One Last Breath

Liar, Connie thought, but didn’t make the accusation. Whatever the reason, Heather preferred to keep it to herself. She was a private person and Connie had been forced to pry to find out that Heather had been running from a bad dude, an abusive boyfriend who lived, Connie thought, somewhere in Alberta. But she wasn’t sure. Heather had been evasive when questioned, except for admitting that the man from whom she was running wasn’t her child’s father.

  Which was a story in and of itself.

  Because Heather had been pregnant when she’d applied for the job, something she’d failed to mention until it had become very obvious.

  Now, Connie wondered if the man in the SUV was Heather’s abusive ex. A handsome son of a bitch, she’d give him that.

  Heather licked her lips and glanced at the door. As if she expected the Grim Reaper to suddenly enter. “You know, I think I might have to leave early.”

  Connie wasn’t surprised. Was ready for the request. The dining room was nearly empty, the lunch crowd only starting to dribble in. “Okay.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “We’ll be fine,” she said. “I already talked to Joanna.”

  As if on cue, Joanna appeared, flying through the swinging doors. She shot Heather a glare meant to cut through steel as she tied on her apron again and made her way to the drive-up station. Pointing an accusing finger in Heather’s direction, she said, “You owe me,” and there wasn’t a bit of humor on her face.

  “I do,” Heather agreed, but she was already leaving.

  Connie watched as she sped through the double doors, stripping off her own apron and locating her bag in her locker. Ashen faced, she was out the back door and inside her rattletrap of a car within the minute. Once behind the wheel, Heather tore out of the lot in a spray of gravel, as if Satan himself were giving chase.

  Maybe he is.

  As the car disappeared, Connie reached for her pack of cigarettes, then remembered the three bearded men who were still waiting for their orders. They sat at a table by the windows, but had watched the exchange. “Sorry about the delay,” Connie said, forcing a smile. “I’m sure your order’s up.” She retrieved the sandwiches, placed them on the table, and as the trio dug in, found and heated the last three cinnamon rolls, drizzled them with butter, and carried the platter to the table.

  As the men looked up she headed back to the kitchen, where Joanna, still in a bad mood, muttered under her breath, “Just for the record, I never trusted her.”

  “Who?” Connie asked but guessed.

  “Heather.” Joanna looked out the window and narrowed her eyes. “There’s just something not quite right. She keeps secrets.” With a glance at Connie, she added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was in some kind of big trouble. I mean really big trouble.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s running from something, something more than just some guy.”

  Connie wanted to argue but didn’t. For once she agreed with Joanna, the Buzz’s resident conspiracy theorist.

  * * *

  What was he doing here? For God’s sake, what the hell was Liam doing here? Heather drove to the preschool in record time, all the while checking her rearview, certain a black SUV would be following.

  None appeared.

  In fact, the warm July afternoon seemed lazy and calm, not the least bit sinister.

  Parking at the edge of the asphalt lot of ABC and Me, she spied no one lurking in the shadows, no dark vehicle parked across the street, nothing out of the ordinary. As she climbed out of her car, she heard seagulls calling as they flew overhead, and the quiet thrum of slowly passing cars.

  It was summer. Children’s voices floated on the air from the fenced play area and the windows of the brick building were cranked open to let in a soft, salt-laden breeze.

  Nothing is out of the ordinary, she told herself, but her heart was knocking wildly in her chest as she hurried across the dry tarmac.

  She found Miss Evers herding the children into the classroom from an outside door.

  “You’re here early,” she said upon seeing Heather.

  “I was worried about Charlotte, and since it was a slow day at work, I asked to get off early so that I could take her home.” She caught sight of her daughter, the last in the line of the children filing inside. “How about that, honey?” she asked, hurrying to catch up to her child. When Charlotte raised her arms to be picked up she felt the unexpected burn of tears.

  “She’s been kind of quiet,” the preschool teacher admitted, “but I checked her temp, like you did. She’s been normal all day.”

