Authors: Beverly Barton
“Eddie Jay Nealy’s M.O.”
“Yes.” G.W. clenched his jaw. As long as he lived, he would never forget that day. His beautiful daughter had been battered unmercifully and the sight of her lying there motionless had devastated him.
“You went to Louisiana and found Tessa in the hospital, right?”
“Right. As soon as she was stable—ten days later—I had her transferred to Fairport. It was a couple of weeks after that when the doctors told me Tessa was pregnant. Simple calculations indicated that she’d been impregnated on or around the time she’d been raped.”
“You told your wife and everyone in Fairport that Tessa had been in a terrible car wreck. But the doctors treating her would have known that wasn’t true.”
“Dr. Harlan was Tessa’s doctor. He knew, of course, but he kept quiet. He never lied about Tessa’s condition to anyone, but he didn’t confirm any suspicions.
“You do realize that the doctors and nurses who treated Tessa in Louisiana and here in Fairport knew she’d been raped and beaten. So when Nealy was captured and put on trial and that news hit the front pages of every newspaper in the South, someone could have remembered that Tessa fit the description of Nealy’s victims. A young, pretty blonde who’d been raped, beaten and left for dead.”
“If you suspect one of the doctors or nurses, can you explain why he or she would have waited all these years to contact Leslie Anne or what on earth they’d have to gain by telling her about Nealy?
“If someone wanted money, they would have sent the clippings to you or Tessa and blackmailed you,” Moran said. “Whoever we’re looking for has a different motive. He or she targeted Leslie Anne. If we knew why, we’d have a better idea of who.”
“If I could get my hands on that person, I’d—”
“Let me handle this, Mr. Westbrook.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Let’s start with a list of people closest to Leslie Anne. I’m not saying they’re suspects, and I’m not ruling out someone from the past—a doctor or nurse or even a lawman. But my experience tells me that the man or woman we’re looking for has a personal motive.”
“I refuse to believe that anyone close to the family would have done such a thing, even if one of them might have figured out the truth.”
“Your sister Sharon has always known the truth, but you’re certain of her loyalty. What about your sister-in-law
and her daughter? What about your current girlfriend and her son? And what about Charlie Sentell?”
“My God, man, you can’t think one of them would—”
“I’m not ruling out anyone. Not even the servants. There’s Hal Carpenter and Eustacia Bonner. Servants have a way of knowing a lot more about their employers than they let on.”
“Hal and Eustacia have been with the family for ages. I trust both of them implicitly. They’re completely loyal.”
“Someone is guilty,” Moran told G.W. “And it’s highly likely the guilty party is someone you know. It’s just a matter of figuring out which of these trustworthy people sent Leslie Anne the newspaper clippings and told her that her father was a serial killer.”
T
ESSA KEPT PACE
with Leslie Anne’s long-legged stride as they headed for the stables. She’d tried her best to dissuade her daughter from leaving the house, knowing that Dr. Barrett should be arriving shortly. But once Leslie Anne decided on something, it was practically impossible to talk her out of it.
“We can go riding this afternoon,” Tessa said.
“You don’t have to come with me, if you don’t want to. I didn’t invite you.” Leslie Anne raced on ahead, waving at Luther Osborn, who cared for the small stable of four horses and oversaw the grounds of the five-hundred-acre estate. Luther had come to work for them three years ago, after old Toby Chapman had retired.
“Morning, Luther,” Leslie Anne said. “How’s Passion Flower this morning?”
“She’s fine as a fiddle, missy. You come to ride her?” Pie-faced, bug-eyed, short and squat, the twentysomething
young man had a troll-like appearance. But he was sweet and mannerly and did his job well.
“I most certainly did,” Leslie Anne replied.
Catching up with her daughter, Tessa smiled at Luther.
“Morning, Miss Tessa. You riding, too?”
“Yes, Luther, I am. Would you please saddle our horses?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Luther headed into the stables.
Leslie Anne whirled around, planted her hand on her hip and glared at Tessa. “What if I want to be alone to think?”
