by J. R. Ward
Unlocking the sedan's doors, he opened up the entire vehicle, got out his phone, and shined the flash into floorboards, around the seats, over the armrest. Nothing seemed out of place, but this was just a delay tactic to get his shit together. When he'd gone through everything in the car proper, he retracted himself and hit the trunk release.
Before he looked in there, he walked around the exterior of the car, looking for dents and scratches. Then he checked out the wheels. No mud or anything in the tread or the rims.
It was like the car had been detailed.
Bracing himself, he went to the back and slowly opened the trunk's lid. He wasn't sure what he expected to find...maybe a tangle of leaves or sticks, bloodstains, twine that had tight knots in it. Fragments of his father's clothes.
There was nothing.
The sound of tires coming over the pea-stone drive brought his head around. The unmarked police car was gray with darkened windows and he checked his watch. Not bad.
Detective Merrimack got out, and for once, he didn't bother with that smile thing. "What are you doing?"
"Looking at the car."
"That's possible evidence in a murder investigation."
"I've got gloves on."
Merrimack came over and started shutting the doors, his hand covered with a bandanna he had taken out of the pocket of his windbreaker.
"When can you get forensics out here?" Lane said.
"They're on the way." Merrimack looked up to the security cameras mounted on the business center. "Where's the knife?"
"In the kitchen." Lane snapped off his gloves. "Come on in."
"I'll take those car keys--which you've touched."
"Sorry." Even though he wasn't. "Here."
As they went inside, Merrimack wrapped the keys up in the bandanna and disappeared them into his windbreaker.
"Did you handle the knife?" the detective asked.
"I didn't take it out of the bag, no."
Over at the counter, Merrimack inspected the blade without picking it up. "Can you show me where it was found?"
"In her private quarters. This way."
When Lane came up to the door, he glanced over his shoulder. "I've already opened and closed this."
"Of course you have."
Inside, he pointed to the picture he'd taken down and the hole it left in the lineup. "There. Lizzie found it there."
"Earlier today, right?" Merrimack went over and leaned in. "That's when she found it?"
"Yes."
"And why was she in here? What was your fiancee doing in Miss Aurora's quarters?"
Merrimack started to walk around, his hands clasped behind his back as he inspected everything. And yeah, Lane wanted to shove the guy out of Miss Aurora's private place. She would have hated this stranger with his suspicious eyes and his judgmental airs in here.
"I told you. She wanted to bring some photographs down to the hospital."
"For a woman who is in a coma?"
Lane narrowed his eyes. "She came around enough to talk today. Lizzie thought it would be nice for her to see some of the people who love her."
"From what I understand, she's very ill."
"You want to tell me what you're getting at here?"
Merrimack poked his head into Miss Aurora's bedroom. "I just think it's a little curious, s'all."
"What is." So help him God, but Lane wanted to get one of Miss Aurora's iron skillets and forehand the guy in the head with it. "What's curious?"
Merrimack took his sweet damn time in answering. And then dodged the question entirely. "I heard from down at the jail that your brother Edward declined to see you this morning."
"So."
The detective wandered over to the BarcaLoungers and seemed to look out the bay window to the courtyard. "Are you aware that he was recently paid a visit by one of the staff psychiatrists?"
"No." When there was another pause, Lane put himself in the detective's way as he straightened. "I'm really bored of this."
"Your brother tried to slice his wrist open with a homemade prison knife a couple of nights ago." As Lane felt himself go numb, he was aware of Merrimack focusing on him with the intensity of a searchlight. "You didn't know this?"
"No."
"You sure about that?"
Edward had tried to commit suicide? Lane thought.
"I understand that your family is very close to Deputy Ramsey," Merrimack continued. "That in the past, you've called on him to help you all out. For instance, I know you asked if he was available this morning when you were trying to see Edward. It's nice that you have found such a source of support in him."
"Ramsey never told me about Edward."
"Of course he didn't."
"He didn't tell me! You want to call Ramsey and get his side of it? Because I will guarantee you that he'll say the same thing. He didn't call me."
"I've already spoken to him."
"Then why the hell are we talking about this?"
Merrimack dropped his voice. "You don't think it's even slightly suspicious that your brother tries to commit suicide, you have ties in the very department that oversees the jail, and within no more than a day or two, you start hitting me up with theories that he didn't commit murder--and then try to provide me with some proof? Like cameras that show nothing, a knife in a bag, a car you yourself have just gone through."
"I'm not faking anything here. My brother didn't kill his--my father."
"But, wait, it gets better--to top it off, the person that you're wanting me to believe did do it is a woman who is about to die. Pretty effective way of getting your brother out of jail. And you can't put someone who is dead on trial or in prison, can you."
Lane considered getting into it with the guy, but then decided it was better to show, not tell, wasn't it.
"Your forensics people are going to find what they do."
"They will. And you should be aware that tampering with evidence is a very serious crime, Mr. Baldwine."
"I didn't touch a damn thing."
"You were just poking around a car you told me I should find evidence in, remember?"
"Why are you so determined to blame Edward? Let me guess, you don't like rich people, and you've put me and my whole family into that category."
