One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (23)

Chapter 23

Beth finished her third glass of wine—or was it the fourth?—and who the hell cared anyway? Five years of her life, gone. Snap! Just because Rory Abernathy Bastian reappeared as if she’d been gone overnight instead of... how many days was it? Like eighteen hundred? Beth should know because she’d spent twenty-four hours of every day thinking of Liam Bastian, hoping to marry him.

She took a long swallow and fought tears, while having a private pity party for herself in the living room of her apartment, nice though it was. She’d turned on the gas fire and the place was warm, probably too warm, but she didn’t care. She’d expected to move in with Liam and now it was over. Her future. Her whole life. At least as Mrs. Liam Bastian. Turns out there was already someone filling that role and that’s the way Liam, the idiot, wanted it. She had to face facts. She wouldn’t have him back now if he came crawling back to her on his hands and knees, a five-carat diamond ring in one hand.

She swore softly, more than a little buzzy. She was holding her phone in one hand and systematically, as she spied a picture of Liam, took a drink, then deleted the photo. She’d already taken down all the photos she’d put on display as part of the apartment’s decoration. They were in the garbage, their frames broken, the glass shattered as she’d smashed them all.

Now, it was time to delete the memories captured on her phone. There was one by the lion exhibit at the zoo. Click! Gone. Oh, another favorite, a selfie with Liam as they were hiking at Multnomah Falls, the water cascading behind them. Click! And poof! it was no more. Oh, and this one, at a concert out at Edgefield. Click! Just like that, history.

God, this was depressing. He’d been her whole life for so long, even before that wretched wedding, though she’d pretended not to care. Now nothing mattered. Not even the job she’d liked so well, working at a boutique art gallery. She couldn’t work up any enthusiasm. The friends they’d shared were mostly coupled up, engaged, married, or at least dating seriously, and she couldn’t face them. She started to cry but blinked back tears and reminded herself she at least would no longer have to deal with his family: Stella, with her sneers, Vivian, never realizing how great her life was, Derek with his quick, sharp tongue, and Geoffrey, who had never been a barrel of laughs to begin with, but after the shooting had become utterly joyless.

She took another gulp of wine and staggered to her feet. The sun was setting outside the window. She was done thinking about those damned Bastians. She wobbled to the slider door and her private patio, just big enough for two chairs and a small table. How many times had she shared a bottle of wine with Liam right here, from the eighth floor with its peekaboo view of the Hawthorne Bridge? Yes, another high-rise blocked most of the view, but still, it was pretty nice here. Or had been. And now? Now what? Start over? Date some stranger on the Internet? Ask her friends if they know anyone? Start taking up golf or tennis or attend church? Forget five damned years? When she thought of the hours she’d sat at his hospital bedside as he’d gone through the operations that had put him back together again after the attack at the wedding, she wanted to scream! Why couldn’t the assailant have killed Rory instead? That would have solved all her problems!

Liam had other problems he didn’t even know about yet.

A burning anger swept through her like wildfire and she swept up her phone again. Liam was number one on her contact list and she pressed the button, waiting for him to answer. When the call went to voice mail, his cool voice telling her to leave a message, she almost threw her phone over the edge of the balcony.

Instead, she did just as he suggested. Telling him just enough to assure he would call her back.

Immediately afterward she fell into a dark funk. Head lolling back, she cried silent tears, distantly aware of the city far below, the rumble of vehicle engines occasionally interrupted by a shout or a honk, bits of conversation floating upward, the heat of the day still rising from the streets.

He’s going to be real sorry, she thought. I’ll make sure of it.

* * *

Rory heard the sobbing even before she hit the bottom step to the back hallway. It was coming from the wing housing the den, and the tortured sobs were followed by shouting and questions and a general scramble emanating from Geoff’s den.

Rory froze, not sure whether she wanted to step into this family drama, but at that moment Vivian burst from the room, her face twisted in some kind of agony or anger. Immediately she dashed for the front of the house. Behind Vivian, his strides longer, Liam was half running to catch up to her and didn’t notice Rory in the intersecting corridor. His eyes were trained on his sister.

Stella’s voice echoed down the hallway—“For God’s sake!”—as Derek, hot on his brother’s heels, burst from the room. As if sensing Rory, he glanced back at her, shaking his head, seemed about to say something, then moved on quickly, the leaves of a potted plant shivering as he passed.

Rory started to take after them all, when Stella stepped into the hallway, and Geoff’s wheelchair nearly bumped into his wife as he followed as well. “Well, get out of the way,” he barked, the wheels of his chair skidding a bit.

Stella whipped around, looked like she wanted to slap him, saw Rory, and turned her fury on her daughter-in-law. “Stop skulking around!” And she took off after their children with Geoff rolling behind her, strong shoulders and arms pushing the wheelchair forward.

Well, hell.