  “Good.” Heather had to ask, “Did anyone else stop by and ask about her or call about her?”

  “No.” Miss Evers stared at Heather hard, maybe picking up on her tension. “Why?”

  “You would let me know, right?”

  “Of course.” There was security here. Anyone who came into the school had to sign in and sign out, the same with each of the children. A secretary was posted at the front door and all of the other exits opened to a huge fenced playground, which included a covered area. “Is something wrong?” she asked as one of the kids, a little boy with a buzz cut, tugged on the edge of her shirt.

  “Tommy’s being mean to me,” he said, his lower lip protruding.

  Miss Evers glanced toward the offender. “Tommy? We play nice.”

  “Silas started it!” Tommy, freckle-faced and stubborn, wasn’t going to back down. Standing near the water table, he sneered at the smaller boy and splashed indignantly. “Anyways he’s a baby. A big baby!”

  “Am not,” Silas wailed.

  “We’re fine,” Heather said, and Miss Evers nodded.

  “Sorry.” She flashed a patient smile, then turned to face the petulant four-year-old. “Tommy, we’ve talked about this. Already twice today.”

  “It was my ball!” Tommy said.

  “I found it.” Silas wasn’t backing down.

  “Let’s go home,” Heather whispered into her daughter’s hair and she felt Charlotte nod while still clinging tight. Which was unusual. Charlotte was an independent little girl who would run rather than walk and bounced on her feet rather than stand still. Today, she was sluggish and wanted to be held. Heather had to reach around her to grab her backpack and the papers from her assigned cubby.

  But at least Charlotte was safe.

  Heather carried her daughter outside, where the sun was peeking through high clouds. Again she scanned the parking lot. Again she saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  What had she thought? That Liam would find out that he had a child, drive up here and, after grabbing a cup of to-go coffee, come here to steal Charlotte away? That Melissa Evers would just let the girl take off with a complete stranger? That Charlotte would willingly take off with a man she’d never met? “Let’s get you buckled up,” she said as she eased her daughter into her car seat.

  “Can we get ice cream?” Charlotte asked.

  “I suppose.” Glad that she was interested in something, Heather clicked the buckle and made certain the straps were tight.

  “Okay,” Charlotte agreed and tried to smile, but the grin was fragile and fell off her face as quickly as it had appeared.

  Double-checking that she wasn’t being followed, Heather drove to the ice cream shop near the waterfront. She told herself that she hadn’t seen Liam after all, that she’d panicked and overreacted, but despite her arguments to the contrary, she kept an eye out. At the ice cream store along the waterfront, its wooden cone-shaped sign swinging in the breeze, Charlotte perked up enough to order her favorite flavor, cookie dough with sprinkles and gummy worms. But she only took a couple of bites and then just sat holding the cone. She didn’t even try for Heather’s scoop of chocolate chip mint, which she usually marauded, though it was a game they often played. Charlotte would steal a bite and laugh uproariously as Heather feigned umbrage. The more Heather pretended to be angry, the more bites Charlotte would “steal.”

  Not so today. The ice c
ream was melting, the gummy worms looking as if they were drowning in a sea of vanilla. Heather pulled the plug on the afternoon’s excursion. “Let’s get you home,” she said, and tossed the gooey remains of the treats into the trash.

  She loaded Charlotte into the Honda again and by the time they got home to their little rental, Charlotte had fallen asleep in her car seat.

  Heather hauled her inside the cottage, which had once been a separate garage for the larger house that faced the street. The owners of the main house, Bud and Maxine O’Brien, were in their late sixties and spent as much time traveling as they did at home. For a break on her rent, Heather watched the place for them and took care of their cat in their absence.

  As her place was tucked behind the Cape Cod–style house and wasn’t visible from the street, she felt somewhat secure, away from passing vehicles and prying eyes.