“You’re in no state of mind to go off riding by yourself.”
“I’m not going to do anything stupid, like kill myself or anything.”
“I never thought you were.” Oh, God, had the thought of suicide actually entered her child’s head? Please, God, no!
“You know that riding helps me think. It’s been that way ever since I was a kid. But I’m not a kid anymore and I really don’t need you to tag along.”
“I can appreciate your wanting some time alone, but not today. Not until we’ve talked more and you understand why your grandfather and I have lied to you all these years.”
“I understand. You didn’t want me to know my father was a serial killer who raped you.”
“Lower your voice. Do you want Luther to hear you?”
“What difference does it make who knows? I know. I know that I’m the devil’s child, that I have bad blood running through my veins.”
Tessa grabbed her daughter’s shoulders and shook her. “Don’t ever say such a thing. Not ever again. Do you hear me?”
Leslie Anne jerked away from her mother. The lost and confused look in her eyes frightened Tessa. She knew what it was like to feel helpless and hopeless, to wonder if it was
worth the effort to keep on living. How could she protect her child from such damaging emotions?
“Here we are,” Luther said as he led two beautiful Arabian horses from the stables.
Without glancing back at Tessa, Leslie Anne mounted Passion Flower and urged the mare into a gallop.
“Is she all right?” Luther asked, sincere concern in his voice. “I’m glad she’s home now and safe.”
Tessa smiled at Luther and nodded. “She’ll be okay. She’s sixteen going on thirty.” The less anyone knew about the reason Leslie Anne had run away, the better.
Luther returned Tessa’s smile. “Yes, ma’am, I know how that is. My mama’s having a time with my two sisters. One’s fifteen and the other’s seventeen.”
He led the horse to Tessa and dropped the reins. She mounted Mr. Wonderful, a now eight-year-old gelding that she’d chosen for herself several years ago, after the mare she’d ridden since childhood died at the ripe old age of twenty-five. Learning to ride again had been one of the many things she’d had to relearn following her recovery from the “accident.” After using that term—the accident—for the past seventeen years, the word came to mind as easily as the lie rolled off her tongue. She had discovered that if you told a lie often enough, it soon began to seem like the truth.
But she had also discovered that the old adage was true—once you told a lie, you had to continue lying, backing up the initial lie with more and more lies. Sometimes it seemed as if she could no longer tell the truth from fiction.
But there was one fact she could never change—no matter how much she wanted to or how many stories she and her father fabricated—Leslie Anne’s biological father
was Eddie Jay Nealy. The man who had tried to kill her. The man who had probably murdered Dante Moran’s fiancée.
T
HERE THEY GO
, mother and daughter, riding off into the meadow like a couple of spoiled princesses, while I hide here in the bushes like some lowly serf. Seeing them together, so proud and regal, no one would ever guess the truth about either of the young Westbrook ladies. But I know the truth. And I intend to use that knowledge to gain everything that’s due me. Everything that should be mine.
No one even suspects that I’m here watching and waiting for the right opportunity. I can’t keep putting off the inevitable. I have to act soon, need to stir the pot while it’s boiling. Once those Dundee agents clear out, I’ll form a plan and put it into action. Perhaps I should have acted sooner, but I kept hoping there would be some other way. I realize now that there’s only one way to get what I want.
Leslie Anne Westbrook must die.
D
ANTE STOOD
in the corner of the room, feeling damned uncomfortable being present for this family meeting. Yet he wanted to be here, needed to be here. And not simply because Leslie Anne had asked him to stay close by or because he had any perverse need to hear the details of Tessa’s personal tragedy directly from her. But if the same man who had kidnapped and tortured Tessa had done the same to Amy, he hoped that by learning everything about Tessa’s experience, it might help him learn the truth about the fate of the only woman he had ever loved.
It seemed strange now that he’d once thought of Amy as a woman. Looking back, he realized she’d been a young girl, only a year older than Leslie Anne was now. Actually, he and Amy had both been a couple of kids. Young love. First love. Everybody had probably thought it wouldn’t last. But they’d have been wrong. He and Amy would have proved them wrong. They’d been in love, deeply and completely. In love for a lifetime.