Rory wasn’t about to stand there, frozen to the damned spot in their house. No way. This was her family, too. She strode after them to the front door, which was standing wide-open to an orange sunset, a soft summer breeze with the scents of roses riding on it wafted into the foyer. Outside, in the driveway, Vivian was trying to get into her car, the Mercedes’s driver’s door open, she struggling with her seat belt, the car alarm dinging softly. Liam was attempting to reason with her, but she was beyond reason, and she rounded on Derek when he stopped short at the end of the porch. “You bastard. You . . . you fucking bastard!” she screamed, angry and hurt and looking as if she wanted to murder him.

“I’m sorry.” Derek was short.

“How could you? I love my family. I love all of you.” Furiously, her face red, tear tracks visible, she swept an arm out. “All of you, damn it!” All trace of the Vivian of old, the contained woman with the sly smile, drawling and cool manner, was gone. “And while I’m trying to put my marriage back together! Doing everything I can to hold on to my . . . future with the man I love . . . you stab me in the back! Accuse me of unthinkable crimes? It’s . . . unbelievable.” Fighting sobs, she yelled, “Horrible, horrible stuff. How dare you!”

“I didn’t know you were following Javier,” Derek said stiffly as the incessant seat belt alarm kept chiming. “Sneaking around after him, stalking him. I had no idea you were that pathetic!”

She launched from her SUV, suddenly abandoning her car and, face contorted in rage, charged Derek.

“Whoa,” Liam said, grabbing Vivian around the waist as she flew at her half brother like a virago.

In that second, Rory realized they weren’t alone. There was another car wedged between Vivian’s and the curve in the driveway, a small SUV. A man and a woman climbed out of the Ford Escape that had been sitting at the end of the drive.

Mick Mickelson, she’d bet.

Vivian was still screaming at Derek, who did look a bit sheepish and had taken two steps backward. Liam hadn’t yet let go his grip on his sister, and about that time Stella spied the approaching couple and straightened as if shot by a cattle prod. “Uh-oh,” she said under her breath while her husband stared at them as well, his jaw rock hard.

Liam followed their gazes, looking behind him, slowly releasing his grip on Vivian, who woke up slowly to the fact that something momentous had taken the focus away from her and her tirade. She glanced back, her face red and puffy, her mouth quivering. Upon seeing the man who radiated “the law,” even if he was maybe retired, and his female partner, who appeared to have a gun on her hip, Vivian took a step away from Liam and tried to bring her breathing, which was practically a pant at this point, under control.

“Mickelson,” Liam said, and the man and woman looked at him.

“Who?” Vivian asked, shuddering a little and swiping at her face to brush away tears or hair that had fallen over her cheeks.

Stella’s hand had flown to her chest. “Oh, my God. What’s happened?”

“Liam Bastian?” the man asked, and Liam nodded curtly.

“You were expecting them?” Derek asked in disbelief.

“I’ll tell you all about it when we’re inside,” Liam said, making ushering motions to his entire family. His eyes met Rory’s, but before anyone could take more than a few steps, a news van approached. White and gleaming in the dying sun, the station’s call sign emblazoned across the side, a satellite dish visible, it rumbled to the open gates. Liam saw Rory’s gaze shift and glance back. “Everyone inside,” he barked, “unless you want to be on the Channel 7 news.”

* * *

Liam wanted to meet with Mickelson and his partner alone, but as soon as his father understood who they were, Geoff refused anything but a full-on family meeting in the living room. “Everyone’s got something to say,” he practically roared. “Just say it!”

Stella, with a hard glance at her husband, went out to make sure Candace was still entertaining the children. She returned moments later and retook her seat on the couch near the bay window, where she crossed her legs and somehow managed to look perturbed.

Liam had forgotten that his father had actually liked the retired police detective. He’d had faith in Mickelson for a long while, until he’d retired from the police department—or been put out to pasture, Geoff’s real belief in how the detective had been removed from the job.

Mickelson introduced his partner as Shanice Clayburgh. She was younger, with darker skin, her hair pulled into a tight bun at her nape, but she possessed the same take-no-prisoners attitude as he did. Mickelson himself seemed disinclined to talk to them as a group, but it was clear those were Geoffrey Bastian’s rules, so he launched into why he’d shown up in Portland.

“We would like to talk to you,” he said, directing his attention to Rory. “We’ve talked to the local PD and know about the attack last night, as well as the one at the wedding, both perpetrated by Cal Redmond. And we also know what he’s said the reasons are. We would like to hear the chain of events the night of the wedding.”

Liam’s cell phone rang, and everyone’s eyes swung his way. He saw it was Beth and let it go to voice mail.

“Who was that?” Stella asked, squinting. As if she didn’t trust him.

“Beth. I’ll call her back.”

“Do,” Stella instructed.

