she pushed the door, already slightly ajar, open.
“Mother!”
“We’re up here, Tia.” Anita’s voice floated downstairs. “Close and lock the door behind you. You just made it, you know. Thirty seconds to spare.”
“Mother.” She hesitated at the base of the stairs. “Are you all right?”
“She struck me.” Alma began to weep. “My face. Tia, don’t come up. Don’t come upstairs! Run!”
“Don’t hurt her again. I’m coming.” Tia gripped the banister hard and started up the steps.
At the top, she turned and saw Tilly lying in the hallway, blood seeping into the rug beneath her. “Oh God, no!” She rushed forward, threw herself down to check for a pulse.
Alive, she thought, nearly weeping. Still alive, but for how long? If she stalled Anita long enough for help to come, Tilly might bleed to death.
You’re on your own. She ordered herself to get to her feet. And you will do whatever needs to be done.
“Tilly is badly hurt.”
“Then your father will just have to call the agency and find another housekeeper. Get in here, Tia, before I start splattering your mother’s blood in this overly rococo bedroom.”
Without taking time for one last prayer, Tia stepped into the doorway. She saw her mother, tied in a chair. And behind her, Anita holding a gun to her already bruised temple.
“Hold your hands up,” Anita ordered. “Turn a slow circle. Look at this,” she continued when Tia obeyed. “She didn’t even take time for a raincoat. Such daughterly devotion.”
“I don’t have a gun. I wouldn’t know how to use one if I did.”
“I can see that. Soaked to the skin. Come all the way inside.”
“Tilly needs an ambulance.”
Anita lifted her brows, pushed the barrel of the gun more firmly against Alma’s temple. “Want to make it two?”
“No. Please.”
“She came to the door,” Alma sobbed. “Tilly let her in. She was coming up to tell me, and I heard that terrible sound. She shot poor Tilly, Tia. Then she came in here, she struck me. She tied me up.”
“I used Hermés scarves, didn’t I? Stop complaining, Alma. I don’t know how you stand this woman,” Anita said to Tia. “Seriously, I should put this bullet in her brain and do you a favor.”
“If you hurt her, I won’t have any reason to help you.”
“Apparently I judged you right on some level.” She rubbed the barrel of the gun against Alma’s bloodless cheek. “I never would have figured you to lie, cheat, steal.”
“Like you?”
“Exactly. I want the Fates.”
“They won’t help you. The police are at your house, at your business. They have warrants.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Anita’s voice pitched up, like a child’s about to throw herself into a tantrum. “You think you’re so clever, planting stolen merchandise in my safe. You think I’m worried about a little insurance fraud?”
“They know you killed that man. First-degree murder. They know you were paying him when he killed Mikey. Accessory to murder.” Tia moved forward as she spoke. “The Fates won’t help you with that.”
“You get them, and I’ll worry about the rest. I want the statues and the money. Call that Irish prick and get them back, or I kill her, then you.”
She’ll kill us all for them, Tia thought. Even if she were to hand them over to Anita now, she would still kill them all. And maybe, somehow, find some hole to hide in.
“He doesn’t have them. I do,” she said quickly when Anita jerked her mother’s head back with the barrel of the gun. “My father wanted them. You know what a coup it would be. I wanted Malachi. So we tricked you out of the money. My father would buy them. I get Malachi, and Wyley’s gets the Fates.”
“Not anymore.”
“No. I don’t want you to hurt my mother. I’ll get you the Fates, and my share of the money. I’ll try to get the rest. I’ll get you the Fates right now if you stop pointing the gun at my mother.”
“You don’t like it? How’s this?” Anita shifted her aim so the gun was pointed at Tia’s heart.
And seeing the gun aimed at her daughter, Alma began to scream. In an absent gesture, Anita rapped the side of her fist against Alma’s temple. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot both of you for the hell of it.”
“Don’t. Don’t hurt my Tia.”
“You don’t have to hurt anyone. I’ll get them for you.” Moving slowly, Tia eased toward her mother’s dressing table.
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe they’re in there?”
“I need the key. Mother keeps the key to the lockbox in here.”
“Tia—”
“Mother.” Tia shook her head. “There’s no use pretending anymore. She knows. They’re not worth dying for.” Tia opened the drawer.