“You promise you’ll stay.” Leslie Anne walked over to Dante and stood in front of him, a pleading look in her dark brown eyes.
“I promise,” he assured her.
Tessa came up beside Leslie Anne and looked directly
at Dante. “Daddy isn’t too happy about your being here, so if he says or does anything unfriendly, just ignore him. This is a very sensitive subject for him and he tends to be overly protective of me.”
“As he should be,” Dante said. “He’s your father. Being overly protective is a father’s job, isn’t it? I know if I had a daughter, I’d be a damn grizzly bear to anyone I even suspected might hurt her.”
“If you had a daughter, she’d be the luckiest girl in the world,” Leslie Anne said.
The way she looked at Dante broke his heart. Poor kid. How would she ever come to terms with knowing that a man like Eddie Jay Nealy was her father?
If only he had picked up Amy on time all those years ago, how different Dante’s life would be now. He would be married and probably be a father. He and Amy might even have had a daughter not much younger than Leslie Anne. Maybe they would even have a couple of kids. A boy and a girl.
Suddenly a viciously painful thought entered his mind. If Amy had been one of Nealy’s rape victims and had gotten pregnant, how would Amy and Dante have handled the situation? Would Amy have gotten an abortion? Would he have asked her to get rid of her rapist’s baby? How would they have known for sure that early on if the baby was Eddie Jay’s or Dante’s?
God help him, he didn’t know what he would have done under those circumstances.
What if you could have had Amy back only if you accepted the child she might have been carrying?
he asked himself. He would have taken her back in a heartbeat. Amy
and
the child. He would have done anything, accepted anything, if Amy had come back to him.
He would still do anything—pay any price—if he could find Amy alive somewhere.
Shit! You’re an idiot, Moran. Do you hear yourself? You’re talking nonsense
. Amy Smith died seventeen years ago and whether she might have been impregnated by Nealy was a moot point. Hell, Dante didn’t even know for sure Nealy had raped and killed Amy. He would prefer to believe she hadn’t suffered such a horrendous ordeal, but in all likelihood she had experienced the same inhuman treatment that Tessa Westbrook had somehow miraculously survived.
Tessa laced her arm through her daughter’s and led the girl across the room toward one of the two floral sofas that faced each other in front of the fireplace. The main parlor of the old Leslie Plantation house possessed an elegance that only money and good taste could produce. And Dante had the oddest feeling that generations of Tessa’s family wouldn’t approve of some half-Italian, Yankee hoodlum’s kid even being here, let alone him having the hots for one of their own. And he did have the hots for Tessa Westbrook.
The woman was way out of his league. Despite years of polishing his rough edges and achieving a degree of sophistication, he didn’t come close to being the kind of man Tessa Westbrook deserved.
What difference does that make?
He sure as hell hadn’t deserved Amy Smith, but she’d been his—body and soul. Amy had been way too good for the wiseass, rowdy kid he’d been back then, but she’d loved him anyway. And he’d loved her. God, how he’d loved her.
Dante kept his place in the corner of the room, determined to be as inconspicuous as possible. He was here by invitation only. His job was to watch, listen and keep his mouth shut. To simply stand by in case he was needed.
Any fantasies he had about Tessa would have to remain just that—fantasies. The woman’s life was already complicated enough. The last thing she needed was an affair that would complicate things even further.
The moment he entered the parlor, G.W.’s huge presence filled the room, which was why it took Dante a good sixty seconds before he noticed the man who’d come in with the lord of the manor. Dr. Arthur Barrett, Dante assumed. A man of medium height and build, with thick gray hair and a neat mustache. He wore dress khakis and a blue button-down shirt. He didn’t look like a psychiatrist paying a house call, he looked more like a friendly uncle who’d come to spend the day.
“Leslie Anne, this is Dr. Barrett,” G.W. said. “He was your mother’s therapist for many years.”
Leslie glared at the doctor.