Rory ignored her mother-in-law and answered the detective. “I’ve said everything, absolutely everything, I can. Over and over again. Everything I can remember, to the police, both Portland and Laurelton, who talked with Seattle PD.” She was getting angry again. “I’m sorry my mother thought it would be a good idea to tell you how to find me, because it’s a big waste of time.” She leveled her gaze at the big man. “You can ask me a million questions, go at it different ways, but really, there’s just nothing more I can come up with.”

“Your mother invited these . . . people?” Stella asked in that sneering tone Liam detested.

Liam forced himself to ignore her and asked Mickelson, “You’re investigating the wedding shooting, privately? You’re not associated with the police?” His phone beeped faintly, a voice mail message from Beth.

Geoffrey snapped, “I hired them. I want to know who hired DeGrere to shoot up your wedding and put me in this chair.”

All heads turned to look at him.

Mickelson spoke into the stunned moment, “Shanice and I never really gave up on the case. DeGrere’s homicide put it back on a front burner.”

“You mean, Geoff hiring you put it on a front burner,” Stella corrected, looking at her husband. “You couldn’t have told me?”

“I’m telling you now,” Geoff said gruffly. “Damn case had gone cold.”

Liam stared at his father. “You wanted to surprise us?”

“Just Dad’s way,” Derek drawled with a touch of anger.

“I want answers, God damn it!” He rapped his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. “It’s been five years and—”

The door chimes pealed, interrupting him, and seconds later there was a sharp rap, rap, rap of impatient knuckles on the front door.

“Oh, hell. It’s that Pauline Kirby,” Vivian growled as she peered through the half-closed blinds. She sat on the far end of the same couch occupied by her mother, but Viv’s arms hugged her chest tightly as if she couldn’t bear the thought of touching Stella, or probably anyone in the room, for that matter.

“I’ll take care of this,” Derek said, getting up and stalking to the door. In a pleasant voice he told whoever was on the other side to go fuck themselves.

“Derek!” Stella cried and dropped her forehead to one hand. “Oh. God. You’ll be on the news saying that!”

“They’ll bleep me out.” Shrugging, he slid back into the armchair he’d recently vacated and seemed almost pleased with himself.

Stella drilled him with her eyes. “They’ll probably camp out there, you know, at the edge of the driveway. With others. It’s like they breed, you know. One comes up then another, then another . . .” She shivered at the thought. “I’ve seen it on the news.” Glancing to the window, she said, “We should call the police.”

Derek gave a little snort. “Oh, right. Now there’s a great idea.”

“Got a better one?” she countered.

“Mother!” Liam cut in, tired of Stella’s theatrics.

“Mrs. Bastian?” Mickelson inquired, seeming unruffled by the display.

Stella turned sharply toward him, but the detective was looking at Rory. The other Mrs. Bastian. “Would you mind going over it one more time?” When he saw that Rory was about to protest, he held up a hand. “I know. I heard you. You’re sick of telling the story. But, please. Just one more time. I’d like to hear your take on the events of the wedding day and what you did, where you were, what you thought.”

Liam thought Rory was going to tell Mickelson to beat it and leave her alone as she looked tired and beyond stressed. The makeup on her face was fading and the dark bruising and swelling was apparent now. She didn’t need this.

He started to step in and cut Mickelson off. “Maybe another time would be better—”

“No. If I’m going to do this at all, it may as well be now. And here.” Somehow Rory seemed to marshal her strength and gamely did as the ex-detective had requested, answering his questions truthfully. She sat perched on the edge of an ottoman, with Mickelson and his partner occupying two matching chairs near the foyer. Derek leaned against the fireplace and Geoffrey positioned himself near the coffee table, his chair out of any walking path. Standing next to the chair Rory had taken, Liam glanced at the phone that had been vibrating in his pocket. The call identified as being from a news station. Sick of reporters, he clicked his phone off. They could wait.

She was saying, “So I was getting ready, had my dress on and was kind of freaking out because I was already late . . .” She explained once again about the knock on the door, the helium balloons, and the weird, high-pitched voice threatening her.

When she mentioned Cal, Liam saw his mother roll her eyes. God, she could be a bitch, and Vivian had a weird expression on her face. Was she even listening?

Rory went on to explain about the knife attack, the blood, and the fear that propelled her to race out the door and down the hall of the unfamiliar hotel. She’d ended up in the basement and then up the ramp to the exit. “I didn’t know what was happening, why anyone would want to kill me, and I heard the music from the wedding . . . and . . . and . . .”

Her words faded, her story interrupted, and she stared through the window, not seeing the manicured grounds of the Bastian home but something else, another panorama seen only in her mind’s eye. “Oh.” She swallowed. Lost in thought. “But there was . . . Oh, God,” she whispered and the ensuing silence was deafening.

“What?” Mickelson asked softly.

“I think . . . I mean . . .” Biting her lip, she thought, her eyes narrowing as if she were focusing on an object just out of view. “There was a silver car. I was running in the parking structure, trying to get out, but . . . but it was racing, almost careening into the lot. It headed up the ramp and I could hear the tires squealing. It was going fast and I remember thinking he should be careful, he could hurt someone . . .” She gazed at Mickelson and her expression turned to one of regret. “I didn’t think about it again. It was like not even in my memory. And at the time I didn’t know what happened at the wedding, not till later.” She bit her lip. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Maybe not,” Mickelson encouraged, his voice low.