“Hold it, step back.” Gesturing with the gun, Anita moved forward as Tia stood by the open drawer. “If there’s a gun in there, I’m putting a bullet in Alma’s kneecap.”
“Please.” As if staggering, Tia laid a hand on the vanity for balance and palmed a small bottle. “Please don’t. There’s no gun.”
Anita used her free hand to riffle through the drawer. “There’s no key either.”
“It’s in there. Right—”
She slammed the drawer on Anita’s hand, then tossed the contents of the bottle in her face. The gun went off, plowing a hole in the wall an inch from Tia’s head. Through the screams—her mother’s, Anita’s, her own—Tia leaped.
The collision with Anita knocked the breath out of her, but flying on adrenaline, she didn’t notice. But she felt, with a kind of primeval thrill, her own nails rake the flesh of Anita’s wrist.
And she scented blood.
The gun spurted out of Anita’s hand, skidded over the floor. They grappled for it, Anita clawing blindly as the smelling salts Tia had flung at her stung her eyes. A fist glanced off her cheek and made her ears ring. Her knee plowed into Anita’s stomach more by accident than design.
When their hands closed over the gun at the same time, when they rolled over the floor in a fierce, sweaty tangle, Tia did the only thing that came to mind. She got a handful of Anita’s hair and yanked viciously.
She didn’t hear the glass shattering as they rammed into a table. She didn’t hear the shouts from downstairs or the pounding of feet. All she heard was the blood roaring in her own head, the fury and elemental violence of it.
For the first time in her life, she caused someone physical pain, and wanted to cause more.
“You hit my mother.” She gasped it out and, using Anita’s hair as a rope, slammed her head over and over against the floor.
Then someone was pulling her away. Teeth bared, hands fisted, Tia struggled as she stared down, watching Anita’s bloodshot eyes roll back in her head.
Gideon stepped over, picked up the gun, and Malachi turned the still struggling Tia into his arms. “Are you hurt? Jesus, Tia, there’s blood on you.”
“She kicked her ass.” Cleo sniffled her way through a grin. “Can’t you see, she kicked her fat, sorry ass.”
“Tilly.” The adrenaline dumped out of her system and left her limbs feeling like water. Her voice was weak now, her head starting to spin.
“Ma’s with her. She’s ringing an ambulance. Here now, here now, darling, you’re going to sit down. Gideon, help Mrs. Marsh there.”
“I’ll do it. She’s frightened.” Holding on, Tia stayed on her feet. Her knees wanted to buckle, her legs to give, but she took the first step. The second was easier. “Get her out of here, please. Get Anita out of here. I’ll take care of my mother.”
Stepping around the unconscious Anita, Tia hurried over to untie her mother. “You’re not going to be hysterical,” Tia ordered, pressing a kiss to her mother’s bruised face as she dealt with the knots. “You’re going to lie down. I’m going to make you some tea.”
“I thought she would kill you. I thought?
??”
“She didn’t. I’m perfectly fine, and so are you.”
“Tilly. She’s dead.”
“She’s not. I promise.” Gently, Tia helped Alma to her feet. “An ambulance is coming. Lie down now. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“That horrible woman. I never liked her. My head hurts.”
“I know.” Tia brushed Alma’s hair back from her bruised temple, kissed it. “I’ll get you something for it.”
“Tilly.” Alma gripped Tia’s hand.
“She’s going to be all right.” Tia leaned down, put her arms around her mother. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“You were very brave. I didn’t know you could be so brave.”
“Neither did I.”
To Tia’s surprise, her mother insisted on going to the hospital with Tilly. And was just as forceful in sending Tia home again.
“She’ll drive the doctors crazy. At least until my father gets there and calms her down.”
“It shows a good heart”—Eileen set a cup of tea in front of Tia—“that she was more concerned with her friend than anything else. A good heart,” she added, touching Tia’s sore cheek, “goes a long way. Drink your tea now, so you’re steady when you talk to those policemen.”
“I will. Thank you.”
She closed her eyes as Eileen left the room, then opened them and looked at Malachi.
“I never thought she could hurt you. I never thought she’d—I should have.”
“It’s no one’s fault but hers.”
