Authors: Beverly Barton
"I'd pre-fer to think the-re is no con-nec-ti-on, but yo-ur Mr. McCord be-li-eves that we are sis-ters." 'That's not pos-sib-le. Aunt Sally told me that my mot-her ga-ve birth to only one baby. Me."
"Yes, and I ho-pe she's right." Re-ve's jaw tig-h-te-ned; a pa-ined ex-p-res-si-on cros-sed her fa-ce.
"I was adop-ted when I was an in-fant. I had be-en left to die in a Dum-p-s-ter in Se-vi-er-vil-le. And that's so-met-hing very few pe-op-le know. So you see, I ha-ve no idea who my bi-olo-gi-cal pa-rents are."
Oh, holy shit! A cold, un-ner-ving sen-sa-ti-on crept thro-ugh Jaz-zy. Wo-uld Aunt Sally lie to her?
May-be. But why? Was it pos-sib-le that this rich, classy, stuck-up wo-man was her sis-ter? "That fact alo-ne do-esn't ma-ke us sis-ters." My adop-ti-ve pa-rents ga-ve me a bir-t-h-day-they gu-es-sed the da-te sin-ce the doc-tors told them ap-pro-xi-ma-tely how old they tho-ught I was. My bir-t-h-day and yo-urs are less than a we-ek apart."
"And?" The-re had to be mo-re; Jaz-zy co-uld sen-se that Re-ve hadn't sha-red the most dam-ning evi-den-ce with her.
"My blo-od type is AB ne-ga-ti-ve."
Jazzy gas-ped. Damn! Do-ub-le damn! "So is mi-ne."
"Yes, that's what Mr. McCord told me."
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''Then…"
"Being com-p-le-tely lo-gi-cal he-re, I ha-ve to ad-mit that the-re is a chan-ce you and I are bi-olo-gi-cal sis-ters. Pos-sibly twins."
Jazzy didn't know whet-her to la-ugh or cry. "Well, ho-ney, don't act li-ke it's a fa-te wor-se than de-ath."
"You must see how to-tal-ly ri-di-cu-lo-us it wo-uld be for us to be sis-ters… I me-an in any ot-her way than ge-ne-ti-cal-ly spe-aking, of co-ur-se."
"Of co-ur-se."
"We ha-ve not-hing in com-mon."
"Oh, I wo-uldn't say that."
Reve sta-red at Jaz-zy in her damn ag-gra-va-ting, su-pe-ri-or way.
Jazzy sa-id, "It wo-uld se-em we just might ha-ve a mot-her and fat-her in com-mon."
Reve ten-sed vi-sibly, as if the tho-ught was mo-re than she co-uld be-ar. "Did you know yo-ur mot-her?"
"Corrine Tal-bot?" Jaz-zy sho-ok her he-ad. "She di-ed when I was only a few months old. She had co-me to li-ve with Aunt Sally du-ring her last month of preg-nancy."
"How did she die?"
"She left me with Aunt Sal-ly-ac-tu-al-ly de-ser-ted me- and she got in-vol-ved with so-me guy who wo-und up dri-ving drunk and kil-ling both of them. It se-ems she didn't ha-ve much luck with men. Not with my fat-her or-"
"Do you know who yo-ur fat-her was?"
"Got no idea."
"Did yo-ur mot-her gi-ve birth at the hos-pi-tal he-re in Che-ro-kee Po-in-te?" Re-ve as-ked.
"Nope. She had me at ho-me. Aunt Sally and Lu-die de-li-ve-red me."
"And yo-ur aunt says that her sis-ter ga-ve birth to only one child."
"Aunt Sally has be-en known to lie if it su-ited her pur-po-ses."
"Why wo-uld she lie abo-ut the-re be-ing anot-her baby?"
"I don't know. Ac-tu-al-ly I don't know if she is lying. May-be we're sis-ters, but not twins." Jaz-zy clic-ked her ton-gue. "No, that's not pos-sib-le, is it? We're the sa-me age."
"Look, Ms. Tal-bot…J-az-zy… I'm cu-ri-o-us, na-tu-ral-ly. But I think it best for me-per-haps for
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both of us-if we don't pur-sue this mat-ter. I don't ne-ed to know mo-re. I'm per-fectly happy with my li-fe the way it is. And su-rely, con-si-de-ring yo-ur pre-sent cir-cum-s-tan-ces, you ha-ve mo-re im-por-tant mat-ters to con-si-der than the pos-si-bi-lity that you and I are bi-olo-gi-cal sis-ters."