“Arthur is here to help us.” G.W. glanced at Tessa.
“Years ago, Dr. Barrett helped me deal with what had happened to me.” Tessa reached for Leslie Anne’s hand, but her daughter scooted away from her, all the way to the other end of the sofa. “He can help you, too, if you’ll let him.”
“Can he change my DNA?” Leslie Anne asked. “Can he wave a magic wand and remove all of Eddie Jay Nealy’s genes from my body?”
Tessa sighed.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a magic wand,” Arthur Barrett said, his voice gentle and kind. “I can’t work miracles, but I am here to help you.”
“Sure, doc. Help away.” Leslie Anne turned to Tessa. “But first I want to hear the truth from you. And don’t leave out anything. I think I have a right to know everything from the moment you were kidnapped—”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you everything,” Tessa said. “I can only tell you what I remember.”
“What do you mean by that?” Leslie Anne glowered at her mother.
“Your mother has no memory of her kidnapping or…the rape,” G.W. said. “And thank God she doesn’t.”
“I don’t understand.” Leslie Anne looked toward Dante. “Do you believe she can’t remember, or is she lying to me again?”
Dante hadn’t wanted to be involved at all, certainly not this soon. He had planned on staying completely in the background, there only for moral support. “Yes, I believe her. Often a victim of a vicious attack has what’s referred to as hysterical amnesia where his or her mind blocks out the horrible memory. It’s a self-protective mechanism.” He glanced at Arthur Barrett. “Am I right, Dr. Barrett?”
“Yes,” the doctor replied. “Although technically Tessa’s amnesia involved more than—”
“Anybody would have blocked out such a terrible thing,” G.W. interrupted. “You should be glad your mother can’t remember. And you shouldn’t accuse her of lying to you. You’ve asked her for the truth and she’ll tell you the truth.”
Dante wondered why G.W. had stopped Dr. Barrett midsentence. Was the old man afraid the doctor might expose some information that G.W. wanted kept under wraps? If so, what was it? And why keep it a secret?
“All right. I’ll buy that you don’t remember being kidnapped and raped. So, just what do you remember?” Leslie Anne watched Tessa like a hawk, as if she thought she could determine whether her mother was telling her the truth simply by looking at her face, by gazing into her eyes.
“I remember waking up in the hospital, in Louisiana.”
Tessa sucked in a deep breath. “At least the nurses told me I was in Louisiana. I didn’t have any idea where I was or what had happened to me. And even now, my memories of those first few days after I was found are rather blurry. I think a policeman or maybe one of the doctors told me what had happened to me. And they told me that my father was waiting to see me.”
“The sheriff told you,” G.W. said. “Sheriff Wadkins.”
“I remember your grandfather coming in to see me and I didn’t recognize him. He told me who he was and that he was going to take care of me and that everything would be all right.”
Dante not only heard and saw the pain Tessa was experiencing, but he felt her agony at having to relive the trauma she had no doubt worked so hard to put in the past. How was it that he sensed Tessa’s emotions, that he hurt for her, that he cared so deeply?
Because you can’t separate Tessa and what happened to her from Amy, that’s why
, he told himself.
You’ve gotten the two women all mixed up in your mind
.
“Granddaddy didn’t know you were pregnant, did he?” Leslie Anne asked.
Tessa shook her head. “No one knew. Not then. Not until several weeks later, after Daddy brought me back to Mississippi.”
“Did you hate me when you found out? Did you want to get rid of me?” Leslie Anne’s eyes widened into big circles of despair.
God in heaven, lie to her if you have to
, Dante thought.
Whatever you do, don’t tell this child that you ever hated her or wanted her dead
.
“I—I didn’t hate you,” Tessa said, her voice very quite,
little more than a whisper. “I considered an abortion, but I didn’t have one. I couldn’t. I—I wanted you.”
Dante knew Tessa was lying. If Anne Leslie Westbrook hadn’t begged her daughter not to abort the child she carried, Tessa would have gotten rid of her rapist’s baby. But that was one truth Leslie Anne didn’t need to know.
