Indefensible (31 page)

Tuesday, 12:10 p.m.

T
he call from Detective Drake had rattled him. The police could pretend all they wanted that they were just filling in the paperwork, but he knew that was bull. This was just the tip of the iceberg. Now that Jamie was a suspect in Elise's murder, they'd leave no stone unturned in his background check. Deaths in South Africa that were tenuously linked to him but had been chalked up to bad luck would now be revisited.

The police would search his house, his car, and eventually discover his cabin in the woods.

It wouldn't take them long to find the grave.

The game was up. For Lucy and for him.

He forced himself to be calm. Why was he unnerved by Detective Drake's phone call? He knew he wouldn't get away with Elise's murder. All he'd wanted was to remove the roadblock to Lucy.

He had done so.

Now all he wanted—all he needed—was a chance to be alone with her. Just him and her.

Just him and Beth.

Just him and the beast that had taunted him.

Everything he had done over the past thirty-four years had led him to this rutted track outside Penelope Barrett's house.

All he needed was enough time to ride the beast unfettered, and then—

It was game over.

This is it.

You've arrived.

The final stop on your journey.

Do it, Jamie.

You have nothing left to lose.

That realization propelled him out of the truck. His thoughts chased one another, escalating his heart rate until the blood pounded in his ears.
I can't wait for her to go for a walk. It could be an hour before she comes out.

If I don't get her now, I never will.

His legs covered the distance to Penelope's front door without him being aware of it. He paused on the doorstep, staring at the seashell knocker on the door.

Calm down
.
Lucy will sense your desperation. You only have one shot at this.

He would need to use every ounce of professional persuasion to convince Lucy to leave her grandmother and come with him. If it came down to it, he would even offer to call Penelope Barrett to ask her permission and reassure Lucy. It was a gamble, but he doubted she knew what suspicions were brewing with Detective Drake.

He breathed deeply several times until his heart rate slowed, tucked in his shirt and rang the doorbell.

The chime echoed. A dog barked. Come on,
come on.

The door swung open.

Nick Barrett scowled at him.

Christ, the kid looked a mess. He'd shaved his head. Looked as if he'd done it himself, judging by the bald nicks. Body odor, rank and musty, radiated off his skin. His eyes were dull.

“Nick, I'm Dr. Jamie Gainsford.” He glanced over the boy's shoulder. “Is your grandmother here?”

“No.”

“How about your sister?”

The boy's eyes narrowed. “No.” Nick shifted onto his other foot. “Who are you, again?”

“I'm your sister's therapist,” he said smoothly, but he felt a sudden twinge of alarm. Nick Barrett was staring at him. Hard. Had the police already called here? He forced his voice to remain casual. “Just thought I'd check in. Do you know where I can find them?”

“My grandmother is at my father's bail hearing.”

Jamie tried not to show his surprise. He'd assumed that Penelope would stay with the grandchildren. Not leave them alone. Especially with Nick's unpredictable behavior.

Fear buzzed in his head. Had Lucy gone to the bail hearing with her grandmother? “What about your sister?” he managed to say.

Nick scowled. “She's at my father's lawyer's house.”

“Thank you.” Jamie gave him a warm smile, turned on his heel and walked to his truck.

He cursed his complacency. Why hadn't he called one final time to check Penelope Barrett's plans?

He had wanted to keep a little distance, not be too closely involved with the family when Lucy disappeared.

But he hadn't anticipated the police would suspect him already.

He swung the gate closed behind him.

All the while, he felt Nick Barrett's eyes on his back.

 

Lucy dropped
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
onto Kate's sofa and jumped to her feet. Although she was too old for the book, she'd always felt a special kinship with the Lucy in the story, but not today. The Lucy in the book didn't have a father in jail, a murdered mother and a brother who could possibly be a homicidal maniac.

She glanced at her watch. Her father's bail hearing would begin in forty-five minutes. Her throat tightened. Her mother had given the watch to her for her twelfth birthday. She remembered the look of anticipation on her mother's face when Lucy unwrapped the gift. Would she like it? Lucy had given her mum a big hug. She had never dreamed that she would be using it to gauge the length of time until her father could be granted bail.

Could Kate Lange really rescue her family from all this? Lucy wondered for the thousandth time. It seemed impossible that one woman could change the minds of all these people who thought her father was guilty. If she could, then Lucy knew what she wanted to be when she was older: a lawyer. If one person could change so many lives then that was something worth doing.

