TWELVE
D
arkness had settled hours ago. The strange
bed, the unfamiliar room and the clean, fresh scent of newly washed sheets were
a constant reminder that Catherine’s life would never be the same. A headache
pounded behind her eyes, and she shifted, fluffing the pillow and trying to get
comfortable enough to fall asleep. If she’d been at home, she’d have grabbed
some Tylenol and washed it down with hot, sweet coffee. She wasn’t at home, and
right now, she wasn’t sure where home was going to be. With Eileen gone, the old
farmhouse couldn’t be it.
She fingered the dog-eared Bible she’d tucked under her pillow
but didn’t pull out the letter. She’d read it dozens of times and had nearly
memorized it, but having it wasn’t the same as having Eileen.
She glanced at the glowing numbers on the bedside alarm clock.
3:00 a.m. The house had fallen silent, but she knew Darius and a good-looking
guy named Tango were doing their bodyguard thing.
The pain in her head intensified, and her stomach churned.
Darius had shown her the small en suite bathroom when he’d brought her to the
room, and she stumbled to it, running her hand along the wall and flicking on
the light. A mirrored medicine cabinet hung over the sink, and she opened it,
trying hard not to see her reflection. She already knew what she looked like.
Hair spiking up, nose pink from tears, her skin leached of color. There’d been a
time when she’d thought she was pretty, but those days were long gone.
The medicine cabinet contained everything a guest might need.
Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Tylenol. Aspirin. Razors. Mouthwash. Darius either had
guests often, or he was the kind of organized person who was always prepared for
anything.
She thought it might be both.
His warmth must attract people, and she was sure he had plenty
of friends. After all, he always seemed to know what to do, what to say and when
to say nothing at all.
She grabbed the Tylenol and wrestled with the lid, finally
managing to tap three pills into her hand. She gulped them down with water from
the sink, then shuffled into the bedroom. As tired as she felt, she couldn’t
sleep. There were plans to make, final arrangements that needed to be taken care
of. Not much, though. Eileen had dotted all her
I’
s
and crossed all her
T’
s after she was diagnosed with
liver cancer. The funeral had been paid for in advance, the grave site
chosen.
Typical Eileen, doing everything herself. No help needed or
necessary. Not even when it came to this last rite of passage.
Catherine turned on the bedside lamp, opened up the overnight
bag she’d packed for Eileen. Her grandmother wouldn’t need any of the things in
it, but the box was there, too, and Catherine placed it on the bed, pulling out
the papers, the money and the bracelet again. She hadn’t opened the envelope
earlier, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to now. If this box had been Eileen’s
last concern, if telling Catherine about it had given her the strength to let go
and move on, then its contents must be very important.
She lifted the sealed envelope, staring at the unmarked paper
as if doing so could reveal the secrets that were hidden inside. Earlier, she
hadn’t had time to look. Now, she had all the time in the world. An entire
lifetime stretching out in front of her, and she still wasn’t sure what she
would do with it.
Someone tapped on the door, and Catherine set the envelope
down.
“Come in,” she called.
Darius stepped into the room. He’d shaved and changed, his jaw
smooth and tan, his white T-shirt clinging to six-pack abs. Faded jeans clung to
his slim hips and muscular thighs, the left pant leg rolled up past the ankle,
revealing a skin-toned prosthetic foot and mechanical-looking joint. She’d seen
prostheses before, but not one like this. It looked expensive and high-tech. A
necessity for someone in his line of work, but even something as high-tech and
as expensive as his prosthesis must be painful sometimes.
“Does it bother you?” he asked, dropping onto the bed beside
her.
“What?” She caught a hint of soap and masculinity, felt his
heat though they hadn’t even touched. Her body seemed to yearn for his, leaning
just a little as if she could soak up his heat, claim some of his warmth.
“My leg.” He rolled down his pant leg, covering the
mechanics.
“Funny, I was just wondering the same about you,” she
responded, and he smiled, his eyes warm and soft.
“Sometimes, but not enough to complain.”
