, of course, Aaron, like I said.”

“What did you tell them about your family?”

“Stepfamily. That Aaron was a pretty good guy, that Everett wasn’t, and that I wasn’t surprised Harold was in prison. I also told them I didn’t know Pete DeGrere, and that I ran because I was attacked and scared.”

“Derek blames Everett for the sabotage at the Hallifax project.”

“I know. He brought it up earlier.”

Liam got up from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed. “Scoot over a bit.”

Rory eyed him speculatively. Did he think she would just throw open the covers and let him slide in beside her? To take up where they’d left off, or to start up again? Is that what he wanted? What she wanted?

But he only sat on the edge of the bed, the old mattress sagging beneath him.

“What do you think?”

“About Everett? He’s sure capable of it, but I don’t know. I did think he’d been following me.”

“Here?”

“And in Point Roberts, and Vancouver. Like I said, I don’t know.” Yawning again, she stretched one arm over her head. “It’s just a feeling I’ve had and I’m not sure.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You had someone follow me,” she pointed out.

“To find you.”

“Still, it’s scary.”

He nodded. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay . . . well, it’s not, but I get it. I can’t blame you for that,” she admitted. “And you want a divorce?”

He was silent a moment, then admitted, “That’s why I was looking for you.”

“So you can marry Bethany.”

“That part,” he said slowly, “I’m not so sure about.”

She felt a small flare of hope and tried to crush it back down. They might still be husband and wife, but there was no “them” any longer. She had to remember that. “But you are all about the divorce.”

A beat.

Another.

She held her breath, counting her heartbeats.

“I think we have a lot to discuss, Rory,” he said, and she knew he was talking about her daughter, his daughter, their daughter. “But not now. Tomorrow . . .”

“Okay.”

It was all she could do to get those two syllables out. Their relationship of husband and wife could never be the same. It hadn’t even been a marriage that had the time to mellow and age, and their child . . . she didn’t know him. Would it be so hard for Charlotte to accept she had a father that she saw only part of the time? It wasn’t as if she’d lost anything. She’d never even known about him.

Unless, of course, he tried to take Charlotte from her.

No . . . no . . . the Liam she knew wouldn’t do that.

And if he tried, she’d fight him with every breath in her body.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, reassuring her, though she understood the words were spoken to placate her, to table the discussion, to put off the inevitable battle, but she couldn’t fight, not tonight, at least not now. “Sleep now,” he said, then added, “I could stay—”

Yes! No! God.

“—or not.”

She felt the bed shift and hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes for a second. He was right about her being dead on her feet.

“I’ll see you in the morning. With coffee.”

“Gallons,” she murmured into her pillow. She felt the warmth of his lips brush against her cheek . . . didn’t she? She was drifting.

“Get up and throw the bolt,” his voice ordered from a long way away as he snapped off the light.

“Uh-hmmm.”

“Rory, I’m serious.”

She heard him twist the lock in the knob, then the soft thud of the door closing behind him, but she couldn’t move . . .

He’d kissed her . . . hadn’t he? Something soft and warm. She wanted him to kiss her more . . . She wanted . . .

The sudden noise jolted Rory into wakefulness. She blinked awake. Where was she? The room was dark. Pitch dark. Oh, God, she was at the motel, and Charlotte was at the hospital and Liam . . . he’d just left. He must’ve forgotten something . . . Bleary. She was bleary and it was with an effort that she threw back the covers, her fingers searching for the light switch. She stumbled through the coverlet as the sorry little room was flooded with illumination.

She was reaching for the doorknob when she stopped, some of the fuzziness in her mind clearing. Maybe whoever was banging on the door wasn’t Liam. Maybe she’d been asleep longer than it seemed. She peered through the peephole to the darkness beyond. Nothing. “Liam?” she called, still trying to chase the cobwebs from her mind. “What?” She slipped the chain through its lock, then opened the door a crack, peering out to the poorly illuminated porch.

No one . . . just the still night. Cars parked in the lot. The smell of alcohol? Maybe the faint tinge of cigarette smoke?

Her skin crawled.

“Don’t shut the door, Rory,” he warned.

Not Liam . . . not Liam!

Before she could slam it shut, the door smashed against the chain, straining. She scrabbled with it, trying to close it, opened her mouth to scream—

The door flew open with a sickening splintering of wood as the screws holding the chain gave way. Craaack!

Rory saw stars. Stumbled back. Pain behind her eyes, nearly blinding her. Blood pouring from her nose.

“Get out!” she cried.

What the hell was happening? Dazed, she focused on the intruder, trying to think, to seek a way of escape, or a weapon to defend herself. Half her face throbbed and she reached up to her cheek, her hand sticky with blood.

She blinked, fighting her dizziness, focused.

She knew him, knew his build.

As her foggy mind cleared, her heart froze in her chest.

Cal Redmond, dressed in his black leathers, his face twisted into an angry grimace, grabbed her by the throat and stared at her with hot hatred. He kicked at the door, which shuddered against its splintered frame.