“Look at you.” He cupped her face gently. “Bruises on your cheek and scratches as well. I wouldn’t have had it, not for all the money in the world, not for the Fates, not for justice. I wouldn’t have had one mark on you.”
“There are more on her, and I put them there.”
“That you did.” He lifted her to her feet to hold her.
“Smelling salts dead in the eyes. Who but you would think of it?”
“It’s done now, isn’t it? All the way done?”
“It is. All the way done.”
“Then, are you going to marry me?”
“What?” He eased away, slow and careful. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’re going to marry me or not.”
He let out a short laugh, raked a hand through his hair. “I thought I would, it being agreeable with you. As it happens, I was on the point of deciding on a ring when Cleo rang on Gideon’s mobile.”
“Go back and get it.”
“Now?”
“Tomorrow.” She wrapped her arms around him and sighed. “Tomorrow’s just fine.”
Epilogue
Cobh, Ireland
May 7, 2003
THE Deepwater Quay at water’s edge was unchanged from the time of the Lusitania, the Titanic and the great, grand ships that once plied the waters between America and Europe.
Here, tenders from those ships had come to get mail and passengers from the Dublin train, which often arrived late.
Though the Quay still functioned as a train station, the Cobh Heritage Centre, with its displays and shops, ran through its main terminal.
Recently an addition had been added to serve as a small museum. With security by Burdett. The focal point of that museum were three silver statues known as the Three Fates.
They gleamed behind their protective glass and looked out at the faces—perhaps the lives—of those who came to see, and to study.
They stood, united by their bases, on a marble pedestal, and in the pedestal was a brass plaque.
THE THREE FATES
ON LOAN FROM THE SULLIVAN-BURDETT COLLECTION IN MEMORY OF HENRY W. AND EDITH WYLEY LORRAINE AND STEVEN EDWARD CUNNINGHAM III FELIX AND MARGARET GREENFIELD MICHAEL K. HICKS
“It’s good. It’s good that his name’s on there.” Cleo blinked back tears. “It’s good.”
Gideon draped his arm over her shoulders. “It’s right. We did what we could to make it right.”
“I’m proud of you.” Rebecca hooked her arm through Jack’s. “I’m proud to stand here beside you, as your wife. You could have kept them.”
“Nope. I got you. One goddess is enough for any man.”
“A wise and true answer. It’s time we went to the cemetery. Cleo?”
“Yeah.” She laid her fingers on the glass, just under Mikey’s name. “Let’s go.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Malachi told them. “Button up.” He began doing up the buttons of Tia’s jacket himself. “It’s windy out.”
“You don’t have to fuss. We’re fine.”
“Expectant fathers are allowed to fuss and fret.” He laid a hand on her belly. “Are you sure you want to walk?”
“Yes, it’s good for us. I can’t sit in a bubble for the next six months, Malachi.”
“Listen to her. Not a year ago you were barricaded against every germ known to man.”
“That was then.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “It’s a tapestry. Threads woven in a life. I like the way my pattern’s changing. I like standing here with you and seeing something we helped do shining in the light.”
“You shine, Tia.”
Content, she laid her hand over his. “We made justice. Anita’s in prison, probably for the rest of her life. The Fates are together, as they were meant to be.”
“And so are we.”
“So are we.”
She held out a hand and felt unreasonably strong when his linked with it. They caught up with the others and walked up the long hill in the May wind.
TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF
Key of Light
THE FIRST BOOK IN THE NEW KEY TRILOGY FROM
Nora Roberts
coming in November 2003 from Jove Books
THE storm ripped over the mountains, gushing venomous rain that struck the ground with the sharp ring of metal on stone. Lightning strikes spat down, angry artillery fire that slammed against the cannon roar of thunder.
There was a gleeful kind of mean in the air, a sizzle of temper and spite that boiled with power.
It suited Malory Price’s mood perfectly.
Hadn’t she asked herself what else could go wrong? Now in answer to that weary, and completely rhetorical question, nature—in all her maternal wrath—was showing her just how bad things could get.
There was an ominous rattling somewhere in the dash of her sweet little Mazda, and she still had nineteen payments to go on it. In order to make those payments, she had to keep her job.