“Is it bothering you now? I had several patients who were
amputees, and I could—” She touched his leg, and he grabbed her hand, holding it
still.
“Catherine, the last thing I want you to do is look at me and
see a patient.” There was an edge to his voice and in his eyes, and for the
first time since she’d met him, she realized how much he’d lost. Not just his
leg, but his independence and confidence. It must have taken guts and
determination to fight back from that, to make a life doing what he loved, but
he never complained, never used it as an excuse.
Like you do.
Eileen’s voice seemed to whisper through her head, or maybe it
was her own voice, chastising her for hiding away from the world and using the
trauma she’d been through to justify it.
She’d been exonerated. The State had issued an apology. She
could go back to the job she’d always loved, find work in a hospital or a
convalescent center, go back to the plans and dreams she’d been working toward
before she’d gone to jail.
“I wish I were like you, Darius,” she said without thought.
“Personally, I’m really glad you’re not.” His gaze slid from
her eyes to her lips and down to their hands that were still connected, his over
hers, hers over his muscular thigh.
“That’s not what I mean.” She tugged her hand away, her cheeks
hot. “You just seem so confident, so sure of where you’re heading and what
you’re doing. You’ve been through a lot, but you haven’t let it bring you
down.”
“My mother raised me to believe that even the worst things in
life have a purpose. Besides, I figure losing my leg is a lot better than losing
my life would have been.”
“Your mother must have been a wonderful lady.”
“She was, but she made her share of mistakes. I guess that’s
another thing she taught me. It isn’t our mistakes that define us. It’s what we
learn from them.” He took the box from her lap, looked into it. “Is this why
you’re up at three in the morning?”
“I was thinking about Eileen and how glad she’d be that she
didn’t linger. She’d have wanted to go quickly, and I should be happy that she
did.”
“But you’re not.” It wasn’t a question, but she answered
anyway.
“I’m happy for Eileen. I’m not so happy for me.”
“I understand. It gets better, though.”
“I know.” She lifted the sealed envelope, slid her finger along
the flap. She needed to open it, but she still wasn’t sure she wanted to know
what was inside.
“It’ll wait.”
“What?” She met his eyes, saw compassion in the depth of his
gaze. Compassion and something else. Something warm and exciting. Something she
hadn’t seen in a very long time, but that she responded to instinctively, her
skin heating, her stomach tightening.
“If you’re not ready to see what’s inside, whatever is in that
envelope will wait.”
“What if it’s something to do with Eileen’s funeral? She was
very specific about what she wanted. Maybe there’s someone she wanted me to
invite, something that she wanted done.”
“It will still wait.”
“I know, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, so I may as well
open it now.” She unsealed the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. No. Not
a paper. A check written out for ten thousand dollars. Dated nearly three
decades ago, it was made out to Catherine’s mother, Jessica Lamont.
“A check?” Darius leaned in, his body pressed so close there
was no space between them, and Catherine’s pulse jumped, her body humming with
awareness, every nerve alive.
“For a lot of money. It would have been even more twenty-nine
years ago.” But the check had never been cashed.
“Who’s Jessica Lamont?”
“My mother. She would have been really young. Fifteen or
sixteen.” She would also have been pregnant. Catherine frowned, looking in the
envelope, hoping for some other clue, but there was nothing.
“Was Gerald Kensington her father?” He read the name in the
corner of the check, and she shook her head.
“No. My grandfather’s name is James.”
“So, who is Kensington?”
“I have no idea. Except that he’s someone with a lot of money
to throw around.”
“Seems strange that he’d be throwing it around at a very young
girl, and it seems even stranger that she never did anything with it.” Darius
echoed what Catherine was thinking. Jessica had been kicked out of her parents’
house when she’d found out she was pregnant. Eileen had been happy to take the
mother of her grandchild in, but there hadn’t been much money. Not when
Catherine’s parents were alive, and not after they’d died. She fingered the
hundred-dollar bills that were lying in the bottom of the box.
“Eileen wanted me to have this. She kept it for all these
years. It must be important,” she said mostly to herself, but Darius nodded.