"You're as-ha-med of me," Jaz-zy sa-id, then shrug-ged. "Can't say that I bla-me you. Who'd want to cla-im me as a sis-ter?"
"I'm sorry." Re-ve to-ok a he-si-tant step to-ward Jaz-zy, then stop-ped ab-ruptly. "I've in-sul-ted you aga-in, and that wasn't my in-ten-ti-on. I wish… well, I ho-pe things work out for you and that you're ac-qu-it-ted of Jamie's mur-der. Ha-ving Qu-inn Cor-tez de-fen-ding you sho-uld gi-ve you every chan-ce of be-ing-"
"The Qu-inn Cor-tez?"
"Oh, that's right, Ca-leb hasn't told you." Re-ve snap-ped open her le-at-her han-d-bag, re-ac-hed in-si-de, and pul-led out a bu-si-ness card. "I've hi-red Mr. Cor-tez to de-fend you, if the grand jury hands down an in-dic-t-ment." She held out the card. "This is my of-fi-ce ad-dress, pho-ne num-ber, and e-ma-il. If-if the-re's an-y-t-hing el-se I can do to help you-"
"You're pa-ying for Qu-inn Cor-tez?" Jaz-zy co-uldn't qu-ite get a grip on what was hap-pe-ning he-re. "Ca-leb blac-k-ma-iled you in-to hi-ring Mr. Cor-tez?"
"Let's say we struck a de-al."
"Is it that im-por-tant to you to ke-ep my exis-ten-ce a sec-ret-if I am yo-ur sis-ter?"
"I tho-ught it was," Re-ve rep-li-ed. "Yes, I sup-po-se it is. I don't know. Lo-ok, just be-ca-use I'd pre-fer for us not to be a part of each ot-her's li-ves do-esn't me-an I want an-y-t-hing bad to hap-pen to you."
"You're not exactly what you se-em, are you, Ms. Sor-rell?"
Reve smi-led fa-intly. "Ne-it-her are you, Ms. Tal-bot"
Jazzy to-ok the bu-si-ness card and stuf-fed it in-to one of her front poc-kets. "No-body will ever know abo-ut any pos-sib-le con-nec-ti-on bet-we-en us. Not from me. And not from Ca-leb. I pro-mi-se."
''Thank you." Re-ve tur-ned to le-ave, then pa-used, glan-ced back at Jaz-zy, and sa-id, "I me-ant what I sa-id. If the-re's an-y-t-hing el-se I can do to help you, don't he-si-ta-te to get in to-uch."
Before Jaz-zy co-uld think of a su-itab-le reply, Re-ve was go-ne. For a co-up-le of mi-nu-tes she sto-od the-re as if her fe-et we-re glu-ed to the flo-or. Then sud-denly she bro-ke in-to a run and ra-ced down the hall. Just as she en-te-red the bar area, she saw Re-ve go-ing out the front en-t-ran-ce.
Let her go
, Jaz-zy told her-self.
She's rig-ht-you ha-ve mo-re im-por-tant is-su-es to de-al with
right now than whet-her or not Aunt Sally has be-en lying to you yo-ur en-ti-re li-fe and she knew
all along that you ha-ve a twin sis-ter
. But on-ce this mess with Jamie's mur-der was cle-ared up-and she had to be-li-eve that the re-al mur-de-rer wo-uld be ca-ug-ht-then she and Aunt Sally we-re go-ing to ha-ve a fa-mily pow-wow.
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Chapter 21
When Stan Wat-son ca-me to, he had the mot-her of all he-adac-hes and his vi-si-on was blurry.
"What the hell hap-pe-ned?" he as-ked no one in par-ti-cu-lar.
Suddenly he felt so-me-one on top of him-a wo-man's pussy sli-ding down over his pec-ker. Go-od God, was he un-con-s-ci-o-us and ha-ving so-me sort of se-xu-al dre-am? When she star-ted pum-ping up and down on him, he de-ci-ded this was no dre-am. This was re-al. He tri-ed to grab her hips, but he co-uldn't se-em to lift his arms. He ga-ve his legs a try and co-uldn't bud-ge them. That's when he re-ali-zed he was ti-ed down, his arms over his he-ad, his wrists bo-und to-get-her. What was go-ing on?
