One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (2)

Chapter 2

 

“You okay, sweetie?” Heather Johnson asked, bending down to her daughter outside the weather-beaten front door of the ABC and Me preschool. The wind was high and it felt like rain was in the air. Heather’s hair whipped in front of her eyes and she anchored it at her nape with one hand.

Charlotte tilted her curly head to one side, the reddish curls bouncing around her face. Normally she would probably shake her head and laugh, but today she was sober. “Uh-huh.”

“You sure?”

The four-year-old wasn’t even close to her usually ebullient self.

“Pretty sure,” the little girl said, imitating her mother’s tone, Heather realized, which made her almost smile.

“If you still don’t feel good in a while, tell your teacher. She’ll call me, and I’ll come get you, okay? Mommy’s gotta go to work.”

Charlotte didn’t react. She seemed almost lost in thought, which was sometimes her way, though mostly she bubbled on about the very active inner world where her “friends” lived in trees, or caves, or under toadstools and who had lots of brothers and sisters, friends only Charlotte could see.

Heather and her daughter walked into the older, single-story brick building that housed the year-round preschool.

“You call me if you don’t feel better, okay?” Heather said as she signed her daughter in at the secretary’s desk. “You tell Miss Evers.”

“Kay.”

In Charlotte’s room Heather made eye contact with the preschool teacher and released her daughter’s hand. She tried to ease away, but Charlotte clutched her hand and followed Heather back to the secretary’s desk, her tiny face drawn into a pout. “I don’t want to stay.”

“Come on, Charlotte!” Miss Evers called, walking quickly to the door of her room. In jeans, a T-shirt, ponytail, and perpetual apron, she stayed just inside, guarding the entry to her classroom, her attention on the other four-year-olds happily drawing or molding Play-Doh even as she reached an arm toward Charlotte. Heather brought her daughter back and placed Charlotte’s hand in Miss Evers’s. Miss Evers dragged her attention from the kids in the classroom to smile down at Charlotte. “Don’t forget, it’s your day to take care of Winston, right?” Winston was the class lizard, a bearded dragon and a favorite of the children.

Charlotte nodded, looking at the floor.

“She’s been a little off this morning. No temp, though,” Heather said.

“No worries. I’ll watch her. Come on, honey.”

But Charlotte stood stock-still and lifted her eyes to stare stubbornly at her mother as if she were being left in the care of a prison matron.

Heather gave her daughter a quick hug, then said to the teacher, “Call me if she seems worse.”

“I will.” Miss Evers herded Charlotte into the room, toward the other children, but Charlotte kept looking back at her mother. Heather winked at her and gave her a thumbs-up, then hurried outside. A chill had taken hold of her and she shivered. The whole morning had started wrong. Charlotte, usually bouncing into the bedroom, had not wanted to get up, no matter what Heather tried. The little girl usually loved preschool, but she’d been listless and disinterested in breakfast, getting dressed, having her hair combed and teeth brushed—the whole nine yards. Getting her shoes on her feet seemed to take hours. Then Heather had spilled the milk while pouring it over her daughter’s cereal and the coffeemaker had refused to turn on. The red light had remained dark. No juice getting to it.

Sigh. Ah, well. Just life.

Your life.

She climbed into her ten-year-old Honda Accord, the one old Mr. Wharton had sold to her for a song, though even then Heather had owed him money.

With one last glance at the preschool, she climbed behind the wheel and switched on the ignition. It was summer, but surprisingly cold this July morning. She ratcheted up the heat, glad for its sporadic warmth.

Well, screw that.

She didn’t want to think of that day, of what had happened in the wake of her departure that had left her inundated with would’ves and could’ves.

But the attack! Not only a knife-wielding, masked assailant coming at her before the ceremony, but the subsequent assault by a sniper who had targeted the whole wedding party! People had been injured, her stepbrother, Aaron, killed.

Because of her?

Could that be true?

Heather’s heart twisted at that thought. Had her assailant survived his wounds and somehow made his way to the roof of the parking structure, letting loose a barrage of bullets on the wedding party? It didn’t seem possible, time-wise, but maybe . . . ? Or did he have an accomplice? Were there two would-be killers? Were they in collusion, or could they have worked independently? That seemed too far-fetched, but the whole scenario had been horribly, fatally disastrous.

She hadn’t known about the attack till she was safely away, and when she learned what had happened, she almost hightailed it back to Liam. But she stopped herself on the brink of that bad decision, fully aware that she might have inadvertently been the cause of all of it. And Liam was alive. Injured, but alive. If she went back, would that be the case?