“You’re lying!” Leslie Anne jumped up and stood over Tessa, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You couldn’t have possibly wanted me.”
“Don’t do this to your mother!” G.W. shouted, his voice quivering. Not with rage, but with fear and pain.
“No, Daddy, leave her alone,” Tessa said. “She’s right.” Tessa rose to her feet and faced her daughter. “I did not want to be pregnant by the man who had raped me. Your grandfather and I decided I’d have an abortion, but your grandmother accidentally found out I was pregnant and because she didn’t know about the rape, she begged me not to abort my baby.”
Leslie Anne wrapped her arms around herself in an apparent effort to steady her trembling body. “So you did hate me, didn’t you? You hated me and didn’t want me.”
When Tessa tried to touch Leslie Anne, she drew back and glared at her mother.
Tessa’s hands remained in front of her, reaching out in a pleading gesture. “After you were born, the minute the nurse placed you in my arms, I felt this overwhelming maternal love. And I realized that I did love you. I always loved you—the whole nine months I carried you. Because you were
my
baby. Mine. And no one else’s.”
Leslie Anne gulped down sobs, then wiped her face with her fingertips. “Did you still love me later on, after you brought me home from the hospital?” She glared at
G.W. “What about you, Granddaddy—did you love me right from the beginning, too, or did you still hate me after I was born?”
“God, what a question!” G.W. looked everywhere but at his granddaughter.
Dante watched Tessa and wondered how much more of this she could take without breaking. She looked as if she might shatter into a million pieces at any moment. Everything within him wanted to go to her, wrap his arms around her and promise her that he would take care of her, that somehow, someway, he would make everything right. It had been seventeen years since he’d cared this much about another human being. There had been a time when he’d desperately wanted to lay the world at Amy Smith’s feet, to love her, take care of her and give her anything her heart desired.
“I cannot change the past,” Tessa said calmly. “If I could, I would. I had no control over what happened to me. But you are not that vile man’s daughter. Do you hear me? You’re
my
daughter. You’re Leslie Anne Westbrook. You’re beautiful and smart and good and kind. I love you. Your grandfather loves you.” With her hands outstretched, Tessa took a tentative step toward her daughter. “Everyone who knows you, loves you, sweetheart.”
Leslie Anne backed farther and farther away from Tessa until she stood halfway across the room, close to the French doors leading to the side porch. “Did you take care of me when I was a little baby? Did you bathe me and feed me and rock me to sleep? I’d think you couldn’t bear to look at me without thinking of him.”
“When I look at you, I see you, my daughter. My precious Leslie Anne.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You had a nanny when you were an infant,” Tessa admitted. “Don’t you remember Leda? She was with us until you were six years old.”
“Yes, I remember her,” Leslie Anne said. “But I remember you taking care of me when I was a little girl. You gave me baths and read me bedtime stories and we made cookies with Eustacia and…”
“We had a nanny for Tessa,” G.W. said. “For generations, all the Leslie children have had nannies.”
“When you were an infant, I didn’t take care of you,” Tessa said. “I—I couldn’t. I wasn’t physically or mentally capable of caring for a baby.”
“What are you talking about?” Leslie Anne stared at Tessa, her face contorted in a fierce scowl.
“Haven’t you heard enough!” G.W. stormed toward his granddaughter, stopping a few feet away and facing her with a stern look. “Can’t you see that you’re tormenting your mother with these endless questions?”
“Leave her alone, Daddy, please,” Tessa said. “She has a right to know.” Tessa went to her father’s side, took his hand in hers and looked right at Leslie Anne. “I was beaten so severely that I had to spend a long time in the hospital and then in rehabilitation centers during most of my pregnancy. And for almost a year after you were born, I needed daily therapy.”
“Physical therapy?” Leslie Anne asked.
“Yes.”
“What did he do to you?”
“He cracked her ribs, broke both of her arms and one of her legs,” G.W. said. “He battered her unmercifully…” G.W. clenched his teeth. “Her skull was cracked, too, quite possibly from having been thrown from a moving vehicle.”