She swallowed. Hard. “Could . . . do you think that the driver may have been the shooter?” All the color had drained from her face at the thought.

Mickelson had gone still, as if afraid to move. “It was a silver car?”

“Or gray . . . maybe?”

“Do you know what make it was?”

Rory shook her head slowly, her eyebrows drawn in concentration. “Oh, I’m . . . I’m just so bad about cars. I don’t know.”

“Okay. How about this,” Mickelson said. “Was it a sedan, or an SUV, or a truck?”

“No. Not a truck. Yeah, just a car—a sedan.”

“Four door?” he asked. “Two?”

“I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed even further. “He went by in a blur.”

“He?” Mickelson waited.

“I mean. It.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No—uh, no.” She was shaking her head.

The partner, Shanice, asked, “What about a passenger?” and when Rory responded negatively, she asked about license plates, or dents, or parking permits, or bumper stickers, or anything that would make identifying the vehicle easier. Each time she struck out.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I even remember that, about the car, now. All of a sudden.”

“But you’re sure it was gray.”

“Yes. Uh-huh.”

There was a moment of silence, and then, as if he couldn’t stand the suspense, Derek blurted out, “What?”

It was their father who answered. Geoff’s voice was hard, the words brittle. “Pete DeGrere’s car was a gray sedan. It was found abandoned miles from the hotel. No gun. He was either aided and abetted by someone or dropped the rifle somewhere, though it was never found.”

Shanice said, “Good memory.”

Geoff looked at her coolly and rapped his fingers on his wheelchair. “I’ve had a lot of time to go over that day and everything that’s happened since.” His lips turned downward. “You know, I think I was the target.”

Mickelson’s head jerked as he turned to face the old man. “You?”

Shanice asked, “Why?”

“Just a gut feeling, I guess you’d say,” Geoff said, but his brittle joke fell flat. “I don’t have any proof, if that’s what you mean, but . . . you’re talking about a real marksman in DeGrere. Would he make such a mistake?”

“He could have been distracted. His timing off,” Derek said.

Vivian glared at her father. “Oh, so that’s it now? DeGrere for sure? Well, I didn’t have anything to do with it!” Vivian said through her teeth, her eyes shooting daggers at both Derek and Geoff.

“You think it was Pete DeGrere that I saw, then? In the car?” Rory asked, still piecing it together. There had been speculation, of course. DeGrere had been a “person of interest” in the unsolved case.

Mickelson was nodding. “I’ve always felt it was DeGrere. The hotel had one camera on that exit ramp, and it wasn’t working. The whole place was being retrofitted, but it hadn’t happened by the time of the shooting. DeGrere probably knew that. During the search we found his car, abandoned. He said it was because he’d been drinking and he didn’t want to get picked up, so he got out and started walking. It was on a side street. Older industrial. No cameras there, either. He couldn’t ever explain what he was doing in that area besides that he’d gotten lost. We searched the surrounding warehouses. No gun. Then Pete, being Pete, tried holding up a convenience store, waving a handgun around, and got himself a prison sentence. We had no corroboration that Pete’s car was at the hotel that day. We just knew he’d been in the area. He frequented a bar a few blocks from the hotel. More upscale than his usual haunts, but he was sweet on one of the bartenders, who we believe was involved in some minor prostitution with the occasional customer to make ends meet. Possibly Pete was one of those customers. She was fired soon after Pete’s incarceration.”

“She picked him up that day,” Geoff said with certainty.

“No,” Shanice answered. “She was at the bar during the entire wedding ceremony. She’s the one who first fingered DeGrere. Said he was talking a big score. Taking out one of those fat cats who had too much money.”

“You see!” Geoff said. “I knew it! That low-life bastard.”

It was Mickelson’s turn to disagree. “DeGrere talked like that a lot, even in prison. He claimed other jobs that he couldn’t have done, all because ‘those fat cats had too much money.’ He bragged about a lot of things. He had grandiose ideas about himself.”

“He was crazy,” Stella stated flatly.

“Come on, Mom,” Viv said with an expressive roll of her eyes. “Like you knew him. Like you’d ever know anyone like him. Give me a break!”

“More accurately,” Shanice said, “I’d say Pete DeGrere was someone who occasionally broke with reality.”

Mickelson added, “DeGrere was paid for the job. He didn’t just act on impulse. Someone knew he was a marksman, although they may not have known he was unstable. He took the job and maybe, Geoff, because you’re wealthy, you were on his radar, too. Could be. He was a real nutcase. Or, someone knew that about him and appealed to his prejudice, the icing on the cake to perform the job.” He cleared his throat. “There is a chance he was hired to simply create chaos.”