She exhaled heavily, coming back once more to that inescapable conclusion. She’d dwelled on the attack for months, years . . . and fought spurts of desire to return and explain her inexplicable actions. Talk to the police. She’d been miserable and guilt-riddled. If she’d stayed, would Aaron have lived? As it was, a gunman had mowed him down, wounded Liam and Geoffrey as well.

Her thoughts and worries about Liam had nearly driven her back to the U.S. mainland, until she’d heard that Liam had survived. She’d actually cried tears of relief to know that he’d been rushed to the hospital and his injuries hadn’t been life-threatening. Aaron hadn’t been so fortunate.

Oh. God.

Now she felt a welling sadness once again, a feeling that arose whenever she thought of her stepbrother who was supposed to walk her down that fateful aisle. “Rest in peace,” she whispered, not for the first time.

She turned the key in the ignition and heard the Honda cough several times before the engine turned over. Uh-oh, she thought. That had been happening more and more frequently lately and she couldn’t afford car repairs. She exhaled heavily, prayed the sedan would keep running for a little longer.

Then what? she asked herself, and had no answer.

“No,” she whispered under her breath. At least here, Charlotte was safe. Besides, she was a new person. Rory Abernathy was the girl who’d been engaged to Liam Bastian, but Rory Abernathy no longer existed. She’d died an unlamented death when she became Heather Johnson. Maybe everyone back on the mainland who’d known Rory thought she was merely missing, but in Heather’s mind, she was six feet under. She was Heather Johnson now; that was the name on her U.S. passport, that was the name that mattered.

“Stop it,” she warned herself tightly. She tried to calm herself before the guilt became crippling. She had a daughter to care for. That was what was important. She was lucky to have her, so lucky. She’d suffered a miscarriage once, when she’d been with Cal Redmond, her previous fiancé, and she’d had a terrible feeling she would never have a child. That her one chance was over. Her relationship with Cal had been breaking up—he’d been part of her past, someone who knew the Stemples—but she’d wanted their child more than anything. When it was all said and done she’d felt like she would never find anyone again. Never have a relationship. Never have her own baby. She’d had no idea then that meeting Liam Bastian was right around the corner, and of course she also hadn’t foreseen the tragedy that would occur.

But she got Charlotte out of it. Her little girl. That counted for everything.

She couldn’t change the past and she knew nothing that would clear up the mystery of the shooter, so she stayed away. Thankfully, so far no one, not even the police, had come knocking.

Hitting the gas, she switched on the radio to a hard-rock station to drive all thoughts of her old life from her mind, then drove the half mile to her job at the Point Bob Buzz, one of the few coffee shops in Point Roberts.

To the driving beat of Metallica, she checked her mirrors and the traffic on the cross streets, a habit she hadn’t been able to shake in all the years she’d lived here, though there were few cars. As ever, she saw nothing unusual and pulled into the uneven gravel lot, parking toward the back, wedging her Honda between her boss’s car, Connie’s blue Subaru Outback, and a battered old pickup that hadn’t moved in six months. It was parked where it had died. The truck was owned by Connie’s uncle and was beginning to grow moss. Connie had complained more than once to him, but the old guy had yet to put in a new battery, or whatever it needed, nor had he taken heed when Connie threatened that she’d have the old “bucket of bolts” towed.

“If he weren’t my blood, I’d push that thing right into the ocean,” Connie had declared more than once, though it hadn’t happened yet. In her early sixties, with straight, graying hair, Connie Fellows had a soft spot for cranky relatives, stray cats, and, as in Heather’s case, a single woman who claimed to be escaping a bad relationship.

Connie had accepted Heather’s hard-luck story involving an abusive ex; and though it had been a lie, Heather had been desperate enough to spin it believably. She felt a little bad about deceiving Connie, but she would do whatever it took to care for her child.

Now, Heather dashed into the back door of the shop and was greeted with a wall of warmth and the smells of bacon sizzling on the griddle, cinnamon from the batch of rolls Connie had already taken from the oven, and, as ever, the welcoming scent of brewing coffee.

In the small nook between the dining room and the back exit, she locked her purse in a cubby, then put on a clean apron, wrapping the strings twice around her waist. “Morning,” she called through the swinging saloon doors separating the employee area from the hallway to the dining area and kitchen.

“Mornin’,” was the reply. Connie.

Pushing her way through the doors, Heather spied Connie in the kitchen. While Gustaf, the chef, was grilling bacon, Connie, her face red, apple cheeks shining with perspiration from dealing with the hot oven, was already slicing apart the wide sheet of cinnamon rolls. With a huge butcher knife she was separating each monster pastry and placing each roll on an individual plate. She smiled and nodded at Heather as she went about her work.