“Can I take a look?”
She handed him the check, shifting uncomfortably while he
examined it. She’d had a feeling that opening the envelope would be like opening
Pandora’s box, and now she was sure of it.
“We need to find out who Gerald Kensington is and what he meant
to your mother,” Darius said.
We?
The two of them together, searching for answers about
Catherine’s past?
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she couldn’t find
it in herself to tell him that she’d search alone. “With everything else that’s
going on, it will probably have to wait.”
“I’m not sure it should, Catherine. Eileen seemed determined
that you know about this. There must be a reason.”
“I know, but Eileen just passed away, and I have the funeral to
get through.”
“You also have someone trying to kill you. The police are
digging into your past, trying to find a suspect. The more information they
have, the more quickly they’ll be able to do that.”
“You’re assuming that Gerald Kensington is somehow connected to
me.”
“He was connected to your mother. That means that he was
connected to you.”
“Twenty-nine years ago. Why would that matter now?”
“Maybe it doesn’t, but it won’t hurt to check into it.”
“I guess not.”
“You don’t sound like you want to.”
“I’m just not sure I’m ready for whatever it means.” Because
she couldn’t think of many reasons why a man would pay a teenage girl ten
thousand dollars, and the reasons she could think of weren’t good ones.
“It doesn’t have to be something bad, Catherine.”
“I know, but I can’t imagine it being anything good.” Maybe she
was jaded. Maybe everything she’d been through had warped her perspective.
“Either way, wouldn’t you rather know than hide your head in
the sand and pretend you never saw this?” He handed the check back, his fingers
touching hers, the heat that sparked between them so compelling that she was
sure she’d never felt anything like it before. Not with Peter. Not with
anyone.
His cell phone rang, cutting through the sudden tension, and
Darius pulled it from his pocket, frowning as he glanced at the number.
“Osborne here,” he said, walking to the window, his back to
Catherine. “You’ve contacted the fire department? Okay. I’ll check it out from
here. Thanks.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket and turned to face her
again.
“Is everything okay?”
“There’s a fire at your grandmother’s place. The alarm is going
off. I need to head over to check it out.”
“A fire? There’s no one there to start one.” Catherine hurried
to the window, looking out into the early-morning darkness. She wasn’t sure what
she thought she’d see. The bedroom looked out over the backyard and gave no view
of Eileen’s place.
“There are lots of ways a fire can start. I’ll be back as soon
as I figure out what’s going on.”
“I’ll come, too.” She shoved her feet into flip-flops and
followed Darius out into the hall.
“Not a good idea. You’ll be safe here.”
“What’s going on?” the dark-haired, grim-faced security
contractor who’d been at the house when they’d arrived asked as Darius opened
the front door. Tango Jefferson. An interesting name for a guy who looked like
he could make a grizzly turn tail and run.
“There’s a fire at the Miller place. I need to head over there
to check things out. Stay with Catherine until I get back.”
“
Catherine
isn’t going to be here.
She’s going to be with you,” Catherine said, and Darius’s coworker raised an
eyebrow.
“Darius is right. It will be a lot easier to keep you safe if
you stay here.”
“If it were
your
house burning to
the ground, would you stay where it was safe or would you go try to save
it?”
“Houses can be replaced, Catherine. You can’t,” Darius said,
then turned his attention back to his coworker. “Keep her here until I get back.
I shouldn’t be long.”
“I’m not stayi—”
Darius walked outside, shutting the door on her protest. She
wanted to run after him, but she had a feeling the dark-haired behemoth, who was
suddenly blocking the door, was not going to move.
“Might as well make yourself comfortable until he comes back,”
he said, watching her through smoky-gray eyes.
“I’m not a prisoner,” she responded, but she felt like one, and
she didn’t like the memories that evoked.
“You’re not a prisoner, but if you want to stay alive, you’ll
pretend you are. There’s a fire at your place, and we don’t know how it started.
Could be someone set it, and if that’s the case, he might be hanging around,
waiting for you to show up.”