“Would someone in your family actually kill your stepbrother Aaron?” Shanice asked Rory in an icy voice.

Liam wasn’t sure what that was about, but it felt personal, as if the woman PI had a personal grudge against Rory, but his wife, if she sensed there was anything but professionalism in the question, didn’t show it. Rory just shook her head, and tears glistened in her eyes. She sniffed, swatted away any tears, then said, “No.” Clearing her throat she repeated, “No. Of course not. Everyone . . . we all . . . loved Aaron.”

“Let’s go at this from a different direction,” Mickelson suggested as the rest of the room had gone deathly still.

Liam watched his family members as they were all focused on the private investigator, and he wondered what each of them was thinking. Vivian, calmer now, but still wary. Stella haughty as ever, but lines of strain around her mouth. Derek, ever the rogue, still appearing bored. And Geoff, agitated as always, needing answers, needing control. A sorry lot, this, his family.

Mickelson said, “I’ve been going over my notes from five years ago. Reexamining information. Talking to both Seattle PD and the Portland police.”

Did Vivian’s eyes widen?

Did his mother wince just a bit?

Was he imagining things?

Mickelson went on, “I’ve learned that you’ve had some sabotage on your job sites recently, and a homicide.”

“Homicide?” Derek repeated.

“Teri Mulvaney’s death was a homicide?” Liam asked at the same time.

“That’s how it’s been ruled. So, in the last two weeks, less really, there have been two deaths related to your family, DeGrere’s and Mulvaney’s, and you’ve had the reappearance of a missing person.”

She stiffened a bit and he knew she felt the weight of everyone’s eyes in the room boring into her.

Shanice said, “We believe there’s a connection. Whoever killed Teri Mulvaney was sloppy, left his semen and therefore DNA. If he’s in the system, he’ll be found. The Portland police are working on it. If he’s not, DNA samples will be requested from anyone associated with Mulvaney or the Bastians.”

“The women, too?” Stella said with distaste.

“It’s strictly voluntary,” she answered.

“Leaving DNA behind is more than sloppy,” Derek observed.

Shanice answered, “Maybe the condom broke. Maybe he never intended it to go that far.”

“Maybe he wants to be caught,” Mickelson said.

Vivian finally spoke up. “I don’t understand what this Teri Mulvaney could have to do with the wedding shooting.” She’d recovered her composure somewhat, but now looked pale and sober.

“Maybe nothing,” Shanice said.

Except she looked a lot like my wife and her hair was almost the exact same shade as Rory’s. Liam caught his brother glancing at Rory, then when he looked away, Liam wondered if Derek had been thinking the very same thing.

“Hey!” a voice called from the other side of one of the doors to the living room, and Candace, wearing shorts and a T-shirt over her swimsuit, stepped into the room, then paused as she saw everyone. “Oh, whoa. Sorry. Um.” She zeroed in on Vivian and pulled a face. “I uh, need to get going and, you know, need to be paid.”

“Oh, right! Uh—just a sec,” Vivian said, forcing herself from the couch. “Of course.”

With a sigh, Stella said, “Let me get my purse.”

“Really, Mom?” Vivian shot her mother a withering glance. “I can take care of it. Come on, come on, let’s go,” she said to Candace, ushering the babysitter to the door.

“Fine.” Stella threw up a hand. “I was just trying to help. You’re the one always complaining about money, you know,” Stella called after her daughter, then, staring at the detective, added, “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do. We all do. I think we’ve helped you as much as we can.” Her smile held no warmth.

“I think we’re done here,” Mickelson said. Though he didn’t seem satisfied, both he and his partner got to their feet. Geoff waited until the two private detectives were securely out the door behind Vivian, then muttered that he was going to his den to have a drink.

“Helluva day,” he said to no one in particular as he rolled along the corridor. “Helluva day.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Derek said, rubbing the back of his neck and staring after his old man. “Can you believe that?”

“What?”

“About the shooter? That it was that DeGrere character all along? Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.” Derek started into the family room and, realizing that Estella and Landon had fallen asleep on the couch, motioned for Rory and Liam to wend their way past the couch to the door leading outside to the patio, where he found the drink cart. He uncorked a bottle of whiskey. “So,” he said, pouring a glass and offering it to Rory, who shook her head, then to Liam, who accepted it, “you buying the DeGrere theory?”

“How about wine?” he said to Rory.

“I’m good.” Again she shook her head. “No, thanks.”

Liam took a swallow of the whiskey, tasted the smoky flavor and gazed at the pool, now calm and dark. Though small lamps hidden within the shrubbery gave off warm illumination and the lights of the city twinkled in the distance, the water of the pool was nearly black.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“About DeGrere? I’ve always thought he was involved.”

“What about Dad being the target?” Derek asked.

“I don’t know. Could be, I suppose, but hell, I don’t know.” He saw something in his brother’s eyes. “You think DeGrere intended to shoot Dad?”