  Bud and Maxine had never asked too many questions and offered Charlotte the grandparent figures she needed. Often Charlotte was in the “shop” with Bud, watching as he muttered under his breath while working on some project Maxine had cooked up for him. He was handy, could repair just about anything, and always took the time to show Charlotte what he was doing. Maxine did the same in the kitchen, allowing the little girl to stand on a chair and help as she baked pies, cookies, and cakes for a church bazaar, or test the sweetness of the various jams she canned every year. “Cherry is the best,” Charlotte had confided to Heather on more than one occasion. “I no like blackberry.” She would then twist her face into a frown to show her disgust of the fruit that grew wild along the roadsides.

  Right now, the O’Briens were away on a trip to New York, and Heather was in charge.

  Her living situation was nearly perfect.

  Or had been.

  As long as no one from her past life discovered her, she and Charlotte were safe. Right?

  A little needle of guilt pricked her thoughts as she realized most of those who had once been close to her didn’t know if she was dead or alive. She’d thought about righting that wrong, many times over, but had always decided to keep silent. She’d rationalized that the pain of their not knowing wasn’t worth placing her child in jeopardy. Her would-be assassin’s threat, hissed in that wheedling, thin pitch, still chilled her and lifted the hairs on the nape of her neck.

  You’ll never get away and that baby of yours will die!

  “No!” she cried aloud and jumped at the sound of her own voice. Liam and his family would just have to wonder if she’d escaped.

  She had a new life now and so did he. She’d dug around on the Internet and discovered that he was with Bethany Van Horne again, the beauty his mother had picked for him years ago.

  She placed her daughter in her little bed. Charlotte immediately snuggled into her pillow, burrowing beneath the blankets. Satisfied the girl would sleep, Heather left the door ajar, then she walked the few steps to her living room, a small space with a white brick fireplace and view to the backyard. Attached by an eating bar to a tiny kitchen, the small communal area served multiple functions: playroom, den, guest room, and dining area. Fortunately, she never had much company, as the hand-me-down futon she used as an extra bed was on its last legs. Literally.

  She made herself a glass of iced tea, checked once more to see that Charlotte was sleeping soundly, then carried her phone and drink through French doors to a deck that ran along the back of the small house. From one of the outdoor chairs, she could watch squirrels run through the fenced-in garden and hear Charlotte, should the girl stir. The yard wasn’t very big but it was private and a secure place for Charlotte to play. She usually brought her dolls or stuffed animals out here. Even now, one naked baby doll was strapped in a little walker that Charlotte had played in herself before she’d learned to walk.

  The second Heather sat down, she punched in The Magician’s number.

  “Hello?” Uncle Kent’s familiar voice made fresh tears jump to her eyes.

  “Is he here?” she demanded, setting free the worries that had eaten at her for the past two hours.

  “What?” The rise in Uncle Kent’s smooth tenor filled her with terror.

  “Liam?” she asked, eyeing her fenced backyard with new suspicion. “Is he here in Point Roberts?”

  * * *

  So this is what a wild-goose chase feels like.

  In the small dining area of the Point Bob Buzz, Liam finished his coffee and pushed aside his plate, including the uneaten portion of his BLT. He sat in a corner booth of the restaurant, which was little more than a coffee shop attached to a single dining room that now, in early afternoon, was almost empty. A group of three bearded men, friends who’d called to the owner about the “epic” cinnamon rolls, had left not long after he’d strolled in, and now, aside from a couple of teenagers sipping iced coffees while staring at their phones and laughing at what he thought were YouTube videos, and two women in deep conversation over a small table and coffee cups, he was the only customer in the establishment.

  And Rory wasn’t in sight. Not at the drive-up window where he’d ordered coffee earlier, and not in the dining area, nor, from what he could see through the service window behind the counter, in the kitchen. After she hadn’t been at the window, he’d driven to the two other restaurants that served breakfast in town, neither of which offered drive-through service; she hadn’t been working at either one. Besides, Jacoby had been insistent that she worked at the Buzz, specifically manning the drive-up window, on weekday mornings. The PI had even taken some pictures of a woman who resembled Rory, though the snapshots hadn’t been conclusive, at least in Liam’s opinion. The woman in the photo had straight, red locks and dark eyes, while Rory’s were green. But those were easy changes, a simple disguise, he’d told himself. Maybe . . . just maybe. He’d like to know that at least she’d survived, and at most the reason she’d run. Was she involved in the attack that had taken her stepbrother’s life and injured others? He hadn’t believed it, had refused to listen to that line of thought, but now, five years in . . . he wasn’t so sure.