Think, Stan, think. Try to re-mem-ber. You'd co-me up he-re to Ho-ney Be-ar Tra-il to check on
the fi-rep-la-ce. It was ne-arly six o'clock-yo-ur usu-al qu-it-ting ti-me.
Although his vi-si-on hadn't cle-ared up much, he lo-oked up at the sky and re-ali-zed the sun had al-re-ady set. It wasn't go-od dark yet, but he fi-gu-red it was get-ting clo-se to eight o'clock, may-be la-ter.
Who was on top of him? Had he bro-ught a woman up he-re? No, that wasn't it. He re-mem-be-red now. He lo-oked up in-to the wo-man's fa-ce and saw a blurry ima-ge-short red ha-ir was abo-ut all he co-uld ma-ke out Ho-ney. She'd sa-id her fri-ends cal-led her Ho-ney. He'd go-ne to put his ra-ke in the back of the truck be-fo-re they went in-to the ca-bin and-she'd hit him over the he-ad. He co-uldn't think of any ot-her ex-p-la-na-ti-on. When he'd had his back tur-ned to her, she'd col-d-coc-ked him with her sho-vel. But why? Was she crazy?
"Why'd you hit me on the he-ad?" Stan as-ked.
"Here I am fuc-king you li-ke mad and you're as-king stu-pid qu-es-ti-ons." She pa-used in her fran-tic hum-ping. "How el-se was I go-ing to get you in the back of the truck so I co-uld tie you down?
I su-re do ap-pre-ci-ate yo-ur ha-ving that big roll of duct ta-pe in yo-ur to-ol box and that length of ro-pe so I co-uld se-cu-re the ta-pe on yo-ur fe-et to the tra-iler hitch and the ta-pe on yo-ur wrists to the lock on that big he-avy to-ol box."
"Lady, what's yo-ur prob-lem? Are you fre-aking nuts?"
Something sharp sli-ced ac-ross his chest. He yel-ped in pa-in.
''That wasn't very ni-ce of you, was it, cal-ling me nuts," she sa-id in a syrupy swe-et vo-ice. "You mustn't be me-an to me or I'll ha-ve to pu-nish you aga-in."
"Lady, I ha-ven't ever do-ne an-y-t-hing to you. Ple-ase, just un-tie me and let me go. We'll for-get this ever hap-pe-ned."
He felt his dick sof-te-ning. Fe-ar co-uld do that to a man. And he was sca-red shit-less right abo-ut now. An odd fe-eling hit him right in the gut. What if Jaz-zy Tal-bot hadn't kil-led Jamie Up-ton? What if this crazy wo-man on top of him had kil-led Jamie? Now was a hell of a ti-me to re-mem-ber why the wo-man he'd ca-ught trying to bury a plas-tic bag in the wo-ods re-min-ded him of so-me-one. At a dis-tan-ce, she lo-oked a lit-tle li-ke Jaz-zy. It was the short red ha-ir and the gold ho-op ear-rings.
Ot-her-wi-se they didn't re-al-ly lo-ok an-y-t-hing ali-ke.
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"Oh, Stan, I'm sorry, I can't let you go." She star-ted mo-ving up and down on him, ap-pa-rently trying to ke-ep him hard. "Don't go flat on me now. Not when this will be the last fuck of yo-ur li-fe."
Every mus-c-le in his body fro-ze. What did she me-an by that? Oh, God. Oh, God. She was go-ing to kill him.
"Why me? I don't even know you."
"But you ca-ught me bur-ying my bag of go-odi-es, and I knew it was only a mat-ter of ti-me be-fo-re you told so-me-body el-se and they'd tell so-me-body and then the law wo-uld co-me snif-fing aro-und. So you see, Stan, I can't al-low you to li-ve."
"I won't tell a so-ul. I swe-ar." His he-ar-t-be-at drum-med in his ears. Ad-re-na-li-ne cre-ated by pu-re ter-ror zin-ged thro-ugh his body.
"You've fi-gu-red it out, ha-ven't you?" She kept ri-ding him, mo-ving fas-ter and fas-ter. 'You know I kil-led Jamie." She went wild, her mo-ve-ments fran-tic. Then she scre-amed when she ca-me.