“I just thought . . .” A shrug. Derek took a sip of whiskey. “Who the hell knows?”

“No. Wait.” Something was going on here. “You still think Vivian’s behind it? That she would go to those extremes to inherit? She would hire someone to kill her own—our own—father?” Liam wasn’t buying it. “No way. She and Javier were fine five years ago. There were no money problems between them. And Dad’s still here, so if she really wants to take him out, she’s sure playing the long game.”

“Okay.” Derek glanced at the patio door, as if expecting Vivian to come barreling through. “Okay, fine. It’s just that she’s been acting weird lately.” He turned to Rory, who’d remained silent throughout their exchange and was taking it all in. “What do you think?”

“About?”

“Everything.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. The police seem to think it was DeGrere. Look, I’ve been over this a million times. I’m done.”

“Yeah, agreed. It’s been a long one.” Liam set his unfinished drink on the cart. “Come on,” he said to Rory, reaching for her hand. “Let’s go.”

“Go?”

“Let’s get you out of here and into bed.”

“Subtle, bro.” Derek sniggered and tossed back his drink.

She shot her brother-in-law a glare that said silently Grow up, then turned to Liam. “I can’t leave. Not right now. Charlotte’s upstairs and I’ve got to make sure she’s had a decent meal and getting ready for bed.”

He hesitated, thought about going to tuck in his kid himself, and vowed that he would. Soon. Every night. “Just let Darlene know you’re coming with me. She’ll be okay with it. She likes me.”

Derek made a deprecating noise.

“I’ll see,” Rory said, but headed for the guest quarters. Liam watched her go and felt a little tingle of anticipation at the coming night.

“Man, you’ve got it bad,” Derek said, shaking his head.

“Yep.” That he did.

His brother sighed through his nose. “You might want to slow it down a bit. You know, be a little more careful.”

“That so?” Liam wasn’t interested in Derek’s older-brother advice. Or anyone’s, for that matter. He’d waited five years as it was.

“Yeah, it is. Look, I hate to be the one to burst your sexual bubble, here, but if you haven’t noticed, things started going bad, I mean real bad, just about the minute your wife decided to show up again.”

Liam couldn’t believe it. “What is it with you, man? First Vivian, now Rory?” Liam could feel the tight rein he’d had on his emotions over Derek’s wild accusations start to slip again.

“Get real, Liam,” he said, with sudden seriousness. The night seemed suddenly close. “Somebody’s playing us. All of us. We need to know who it is, and you getting in deep with Rory again isn’t helping things.”

Before Liam could respond, footsteps pounded through the kitchen and family area and Vivian flew onto the patio. “Jesus, they’re still there. I could barely get Candace out of here without her giving them an interview!”

“Who?” Liam asked.

“Pauline Kirby or whatever her name is.”

“Guess she didn’t take my hint,” Derek said, and picked up Liam’s unfinished drink.

“I guess not.” Viv was in a full-blown rage again. “And that Candace? She’s starstruck, that’s what she is! Loved the idea of being on TV, even though she doesn’t know a goddamn thing about us. Wouldn’t put it past her to make up something, the little bitch.”

“Ouch!” Derek said.

“Oh, bite me, Derek. I haven’t forgotten what you tried to do to me. Un-be-lieve-able.” Vivian looked as if she wanted to throttle her brother right then and there, but somehow pulled herself together. “I’m not done with this,” she warned, “but . . . damn, sometimes it sucks being an adult. Excuse me while I put my kids to bed.” She started to step inside again, then said, “You might want to make a note that I’m in the house, with the kids.” She threw Derek an icy look as she slipped back through the still open door, then added, “Just in case you need to know where I am and what I’m doing.”

“You see?” Derek said when Vivian was out of earshot.

“That she’s mad at you? Blindingly clear.”

“That she’s not herself. Crying, then mad, then cold as the Arctic. I’m telling you, something’s going on with her.”

Javier had said something along the same lines, but Liam wasn’t buying it. “She’s going through a possible divorce and you accused her of trying to kill our father. That tends to make a person a little testy.”

“I was just pointing out she needs money.”

“You were doing a helluva lot more than that . . . bro.”

“Fine. Don’t believe me,” Derek said, his face flushed with fury. “You know, why don’t you ignore what’s happening around here. Good idea. Just take your damned wife to your place and screw all night long. Live in your own reality, like Pete DeGrere. Things are falling apart, Liam. If you haven’t noticed, the sky is falling!”

Derek finished Liam’s drink in one swallow, slamming down the glass so that it fell off the drink cart and cracked as it hit the concrete. He strode across the patio and through the house.

“Derek,” Liam said, following him.

“Fuck off.” Derek strode out of the house and slammed the door behind him.