Had her mother affected people's lives like that? She
didn't know. Her mother had been a tax lawyer. Didn't sound as if it could have a big impact, but Lucy had never asked.

And now she never could.

Grief slammed into her again. The ice cream she'd had with Finn slithered in her stomach.

Enid walked into the living room, Alaska on her heels. “Would you like some lunch?” Her gaze took in the book thrown haphazardly on the sofa, Lucy's hunched stance on the area rug.

“Uh, no, thanks. I'm not hungry.” Lucy gave her a weak smile. She felt like an intruder, an outsider, awkward and unable to settle in anywhere. Here she was, at her father's lawyer's house—a woman she didn't know—with her father's lawyer's neighbors babysitting—more women she didn't know—in a city she only visited a few weeks every year.

She wished she were back in Toronto with her friends at their local swimming pool. She squashed the thought immediately, guiltily. Her mother had just died. She couldn't go hang out at the pool. And besides, who knew where she would end up living?

“Did Kate show you the staircase?” Enid asked.

Lucy shot Enid a startled look. The question was so random she wondered if maybe Enid had the same disease Muriel had. But the elderly lady's eyes were bright and inquisitive, like a robin's.

“Um…no.”

“Come on, I'll show you,” Enid said, striding from the room before Lucy could protest. Alaska threw her a look over his shoulder before trotting after her.

With a sigh, Lucy followed the jingle of Alaska's tags
into Kate's kitchen. The dog sat by a closet door at the far end of the room.

“I'm in here with Muriel!” Enid called from the closet. “Come on in!”

Lucy walked into the closet and her eyes widened. In front of her was an open half-door painted lime green, reminding Lucy eerily of a modern take on the wardrobe Lucy Pevensie had discovered.

Enid grinned. “It's a secret stairway.” She lowered herself to her knees and crawled through the small door. Muriel followed, her rubber-boot-clad feet sticking out behind her like a duck's. Lucy swallowed a giggle and followed them, her heart hammering. She knew she wouldn't be transported into a mythical land—she was too old for make-believe—but she wondered if she might find an old trunk, fur coats and assorted memorabilia from times past.

No. It was just a narrow staircase. Dingy and dusty. Lucy wasn't sure why Enid and Muriel were both gazing around it with a look of wonder, until Enid said, “I haven't been in here since I was a child.” Her voice sounded a little hoarse. “We used to play in here, isn't that so, Mil?”

Muriel said nothing. She stared down at the scuffed, worn treads. Then she walked up the stairs to the top and pushed the door, but it didn't open. “I want to go to the turret,” she said.

“The turret is locked right now, Mil,” Enid said.

“Does she think this is a castle?” Lucy asked.

Enid nodded. “Yes, we played make-believe in here. The turret was at the top of the stairs. I used to be the princess because I had long hair, and she would rescue
me…” Her voice trailed off. “We should have brought in the flashlight. Could you get it, Lucy? There's one just by the door.”

Lucy nodded, eager to get out of the staircase. All she wanted right now was to go back to her grandmother's house.

She crawled backward through the half-door, spying the flashlight in the corner. She stood—

A hand grasped her wrist.

She gasped and spun around.

A man blocked the light from the kitchen. She couldn't see his features.

“Lucy?”

When she heard his voice, she relaxed, although she wondered why Dr. Jamie held her arm. She tried to shake it free. His grip tightened. “You need to come with me,” he said in a low voice.

“Lucy?” Enid called. “Could you find the flashlight?”

Before Lucy could answer, Dr. Jamie kicked the half-door closed with his foot and shoved the shiny new bolt in the lock.

From the look in his eyes, this was no joke he was playing on the old ladies. Lucy's instincts kicked in. She grabbed his hand and tried pulling it off her wrist, but he yanked her backward, dragging her out of the closet.

The kitchen was silent.

Too silent.

“Where's Charlie? And Alaska?” Lucy cried, her eyes darting around the kitchen.

“They're sleeping,” Dr. Jamie said. “In the other room.”

He pulled a small bottle of juice out of his pocket. “I need you to drink this, Lucy.”

She knew without asking that he had drugged it. “No.”

He twisted her arm up against her back. Pain shot through her shoulders. “If you don't drink it, I'll kill your dogs.” He spoke in a conversational manner. And that was scarier than if he'd shouted at her. “Do it.” He put the bottle against her lips. “Drink.”

“Lucy?” Enid's muffled voice came from inside the stairwell. “You locked us in, dear.”

Lucy closed her eyes, her heart racing, almost gagging as the orange juice was poured down her throat.