The detective pointedly glanced around. "We're not exactly in a double wide here, are we."
"Your job is to find the truth."
Merrimack walked out of the open doorway of Miss Aurora's quarters. "You don't need to remind me of my duties."
"I'm not so sure about that."
As Lane exited as well, the detective took a spool of police tape out of his windbreaker. "Do not go in here for any reason. Or the car. And if you find that you can't abide by those rules, I'll make it really easy for you and turn this whole house and all of its grounds into a crime scene. Now why don't you head back to that hospital while we work. If Miss Aurora comes around again, I'm going to want to speak to her."
For a moment, Lane wanted to protest being dismissed from his own goddamn property. But then he just nodded and walked away.
Arguing with Merrimack was going to get him nowhere.
Other than more pissed off than he was already.
Eight hundred miles.
Well, eight hundred and twenty-seven, according to what the Mercedes's trip computer had read.
As Gin felt the heat of Samuel T.'s anger, she decided it had been stupid to think she could get herself ready for his reaction. Even driving through the night, with nothing but endless role-playing and hypotheticals to keep her awake, had not prepared her for the reality of his fury.
"Are you even kidding me," he demanded.
She didn't try to respond. He was pacing now, his bare feet slapping against the floorboards of the porch, his hands on his hips, his head down as if he were trying to control himself and losing the battle.
Eventually, he stopped in front of her. "How do you know it's mine."
"Amelia," she corrected sharply, "is definitely yours. There
is no question."
"You told me you were on the pill."
"I was. But I had that sinus infection. I was on penicillin during the vacation. It caused the pill to fail. I didn't know, Samuel T. I did not know."
He went back to the pacing, and the distance he covered grew longer and longer, until he was traversing the entire length of the porch.
"I was a child, Samuel."
"So you're saying this is my fault. Because I was two years older than you?" He shook his head. "Why the hell did you make the story up about your professor? Why did you lie?"
"Because the weekend we got home, you hooked up with that girl, Cynthia."
"What?"
"Don't play dumb." She felt her own anger rise. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. We got into that fight on the plane on the way home. And to pay me back, you took Cynthia to Aspen the next week. You picked her because you knew she would tell me."
He pushed his hand through the air as if he were erasing everything. "I don't remember any of that--"
"Bullshit! You know what you did! So yes"--she sat up and then got to her feet, too--"I made up that story about my professor."
"You got him fired!"
"He was fired because he was sleeping with three of his students!"
"But you lied about him and you didn't care! You never fucking care! You use people, you don't give a good goddamn about how their lives are affected by your--"
"Really! What about you? You're just as bad. I had to comfort Cynthia after she got back and you refused to answer her calls. You do that, you sleep with women knowing damn well you don't give a shit about them, and then you leave them out to hang because God forbid if someone doesn't like you. And meanwhile, you're on to the next. Don't pretend that's not how you operate."
She must have hit a nerve of truth because Samuel T. didn't immediately come back at her with anything.
His quiet didn't last, however: "You are the most self-centered person I have ever met. You're spoiled and you're entitled and you should have aborted that poor child when you had the chance--"
Her palm went flying before she was aware of wanting to hit him, and the smack of the impact was so loud her ears rang.
Then she jabbed her finger right in his face. "Amelia is not a mistake. She is a smart young woman who's had a really shitty mother and no father to speak of. Hate me all you want, but don't you ever suggest she is a waste."
"No father, huh. And whose fucking fault is that? You want to poor-me that girl on the basis that she didn't know her dad, but you did that, Gin. That is all your fault!"
"And how would that have worked for you? You think you would have been a stand-up guy and been there when she was up in the middle of the night? You think you would have stopped getting your degree and moved in to Easterly to change diapers? That you would have manned up back then and given her what she needed? You excelled at two things in college, drinking and fucking. The fact that you got into law school at all was only because your father begged them to take you--"
"Wait, wait, wait, are you saying you are mother of the year? As far as I understand it, you had a baby nurse for the first six months and then nanny after nanny after nanny. Exactly what did you do for her? Did you even change a diaper yourself? Hey, answer me this. When you ran out of wipes, did you put her in the back of your father's Rolls-Royce and drive her into the 'burbs to Target? Did you, Gin? And when you got there, did you put her in a cart and push her around in your Chanel dress and your Prada heels? No? I didn't fucking think so."
In the back of her mind, Gin was very aware that they could just keep going back and forth all night with this no-you're-shittier-than-I-am, no-you-are, no-YOU-are. But at the end of the day, this was about Amelia.
"You win," she heard herself say. "I was a horribly negligent mother who cared more about her life than her child's. I ignored Amelia and I was relieved when she went off to prep school because all we did was fight. I have been...unforgivably selfish. There is no way I can make up for those years, and I will have to live with that reality for the rest of my life. Amelia is who she is in spite of me, not because of any good example I've set."