Liam watched through the sidelights as Derek, still visibly furious, half jogged to his car. A team of newshounds headed toward him, though Pauline Kirby had apparently given up the siege for the night as the van for Channel 7 was driving away from the estate. One of the remaining reporters recognized Derek and yelled a question at him. “No comment,” Derek clipped out. “Now get the hell off of my family’s property or we’ll call the police. Now!”

The reporter said something to a cameraman, then backed off as Derek slid behind the wheel of his car. The engine fired and with a squeal of tires, he backed around Darlene’s car, did a three-point turn. Then, to circumvent some of the other vehicles clogging the drive, he drove partially on the lawn and nearly clipped a fast escaping reporter on the way.

What was wrong with him? Liam wondered.

With all of them?

Every member of Liam’s family seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and the visit from Mickelson and his partner coupled with the appearance of the reporters hadn’t helped. It was as if a fine piece of porcelain with a few old cracks that had been barely visible was now beginning to shatter.

All because Rory had returned.

Derek’s theory was a crock. Just another way to blame someone else for dysfunctions that had been festering in their family for years. But one thing Derek was right about—they had to figure out who had a vendetta against the Bastians. The wedding attack and now vandalism and murder at their properties . . . This had to stop.

He didn’t have long to contemplate it, though, because Rory returned a few minutes later. She’d taken the time to brush her hair and change her clothes and she was carrying the smallest of her bags. “You were right,” she admitted. “Mom said she’d stay with Charlotte, but I have to be back early in the morning. Early. I can’t just keep depending on Mom as a babysitter.”

“Okay. We’ll take them both to breakfast. Deal?”

“Deal. If you’re up to it.”

“Oh, lady—be careful.”

She winked at him and he caught the glint in her eye, the sensual way she raised one eyebrow. Just like she had in the past, playing the part of the tease. He grabbed her then and kissed her hard, feeling her bones melt against him.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said, breaking the embrace reluctantly. But they needed privacy. And fast. “When we go past the reporters, let me do the talking.”

“You got it.”

He opened the door, and taking her hand, they ran the gauntlet to his Tahoe.

* * *

Beth slowly woke up to a crick in her neck and a foul taste in her mouth. She looked around, blinking to focus. The glass she’d set on the deck beside her chair had tipped over but hadn’t broken. It was full-on dark now, the only illumination coming from the city lights below her and a weak light shimmering from inside her apartment, the under-counter kitchen lights, which she’d left on.

She found her phone, also on the deck. Thank God she hadn’t thrown it over the rail.

Almost one? She’d been out for hours.

And Liam hadn’t called back.

She was angry, then overwhelmingly sad. She choked back a sob, and standing, found she was a little unsteady as she headed inside. On the kitchen counter was the near-empty bottle of rosé she’d been drinking, the one that Liam had bought for her birthday during their last trip to Sonoma. The idiot. Wouldn’t go with her this time. Had to go chase after Rory and find her.

She poured the rest of the bottle into her glass and gulped it down all at once. She wanted to be drunk. To not care. To never think of Liam Bastian again. Ever.

She searched for another bottle in the wine refrigerator, her hand hovering over the most expensive bottle she owned. Over two hundred of Liam’s dollars. Well, yeah, sure. Might as well drink it tonight. She was cutting the foil when she heard a tap at her door. At this time of night?

There’d been times when they’d fought and he’d come to her in the middle of the night. Okay, she’d begged him to come over, but he’d always shown up. Her heart soared as she hurried, almost stumbling to the door.

She peered through the peephole, but there was no one there. Had she imagined it?

“Liam?” she asked, standing on her side of the door, counting her heartbeats.

She felt faintly dizzy from the full glass of wine she’d chugged down. It’s not Liam. It’s your imagination. “Are you out there? Don’t tease me.”

Nothing.

“Did you listen to my voice mail?” she asked.

“Yes.”

It was Liam.

Carefully, she opened the door a crack, and then a little bit wider.

No one.

Where was he?

And then the door slammed into her face. Bam! Pain ricocheted through her brain. She stumbled backward, the world spinning, her legs too unsteady to break her fall. She landed on her butt with a sharp cry and tried like hell to see straight, but her vision was blurred. Dear God, was he wearing a mask?

Before she could gather her wits, he was on her. Kicking the door shut and tackling her, one gloved hand over her mouth as her head banged into the floor. No! Oh, God, no! She twisted and writhed against the carpet. Panic surged through her. Fear gripped her heart.

Who are you? she wanted to scream, but he had her completely pinned down, her mouth covered.

Her head throbbed.

But the pain in her face told her differently and when she saw him rear back, his fist curled, she wriggled with all her strength. Kicking, flailing, struggling to get free.

He wore a Spider-Man mask.

Not Liam, but someone who knows him, she finally thought clearly. He pressed against her, pinning her against the floor, and she felt his erection. Hard. As if he was really getting off on this.

From the corner of her eye she saw the fist slam down at her. Crack! Her cheek seemed to implode with the force. Red lights flashed in front of her eyes. She went suddenly limp and her eyes rolled up in her head.