“Swallow it, Lucy.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she managed not to choke on the juice.

“Good girl.”

“Lucy!” Enid called again, panic in her voice. Lucy heard her pounding on the door. “Lucy! This isn't a joke. Muriel needs to get out. Open the door, please.”

“Don't say anything,” Dr. Jamie said. “Or I'll have to hurt them, too.”

Lucy nodded.

“You are a good girl, aren't you, Lucy?” he said, leading her out of the kitchen. She desperately wanted to make sure Charlie and Alaska were okay, but she knew he wouldn't let her. “You don't want anyone to get hurt, do you?”

She shook her head.

“You need to go in the truck quietly, okay?”

They reached the driveway. The yards next to Kate's
house were quiet. No one was around. Tears filled Lucy's eyes.

Jamie shoved her in the truck.

“Lie down on the floor, Lucy,” he said. His voice was calm. Just like at his office. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself in his study, curled up in an armchair, with Herbert on her lap. “Otherwise I will have to tie you up and knock you out. I think you are far too sensible for that.”

Maybe if she pretended to go along with him, she could escape while he was driving. Whatever was in the orange juice hadn't affected her. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe if she just tried really hard to stay awake she could escape before the drug kicked in.

She slid down to the floor by the passenger seat and crouched there.

Please let the dogs be alive. Please let them be okay.

She stared up at Dr. Jamie as he started the engine. At his tanned jaw, his open-collared shirt. He looked so normal. Nice. Not a monster. But she knew he was going to hurt her.

She started to feel sick.

Dr. Jamie backed the truck out of the driveway and drove down Kate's street. Where was he taking her?

It was very hot down on the floor, the truck engine vibrating against her back.

Dr. Jamie tossed something at her. She flinched. But it was only a hair elastic.

“Put your hair in a ponytail.”

“Why?” she dared.

“Because if you don't, I'll have to do it for you.”

She did not want him touching her again. Ever. She scooped back her hair and gathered the elastic around it.

Dr. Jamie glanced down at her. Satisfaction—and something else—gleamed in his eyes. He hummed softly under his breath. “This is a song I used to sing to my Maggie,” he told her with a fond smile.

It was a lullaby.

Her head felt like cotton balls. She remembered that feeling. She'd felt the same way when she'd had oral surgery a year ago. Panic surged through the muzziness—
Oh, God, no, don't let the drugs
—

Tuesday, 12:52 p.m.

N
ick threw open the front door of his grandmother's house and began to run up the path to the cliffs. The house, that fucking house, was suffocating him. He couldn't stand it anymore. His sister's sobbing across the hall, his grandmother's tentative footsteps, the hushed conversations, the worried glances.

Heather crunched under his feet. He had the sensation he was treading on tiny coils of energy. He had not left his room since his father had been arrested.

What was the point? He could no longer do anything. The justice system would give out whatever form of punishment they thought killing his mother deserved.

He'd shaved his head in protest.

The wind was cool on his scalp, fresh and invigorating. He'd forgotten what the air smelled like. Salty. Tangy. It filled his nose, then his chest, waking up the numb flesh that had slouched on his bed for the past three days.

Now, as he ran, his thoughts flew over the rocks,
bouncing against the granite surfaces, rebounding into his brain, slamming him with the truth he'd buried in his heart.

He wanted his old life back. He was weary of this existence, of the hate that fueled his rage, of the rage itself. He wanted to be able to play hockey and hang with his friends and get his fucking beginner's license.

It could never happen now. Everyone knew he'd tried to kill his father. That he'd tried to
murder
someone. The line had been crossed. He was no longer a kid. He could no longer go back to goofing around with his friends at the skateboard park and try a double wheelie to impress Steph.

He'd tried to kill his own father.

He'd grown up in the worst possible way, a below-average kid who'd mutated into a vengeful killer.

It hadn't been his fault. Any of it. He'd wanted to
save
his mother.

There was nothing left for him anymore. His father had taken his mother from him. His sister believed he was a monster.

So would everyone else.

He neared the edge of the cliff. Below him, massive rocks spread out, ready to receive him.

Glaciers had wrought these rocks. The ice had been powerful enough to break granite.

And the granite, in turn, was powerful enough to break bone.

He was no poet, but he saw the truth in dying the same way his mother had.

Nick began to run. Harder, faster, gathering speed.

He would soar off the cliff.

He would experience the same sensations his mother had in her last moments on earth.

The wind rushed around his head. It filled his ears.

It promised peace.