  He’d driven up here, across the border into Canada, and then across once more to enter this bit of U.S. land, the end of the Tsawwassen Peninsula, because Jacoby believed he’d found Aurora “Rory” Abernathy Bastian, his wife. Soon to be ex, he reminded himself, as his attorney was working feverishly to ensure that Liam was single.

  So he could get married again.

  He frowned at that thought. Marrying Bethany when he still had so many questions about his first wife was the main reason he had yet to pop the question. As far as he knew, Rory could be a criminal, somehow involved in the attack at the wedding, but it just didn’t make any sense. Where had she gone? Why? Was she alive? Dead? Why the hell had she run?

  He made a sound of disgust. Beth was sure as hell mad at him now. She might never forgive him for flaking out on the trip to Napa. The color had drained from her face when he’d told her he had a lead on what had happened to Rory and was going to look into it. She’d recovered enough to announce she was going with him, but he’d turned her down, insisting she go on to Napa with her friends and maybe he would meet her later. That hadn’t gone over well, and she’d canceled the trip rather than go alone. He’d half believed that might be the end of their relationship, and maybe it should have been, but Beth was nothing if not stalwart in her belief that they were meant to be together, Rory or no Rory. She’d swallowed back her anger and said she would be waiting for him when he got back. The hell of it was, he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He almost wished she would lose her cool and call him out. That, he would understand. But Beth could control her emotions in a way that was awe-inspiring. It just wasn’t conducive to a passionate relationship.

  He noticed that he was drumming his fingers on the table, and he stopped himself just as he spotted the plump waitress watching him. Ostensibly she was wiping down tables, then carrying out trash, but he’d felt as if she, behind a pleasant smile and rimless glasses, had been observin
g him, even going so far as to take out a cell phone as if to check a text or something, but instead maybe to take his picture. There had been something awkward about how she held the phone. And he’d noticed that when she’d slipped through the kitchen for a few minutes, she’d appeared at the side of the building, her slim shadow and flapping apron visible in the corner of the window. From the shape of the shadow, she’d been holding her camera in a position to snap a shot of the parking lot, where his SUV was parked.

  Why would this woman care?

  It all smelled bad.

  He frowned at that thought and saw the plump waitress heading his way again with a half-full glass pot of coffee in one hand and his bill in the other. Good. Time to get out of here.

  Or was it?

  He’d come all this way.

  To a tiny spot on the map that did have an airstrip and marina, so, though there was international red tape to deal with, escape could be made quickly by land, air, or sea.

  Placing his bill on the table, she let the pot of coffee hover over his empty cup. “Can I get you anything else? More coffee?” The name tag pinned to her white blouse read CONNIE.

  “Maybe.” Before she could start pouring, he reached into his pocket, grabbed his phone, and flipping it deftly, hit a button to light the screen and showed her a couple of the shots Jacoby had taken. One was a close-up of the drive-through waitress, headset in place. “This woman, she works here?” he asked.

  Connie hesitated. How could she deny the obvious, when the outdoor shot was obviously of the drive-up window at the Buzz?

  “Who took this?” she demanded, still holding the coffeepot.

  He ignored the question. “I’m looking for Aurora Bastian. She might call herself Rory Bastian or Rory Abernathy, or use some other alias.”

  “And who are you?”

  “That’s the thing.” He tapped the small screen, drawing her attention back to the woman he believed to be Rory. “I’m her husband.”

  Chapter 4

  At the mention of the word “husband” he thought she flinched the tiniest of bits. “No one by any of those names works here.” Connie was shaking her head.