The pain began to recede.

Darkness plucked at her consciousness.

Barely aware of being lifted from the floor, she embraced the numbness. She heard a low sound and realized it was her own voice, moaning. He was carrying her now and she should be worried, frantic, but she couldn’t get her body to move. Maybe he’d take her to the bedroom . . . or somewhere else?

Open your eyes, Beth. Somewhere deep in her brain she knew she should fight, but she just . . . couldn’t.

Vaguely she heard the sounds of the city, smelled fresh air, and she was outside as he hoisted her up . . . Dear God. She blinked at the rush of adrenaline and she saw the brick exterior of her apartment building, the darkened windows and—

He let go.

Suddenly she was falling into the Portland night.

* * *

She was shivering all over. All this time . . . all this time! And here they were. Back to square one, or maybe reversed even further, in the negatives.

She turned her face toward the warm night breeze and looked up at the sky. The moon was waning, working its way back to a thin smile before total darkness again. Had it only been a few days since she’d met him at that hotel? It felt like a lifetime or two ago.

Her cell phone was in her hand. She dialed his number. It rang and rang and then went to voice mail. She immediately called him back. She didn’t care where he was, what he was doing or whom he was with, he’d better damn well take her call this time.

On her fourth try he picked up. “Hello, you horny bitch,” he greeted her. She could hear the grin in his voice and imagined him leering like a jack-o’-lantern. “Come on over and let me take care of that itch for you.”

“They’re getting too close. Do you hear me? They’re getting too close.”

“You worry too much.”

“You don’t worry enough! What are you doing? Trying to get caught? You’re not taking me with you!” She really hated him. The only part she liked was his cock. Sometimes that was all she thought about, his hard dick and what it could do for her. He knew her weakness and used it to his advantage. It killed her to admit it, but even now there was a part of herself that wanted to do exactly as he suggested, run over to his place and squiggle down on his cock, sliding it in and out until she was wet and soppy and climaxing in a wild scream.

But right now that would be suicide.

“We have to be extremely careful.”

“Well, we don’t have to worry about Bethany Van Horne anymore.”

“What do you mean?” she asked sharply.

“She took a little leap, like that other redheaded whore.”

“What? What?” She thought she might faint. Then, “Other? Bethany’s not a redhead.”

“She kinda got that way, didn’t she? Trying to impress Liam.”

Her hand was slick with sweat on her phone. Nerves. “Did you have sex with her?”

“No.”

“You’re lying. Again. Oh, God. You can’t leave redheads alone, and you’re going to get us caught!”

He laughed. “No worries. You keep reminding me that DeGrere didn’t know about you, so you’re safe.”

“I don’t trust you,” she snapped. “You’ll give me up in seconds flat. I know you will.”

“Oh, babe, I love you too much,” he said with a sneer.

“Fuck you.”

“Come on over and make that a reality.”

She wanted to. How she wanted to. She could feel every cell in her body turn toward the phone, like a plant to the sun, pulled by an inexorable force. But she had to tamp down that desire. Squash it. She was in self-preservation mode now, and she couldn’t be derailed.

“It’s over. You understand? It’s over!”

“I told you, I didn’t touch her.”

“Lies. You sure touched Teri Mulvaney. And then you pushed her off the building so she would never be able to tell! And now Beth! The Van Hornes will throw all their money at this. You stupid, stupid man!”

“Mountains again.”

“What?” she practically screeched.

“You’re making mountains out of molehills.”

“You call what you did a molehill. You have to do something, or we’re both going to be found out. You left your DNA in her, didn’t you? They’re going to find you!”

“I leave it in you, too, sweetheart.”

“That doesn’t matter, unless you’re planning to kill me, too.”

“Now, there’s an idea,” he drawled.

His insouciance nearly drove her mad. Why did she put up with him? Why did she care?

“We need a plan,” she said, calming herself down with an effort. “We’ve been afraid something was going to happen, and now it has. Not the way we wanted, but people are putting answers together! You’re going to be found out. I can feel it. But I’m not going down with you. You need to do something!”

Finally it felt like he was listening to her. She could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. He could be so charming, urbane, smart. But it felt like that persona was dying, buried under an avalanche of mediocrity.

If it wasn’t for his cock she would have bailed years earlier.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

“How? Don’t you dare get caught! I won’t go down for this. I won’t.”

“You won’t,” he agreed, finally sounding full of the steel resolve that had drawn her to him in the first place. “I won’t, either. But I’ll make sure someone else does.” A smile entered his voice. “I’m licking the phone and thinking of you.” She could hear the scritch of his tongue on the cell. “My tongue is inside you and you’re hot and wet . . .”

She clicked off, furious. Nope. She wasn’t going to let him get to her. Not now, when the stakes were so high. Oh, Lord, Bethany.

Drawing a breath, she threw a last glance at the fading moon and set her jaw. She’d known it from the beginning. She was going to have to kill him.