Connie had opened the coffee shop twenty-five years earlier in this northern Washington town, and in the four-plus years Heather had worked here, she hadn’t seen Connie even take one vacation. Her business had boomed, at least by Point Roberts standards, enough so that she’d expanded with an additional dining area added to the small coffee shop with its vintage flair. Until Starbucks or some other franchise opened shop in the area, an unlikely proposition in this remote U.S. outpost, the Buzz had cornered the market on the coffee and breakfast crowd. Point Roberts is a quiet little town situated on the tip of the Tsawwassen Peninsula, a piece of land that juts down from British Columbia, Canada. As the area is below the 49th parallel, Point Roberts is part of the good old U.S. of A., though a person couldn’t reach it by car without going through two border crossings, one into Canada, the other out of Canada to land on this scrap of American soil. A person could boat here from the U.S. mainland across Boundary Bay, as Heather had nearly five years earlier after her horrifying escape from her own wedding. Luckily, she’d had The Magician on her side and he’d produced the Heather Johnson passport with her picture on it, though he’d let her enter Customs alone.

“Better I’m not with you,” he’d told her, and she’d understood that Uncle Kent preferred to stay deep in the background. He might be a magician, but his business practices were . . . edgy . . . and he made a point of avoiding entanglements with the authorities.

Still, she’d asked him to take her “to the ends of the earth,” and where she’d landed was Point Roberts. With his thinning white hair flying in the wind, Uncle Kent had steered his Bayliner across the choppy waters of Lake Washington, racing past the floating bridges, the small craft bouncing as it sped. Later, he’d slowed the boat, guiding it carefully through adjacent waters to the Ballard Locks and eventually to Puget Sound. Rory’s heart had knocked feverishly the whole trip, and especially as they’d passed through the locks. Despite her baggy jacket, jeans, and oversized sunglasses, she’d felt that everyone in the nearby boats had been staring at her as if they could read from her expression that she was on the run.

She’d told herself she was just being paranoid, that no one was pointing fingers, that they couldn’t know she was a runaway bride escaping from what had turned out to be the scene of a deadly assault. Her admonitions had only partially worked as she’d fought tears and seasickness while Uncle Kent had steered steadily northward, skirting the San Juan Islands through pelting rain, eventually landing here in the dark. White-knuckled and scared to death, Rory had miraculously managed to get through Customs with the fake ID she’d had Uncle Kent create for her two years before she’d ever met Liam Bastian.

Just in case, she’d told herself.

Rory had known from the time she was thirteen that she would likely need an escape plan, and a new identity if and when things ever went sideways. Sadly, she’d been right.

As it had turned out, Point Roberts had been perfect and now, settled in this small town on a scrap of the United States that dangled from the Canadian peninsula, Heather had no intention of leaving until Charlotte was too old for school in this U.S. enclave, and until she was certain that her past would never catch up to her.

Still, she checked. All the time.

The short hallway opened to the area behind a long counter that separated the work area from the dining section. Seated at tables and in booths, a few customers had collected in groups of twos and threes and were deep in discussion or reading the paper or on their smartphones as they sipped coffee and picked at scones or dug into breakfast.

Hearing the soft ding of a bell that indicated a car was inside the Buzz’s drive-up lane, Heather stepped forward to the window just as Joanna called, “Incoming!” and tossed a glance over her shoulder to make certain Heather had heard.

Joanna, who was all of thirty, sometimes acted like a mother hen. Tall and lean from years of running, she had a brush of blond hair that she knotted up to the top of her head, messy strands forever escaping.

“I’m on it.” Heather assured her, putting a smile on her face as she spoke into the microphone, her eye on the camera mounted over the sign where customers placed their orders. She could see the driver, a woman, as she turned toward the microphone. Tammi Forsythe. One of the Buzz’s regulars.

“Good morning, Tammi,” Heather greeted her. “What can I get started for you?”

“Medium double mocha, no whip, just foam,” she said succinctly into the microphone. As ever, Tammi was in pajamas and a coat, a baseball cap low over her eyes, studying the menu through owlish glasses. “Add a bagel, would you? Cut in half. Jam and cream cheese?” She turned in the seat to talk to the two preschoolers strapped into their car seats and her voice was a little muffled. “Bagel, okay?” Looking back to the camera, she confirmed. “Yeah, make it strawberry jam and a couple of apple juices. God, what’s that gonna cost me?”

“You got it,” Heather said, hitting the appropriate buttons on the register, tallying the total bill in Canadian dollars. Tammi was one of the customers who always paid in Canadian currency, though the Buzz had two tills, one right above the other, one with U.S. dollars and one with Canadian.