Bre-at-hing hard, she sa-id, "I tho-ught the le-ast I co-uld do for you be-fo-re I kill you was gi-ve you a go-od fuc-king." She star-ted mo-ving aga-in.
Stan's vi-si-on cle-ared and he co-uld ma-ke out her fa-ce pla-inly. The-re was a lo-ok of de-ter-mi-na-ti-on in her eyes as she le-aned over and dan-g-led her bre-asts in his fa-ce. How the hell was it pos-sib-le for him to be aro-used when the wo-man on top of him was in-sa-ne? She was go-ing to kill him. But his body didn't se-em to ca-re. Ten-si-on tig-h-te-ned as she ro-de him har-der and har-der. He cli-ma-xed sud-denly. Whi-le the af-ter-s-hocks of his re-le-ase rip-pled "tro-ugh him, she clim-bed off him and ran her fin-ger-tips down his chest, over his belly, and ac-ross his na-vel.
"Are you go-ing to tor-tu-re me the way you did Jamie?" Stan pra-yed har-der than he'd ever pra-yed in his li-fe. Ple-ase, God, ple-ase let her kill me qu-ickly.
"I co-uld, I sup-po-se," she told him, her fin-ger-tips sli-ding down his damp, sticky pe-nis. "I'd enj-oy it so much. But li-ke you sa-id, we don't even know each ot-her. I ha-ve no re-ason to ha-te you, no ne-ed to pu-nish you se-ve-rely."
"Don't kill me. Ple-ase, ple-ase, don't kill me."
"Oh, Stan, you beg so ni-cely." She cup-ped his pe-nis and scro-tum and la-ug-hed. "You we-re just in the wrong pla-ce at the wrong ti-me."
"No, ple-ase… don't… don't-"
"Hush up now. I pro-mi-se to ma-ke it qu-ick." She squ-e-ezed his ge-ni-tals. "I'll ha-ve to ta-ke the-se off. I to-ok Jamie's, you know. I al-ways whack 'em off. It's sort of my tra-de-mark."
Stan ke-ened. Fe-ar ate away at him li-ke an in-si-di-o-us acid. "No. God, no!"
"Don't get so up-set. I'll kill you first, then ta-ke my pri-ze."
The last thing Stan Wat-son ever saw was the kni-fe co-ming down to-ward his thro-at.
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Jim Up-ton sat by his wi-fe's bed in the ICU unit, her small, fra-gi-le hand held se-cu-rely in his ten-der grasp. She had re-ga-ined con-s-ci-o-us-ness ne-arly an ho-ur ago, a lit-tle be-fo-re eight o'clock, and they had cal-led him from the wa-iting ro-om. He had al-re-ady sent the ot-hers ho-me-La-ura, She-ri-dan, and the-ir pa-rents. And he'd as-ked fri-ends who'd stop-ped by to go ho-me and pray. He'd wan-ted to wa-it alo-ne.
When he'd first wal-ked in-to the ICU, Re-ba had lo-oked up at him and tri-ed to spe-ak. The only word that ca-me out of her mo-uth was a ho-ar-se, gas-ped, 'Jamie." A lo-ne te-ar had es-ca-ped her right eye and cas-ca-ded down her pa-le che-ek. Al-t-ho-ugh the usu-al vi-si-ta-ti-on ti-me in the In-ten-si-ve Ca-re Unit was twenty mi-nu-tes every fo-ur ho-urs from six in the mor-ning un-til ten at night, no one had tri-ed to ma-ke him le-ave. And they'd damn well bet-ter not, if they knew what was go-od for them.
He wat-c-hed Re-ba as she slept, a drug-in-du-ced sle-ep to ke-ep her calm and res-ted, Dr.
Mac-Na-ir had ex-p-la-ined. The stress of de-aling with Jamie's de-ath, the know-led-ge that he had be-en tor-tu-red to de-ath, and then the fu-ne-ral to say a fi-nal fa-re-well had all be-en too much for her. Al-t-ho-ugh the-re was a go-od chan-ce she'd li-ve thro-ugh this, the-re we-re no gu-aran-te-es that she wo-uldn't suf-fer anot-her he-art at-tack, may-be a mas-si-ve, let-hal one next ti-me.
Jim squ-e-ezed her hand. "Don't die on me, old girl. Don't you da-re die on me."