Samuel T. seemed taken aback at the candor and she took advantage of his surprise. "I decided after my father died that enough was enough. She's coming back home because she told me that was what she wanted to do, and I've helped her figure out how to make it happen. I don't have any clue how to be a good mother, but goddamn it, I'm going to give it a shot--and part of my change is coming clean with both of you. I would like her to know who you are and spend time with you--and I'm hoping you will agree, because it is the best thing for her."
Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked toward the storm clouds that had gathered on the horizon.
As silence reigned between them, she knew that she had been right about one thing: Samuel T. was never going to forgive her. She could tell by the way he was staring at her, as if she were a stranger he didn't want to be anywhere around. She had earned this animus, however, and was going to have to live with it as a consequence of her failures.
What she was truly terrified of, though? How Amelia was going to react. They had talked all the way to New England about nothing, and everything, and Gin had come to truly appreciate the girl. If Amelia shut her out now? It would be like losing her just when Gin was getting to know her.
But she had earned that, as well.
"She is up north finishing her exams," Gin said. "Then she's coming home. She's going to ship her things and fly back."
As she spoke in short sentences, Gin prayed that Samuel T. would agree to meet with the girl. Get to know her. Maybe...after a while...learn to love her.
After so many years of demanding things of the man, it was the only thing she would ever beg for from him. And his answer was life and death to her.
--
Samuel T. was ready to keep arguing. He was so fucking beyond ready to keep throwing shit at Gin, to continue marching down the road of their previous mutual indiscretions, to spiral directly into the full force of their conflicts.
It was so much easier than dealing with the reality that he had a child.
He had a child, a daughter, on the face of the planet earth. And not only that, he had had her with Gin.
Gin had given birth to their child.
Gin...and he...had had a baby. Together.
And she had cheated him out of sixteen years of knowing his own flesh and blood.
As a renewed blast of white-hot anger hit, Samuel T. opened his mouth to point out another transgression of hers--but something about the way she was staring across at him made him stop: Standing before him, she had become a perfectly self-contained unit, her arms wrapped around herself, her body unmoving, her expression remote and calm. It was as if she had unplugged from the socket of their electricity, and somehow, this drained him as well.
Dimly, he thought of what he knew of Amelia.
Not much. The girl hadn't been a big topic of conversation for Gin, and he had certainly never felt compelled to ask her how her child by another man was doing. Amelia had been smart enough to get into Hotchkiss, though. That was one thing.
From out of nowhere, an image of the girl in that crypt at the cemetery came to him. She had been looking up at the lineup of plaques, reading the names of her ancestors, her head tilted to one side, her long, thick brown hair down way past her shoulder blades.
As a vague feeling of panic threatened to overwhelm him, Samuel T. went right for the bottle of bourbon, finishing what was in his glass on the way. He poured himself a second serving only because his fine breeding prevented him from guzzling the stuff directly from the open neck.
If he'd had any medical training, he would have run himself an IV of Family Reserve.
With the booze burning its way to his gut, he opened his mouth again. What stopped him from lobbing more insults this time was what Gin had called him out on. Preston/Peabody/Prentiss had indeed been phoning him and texting him, u
sing excuses as original as inviting him out to meet her and her friends, asking him to a birthday party, wondering if he'd lost her number.
Well, actually, those were just the texts. He hadn't bothered listening to the voicemails.
Although he might finally learn her name if he did that.
Off in the distance, thunder rolled across the sky, and he thought absently that he was wrong. There would be no light from the setting sun on the porch tonight. Storm clouds had roiled up over in Indiana, the purple and dark-gray big boys promising a rough couple of hours.
"I want you to go," he heard himself say.
"All right."
"I will never forgive you for this."
"I know. And I do not blame you."
He thought about the last sixteen years of his life. Yes, he had gotten himself a fancy law degree and started a practice here in Charlemont that was thriving. He had also slept with how many women? Not a clue. More than a hundred? More than...God, he didn't want to think about it. And how many nights out had he had, stumbling, laughing, drunk and stupid with other adult frat boys like himself?
Where exactly would he have fit a child into all that?
Not the point, he reminded himself.
His choice had been taken away from him.
As Gin stared at him, he knew she was waiting to hear whether or not he would see Amelia--and his first instinct was to walk back into his house and slam the door without giving her an answer, just to hurt her.
"I want a paternity test," he said as the first drops of rain began to fall.
"You can't take my word for it? I'd rather spare her the unpleasantness. And she might feel as though you're obligated thereafter."
"I am obligated--or I will be if I am her father. I'm going to have to pay for things."
"I'm not looking for money," Gin bit out. "Do you think this is a fundraiser for her college or something?"
He shot a glare across at her. "You don't get to pull any kind of holier-than-thou card with this. And there should be a test so that she knows she's safe investing in any kind of relationship with me. Think about it. How would you feel if this news got dropped in your life all of a sudden. Wouldn't you want to know for certain?"
As Gin got silent, he shook his head. "Has she never asked about me--" He caught himself. "Her father, before?"
"It hasn't really come up, no."
For some reason, he thought of those daddy/daughter dances they did at the club and at Charlemont Country Day. Had anyone taken Amelia? Or had she had to sit those events out while the rest of her friends went with their fathers?