“That’ll be—” she began, rattling off the cost of the order, but Tammi was already driving forward, the nose of her older model Toyota becoming visible in the garden window that allowed Heather a view of the lane.

Joanna was already placing a warmed bagel into a sack with packets of cream cheese and jam while Heather started the coffee drink. Soon, cash was exchanged for breakfast and Tammi rolled away, her kids yelling from the back seat as Heather went into full barista mode. A second car rolled in after the first. The early risers had been arriving for a few hours now, Joanna catching the earliest ones as Heather’s shift always started after school drop-off.

Between customers, Heather cleaned the station, stocking supplies and checking her phone. No text from the day care center. Maybe her baby was doing better. She sure hoped so. Another ding indicated an approaching customer as the cars began stacking up, a line forming. She and Joanna worked in tandem: Joanna, tall and gaunt, pulled together the orders while Heather, a few inches shorter with natural red hair, the dark dye she’d used when she’d first arrived in Point Roberts having grown out over the course of the last two years, dealt directly with the customers.

“Mutt and Jeff,” Connie had called them on more than one occasion. “Complete opposites, you two.” Today, though, she had no time for observations as the surprisingly robust morning crowd arrived.

Joanna started working double duty, making drinks for both the drive-up and the inside counter, while Connie was busy both in the kitchen and with customers in the dining area. Carlos, who also worked in the kitchen, was handling one of the registers this morning. His quick smile, dimples, and flashing eyes were a welcome relief from Joanna’s dour expression. The customers loved him and the dining room worked better whenever he was at the register; at least in Heather’s opinion.

“A well-oiled machine,” Connie had often said of the operation, though usually sarcastically whenever there was a glitch in the system and someone got the wrong order or was left waiting for their food.

Every day by noon the Buzz ran out of Connie’s cinnamon rolls, but Connie refused to budge when it came to baking any more. The ovens could only handle two dozen at a time and that, she figured, was plenty. “I’m not coming in earlier than four a.m., no siree,” Connie had said whenever the idea was posed to her. “I know that Jake, over at the inn, starts work at two or something ridiculous. That’s just nuts.”

“Five thirty in the morning is nuts,” Joanna agreed, and Heather always felt a little jab of guilt that she didn’t have to be at her station until seven fifteen bcause she was single and had a preschooler. Everyone else’s shift started earlier to tend to the early risers and set up for the day. But she knew no one really minded. Even Joanna understood. She just liked to grumble.

As there was a break in the drive-through line she took another moment to check her phone, but there was still no text from Miss Evers.

That was good, but she sent a quick message: How’s Charlotte?

When there was no answer, she decided not to wait. She called the pediatrician’s office and explained Charlotte’s symptoms to a nurse who told her to keep her eye on her daughter, but if she wasn’t feverish, showing signs of infection or not unusually listless, to wait for twenty-four hours.

“Call back and make an appointment if she doesn’t get better or if her temperature rises,” she added just before they ended their call. Heather had just clicked off her phone as the next customer, an elderly man, pulled up in a dented pickup. Mr. Selby. The old guy drove in about three times a week, always complained about the price of coffee but ordered a double mocha and left Heather a quarter in the tip jar sitting on the window ledge.

She started his drink before he started to either order or complain.

The next three hours she had a fairly steady stream of cars at the to-go window while other customers gathered inside. Between the rattle of silverware, hum of conversation, bursts of laughter, squawking over the speaker for the drive-up, and hiss of the espresso machine, Heather was lost in white noise. Only after the last car, a van with four kids, a harried mom, and now, five iced drinks, rolled to the exit, did Heather have a chance to check on Charlotte again. She blew a strand of hair from her eyes and caught a glimpse of Connie approaching. The inside crush had disbursed and Connie had just finished wiping down a table after a lingering group of five men—regulars who thought the Buzz was their private club—finally packed up their hats, canes, newspapers, jackets, and filed out.

“So what’s up?” Connie asked as Heather fished in the pocket of her apron for her phone and rapidly texted Miss Evers again. Connie leaned heavily against the counter as Heather placed the phone back in her pocket. Behind her rimless glasses, her brown eyes showed a touch of worry. “You have to be somewhere?”

“No, why?” Heather began refilling paper cups and lids in a dispenser and called to Joanna, “We have a pot of decaf going?”

“Ready in two minutes,” was the response. Joanna was wiping down the machines as she was about finished with her shift. When the green light switched on, indicating the pot of coffee was ready, she added, “All set.” She whipped off her apron, tossing the soiled towel and apron toward the bin.