“Cal?” she squeaked out, backing up. She couldn’t believe it. Cal? Cal was here? Infuriated?

“I think,” he said in a barely audible whisper, “we should clear the air.”

He smelled of whiskey. Was clearly drunk. “What are you talking about?” She could barely get the words out, he was squeezing so tight. As if realizing it, he slowly released her throat.

Rory’s knees hit the edge of the bed and nearly knocked her off her feet, but she stayed upright. Needed to stay upright. Run, if she could.

“Unfinished business.” He pulled a pocketknife from his jacket and clicked it open.

He waggled it dangerously under her dripping nose.

Sweet. Jesus.

“I don’t . . . I don’t . . . you said we were okay!” she whispered, her eyes focused on the evil, glinting blade. Her mind searched for a means of escape or a weapon of some kind, any kind, because the malicious glint in his eyes was unmistakable.

He was here to do damage.

To her.

With his free hand, he pointed a finger at her. “You lied to me, Rory.”

“No—I—”

“You’re still lying.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She had to get out of here. Get away. She noticed for the first time that he wasn’t wearing gloves. His bare hands were exposed, the scar visible on the back of one. Oh. Jesus. She’d made that jagged rough line just before she was set to walk down the aisle of her wedding ceremony. She’d plunged a knife into the back of his hand before running out of the hotel room. Cal was the man who had attacked her! The assailant who’d disguised his voice with helium, the madman who had guessed she was pregnant and vowed to kill her and her child.

“Why are you doing this?” she said on a sob.

“Because you destroyed our baby and kept his.”

“What?” The miscarriage, he is bringing up the miscarriage?

“You didn’t want my baby, but you sure wanted that rich fucker’s. I tried to forgive you. I tried really hard. But I can’t.”

She gasped as she backed away from him. If she could just ease into the bathroom and lock the door, call the police or Liam or someone. Her phone . . . where the hell was her phone? She searched the room in her peripheral vision, her gaze still centered on the deadly knife.

“You murdered our kid. Couldn’t be with someone as worthless as me. Nona . . . Nona knows I’m worth something, but not you. You never did. I was never good enough for Rory Abernathy.” Anguish and fury twisted his features.

“No, Cal. That’s just not true. I lost the baby. It just happened.” She remembered the cramping, the spotting. “I wanted—”

“Shut up!” he shouted, spittle spraying, the reek of whiskey surrounding him.

Sweating, heart trip-hammering, she caught a glimpse of her phone on the edge of the nightstand. Too far. If she leaped for it, he’d be on her, on the bed and . . . he’d kill her. She saw the murderous intent swimming in his eyes.

“I don’t know why you’re here, but you need to leave,” she said, hoping to reason with him as she stepped around the chair that Liam had pulled from the small table. Lord, that seemed like a lifetime ago. She nearly tripped over the coverlet that had pooled on the stained carpet, but she kept moving. Backing away. Ever away. The bathroom was only five feet away now . . .

“You got pregnant and married that son of a bitch.” His voice was low and accusatory, judge and jury all rolled into one low growl.

How did he know this? “No one knew I was pregnant.” Not even Liam.

“I was watching you.” He poked the knife closer toward her.

A chill ran down her spine. Could she make it to the bathroom?

“Saw you go to the drug store.”

“What?”

“Pick up that little kit . . . the same kind you used when you found out about our baby.”

The pregnancy test. “I didn’t kill our baby, Cal,” she pleaded.

“You shut your lying mouth,” he warned.

He was crazy. Wasted. She had to calm him down “What—what about your program? Twelve steps . . . or you said, seven?”

The bathroom was only a few feet away.

If she could launch herself, fling her body through the open door, slam it shut, lock it, and scream bloody murder, maybe she could scare him off, get someone to come or call the cops. But she was still stunned from the door smashing into her face, her nose and mouth throbbing, the taste of blood on her lips. She backed up slowly, one step at a time. “So you came to my wedding on purpose. To what, kill me?”

“Teach you a lesson.”

“And you killed Aaron in the process!” She could feel her fear changing to anger. Good. She wanted to be mad!

“That wasn’t me. I just wanted to talk to you, reason with you, make you admit what you did. I saw the balloons, and I had the mask, and I knew which room you were in. I saw you go in. You . . . you stabbed me!”

Rory edged backwards. Keep him talking. Just keep him talking. “You attacked me, Cal! I just wanted to get away!”

“I had to wrap my hand in my black apron to hide where you stabbed me when the police showed up!” He shook his fist at her, the scar white against his skin. “They weren’t looking for a knife wound, and all of us in the kitchen vouched for each other anyway. No one knew I was even gone for a while. Thought I was serving.”

He was rounding the chair, his black boots on the quilt, his eyes shining with bloodlust, the edges of his teeth visible between his thin lips. “Part of me will always love you,” he whispered, the knife inches from her, the roar in her ears pulsing with fear, “But you need to pay for killing our baby . . .”