Heather heard the ding of an incoming text and grabbed up her phone again. It was Miss Evers: Not her best. Hard to scare up a smile.

Heather felt a pang of worry.

“It’s just you keep checking your phone. And looking worried.”

“Oh. No. Charlotte was just a little off today and when I dropped her off she seemed kind of out of sorts. No fever. No runny nose, but . . . she just wasn’t herself. That’s all. I don’t want to miss a call from the preschool.”

“Ahh. Got it.” Connie, who had raised two sons, nodded. “Hope she’s okay.” Worry creased her forehead.

“Me, too.”

“But?”

She showed Connie the phone.

“Oh, too bad. She’s a little imp, that one,” Connie said with genuine fondness. “Maybe you want to pick her up early? Joanna can take over.”

“I heard that!” Joanna said and poked her head in from the back hallway. She was throwing her jacket over her arm as three men in full beards strolled in.

Connie grabbed some menus. “Let me know,” she said to Heather.

“Hey, I’m outta here!” Joanna started for the door.

The inside bell dinged, indicating another drive-up customer had arrived.

Catching a glimpse of a black SUV pulling into the drive-up lane, Heather stepped into her station and switched on the microphone. “What can I get started for you?” she asked, then looked at the image from the camera mounted in the drive-up lane.

She froze.

Good God! Liam? No! Couldn’t be.

Her heart missed a beat and she blinked, telling herself she’d made a mistake. Her thoughts of Liam must have conjured up his image in her mind. Swallowing hard, she stared at the screen. He was looking right at the camera and she recognized his deep-set eyes, sharp features, and rumpled near-black hair. His jaw, still strong, was shadowed by stubble and his lips were as blade thin as she remembered.

It was Liam. It was.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d found her.

“Just a regular coffee. A small. Black,” he said, and his voice resonated in her ears. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. It was Liam! No . . . God no! When she couldn’t find her voice, he repeated the order.

“Yes. Uh, got it . . . please drive forward.” She automatically lowered her voice, an instinct of self-preservation, as she killed the microphone and stepped speedily out of her glassed-in work area. Trying not to sound frantic, she yelled to Joanna, who was just stepping outside through the back exit. “Hey! Before you go, could you get this customer?” Heather was already heading to the restroom. “I’ve got kind of an emergency.” She didn’t wait for an answer but pushed open the door and stepped into the tiled room. Fortunately it was empty. Without thinking about it, she walked into one of the two stalls, drew a deep breath, locked it behind her. She was shaking all over.

Her hands were clenched so tightly she could feel her pulse in her palms. Or was that because her heart was pounding so heavily in her chest? As if it were trying to jump from her rib cage? This was all just her wild imagination playing tricks on her. Had to be.

She gasped sharply when she heard the door to the restroom whoosh open.

“Heather?” Connie’s worried voice reached her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . I-I will be . . .” She didn’t bother trying to keep the anxiety from her voice.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah . . . just give me a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Connie sounded hesitant and it was nearly another full minute before Heather heard the door open and close again. As soon as it did, she leaned down to peer under the lower edge of the stall, checking to see if she could view Connie’s white, heavy-soled shoes. Satisfied she was truly alone, she stood, then immediately sank against the stall door.

Liam?

Here?

How? How?

But the image she’d seen in the camera’s eye kept her rooted to the spot.

How had he found her? She’d known he’d survived the attack, of course. The Internet had kept her well informed. But there had been mention of an injury, and she hadn’t discovered, despite repeated searches, how serious it was. She shuddered and placed her hands over her face, wondering for the millionth time if somehow the horrific attack at the wedding was her fault, if her marriage to Liam had somehow prompted the violence and bloodshed.

She let out a long breath and checked her phone. Three minutes or four minutes had passed since she’d spied him in the camera’s lens. Surely that was long enough for him to pick up his order, pay the bill, and drive off.

Right?

She glanced around the stall as if an emergency exit would miraculously appear, which was pointless. She knew this tiny restroom, and the only exit was the door to the dining area. There was a narrow window mounted on the back wall, but it was so small a child couldn’t slip through, even if it hadn’t been painted shut, which it had been, several times.

It’s not him. He probably never even thinks of you. It’s been five years. Rory Abernathy is part of a distant, painful past that he’d rather forget and probably has.

Calmer, she walked to the sink, and worried because her disguise was no longer intact. She threw a bit of water over her face, but was careful not to smudge her makeup or dislodge her false eyelashes. Just in case.

Her heart tumbled. A new fear gripped her.

What if he’s here in Point Roberts not because of you, but because of Charlotte!

At that moment the door opened again.