I tossed off the covers, slipped on my robe and my slippers, and almost tripped over Grendel and Thoreau snuggled together on a dog bed at the foot of the bed. I peeked in on Odysseus, but he was making a nest and was completely covered in pine shavings.
I went in search of something to drink. Water, milk, bourbon. Something.
Downstairs, a light glowed in the kitchen. I followed it and found my father leaning over the counter, a fork poised over a half-eaten New York cheesecake.
Guilt colored his olive skin tone. “Lucy Juliet. What are you doing up?” He glanced at the cheesecake as if just seeing it for the first time, kind of an oh-what’s-that-doing-there look. I was waiting to see how he’d explain it away, but he must have decided he’d incriminated himself enough already.
Never mind that I rarely ever saw him eat sweets. He’d been a health nut his whole life, but he was currently on a strict diet. Low fat, low sodium. All in an effort to strengthen his heart. It hadn’t been very long since his near-fatal heart attack (what was with the men in my life and their hearts?). How long had he been sneaking treats in the middle of the night? This little discovery could explain a few things.
He didn’t try to make excuses. “Fork?”
“Of course.”
He slid one across the counter. I sank the tines into the cheesecake. “Mum’s going to kill us.”
“Only because we ate it first. I found it hiding behind two cartons of soy milk.”
So much for her sticking to her newfound diet plan. “I’ll be sure to replace it tomorrow.”
“Good thinking.” After a minute of silent eating, he said, “I’m glad you’re here. You’ll be safe.”
I didn’t bother to argue my safety. My father would be as hardheaded as the police. Maybe more so. I hadn’t mentioned to the police about Dad’s missing paintings. I only told them Tristan wanted Meaghan’s file. I ate another bite. “Tristan won’t be put off by the police presence. He seems the type up for a good challenge.”
“He wouldn’t dare break in here, not after what he pulled at the penthouse.”
Again, I didn’t argue.
Dad’s brown eyes softened. “How’s Sean feeling?”
“Okay.” I set my fork down.
“I like him,” he said.
I heard something more. “But?”
“I worry.”
I wasn’t sure he was worried about Sean’s health or our relationship. Or both. I didn’t ask for clarification. It didn’t matter. “I love him.”
My father’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “That’s half the battle.”
“Only half?” I asked.
“Only half.”
“What’s the other half?”
“It’s for you to figure out.”
“Is this like when I was little and needed a definition for homework and you’d make me look it up?”
He laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Just like that.”
“I hated that.”
“I know. But you learned.”
“Not really. Raphael always told me.”
Rolling his eyes, he said, “I should have known. That tactic won’t work this time. You have to learn on your own. It won’t be easy, Lucy Juliet. But I have faith. There’s something between the two of you.”
“Love conquers all?” I offered.
“We shall see.”
I watched him as he rinsed his fork, put it in the dishwasher. He looked happier than I’d seen him in a long time. Maybe love would conquer all with him and Mum, too, though I knew better than to get my hopes up. Mum was right. Life is about living, not about constant worrying. He caught me staring at him and smiled. My smile. Cutter’s smile.
As Dad hid the remainder of the cheesecake, I took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with filtered water from the fridge. The big dinner was coming up, and I still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Cutter about Preston. “Have you talked to Cutter lately?”
“His name is Oliver.”
My father refused to acknowledge the nickname. I had a feeling it had something to do with not liking that his son carried another man’s surname.
“Yesterday,” Dad added.
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
He lifted an eyebrow. “We speak often.”
“You do?”
“Of course. We have our differences, but so do you and I. The love,” he said softly, “is still there.”
“Conquering all?” I teased.
He walked over and hugged me, resting his chin on the top of my head. I wrapped my arms around him, suddenly glad I was here. I ought to thank Tristan—he’d given me an unexpected gift. I wouldn’t take it for granted. “Things will work out just fine, Lucy.”
“Promise?”
“I am nothing if not a man of my word. I am a man of honor. Of integrity.”
Smiling, I bit back a snide comment about receiving stolen property. “Don’t forget modest.”
“How could I?” He winked. “Now get some sleep. I have a feeling it will be a long day tomorrow.”
An expected visit from Tristan, possibly finding out what happened to Mac, looking for Rufus, warning Cutter, not to mention worrying about Sean.
“Long” didn’t begin to describe it.
28
An hour dragged by. I knew every nuance of that concert poster. Hartford Civic Center. 1986. My mother had taken me—my first concert. I’d been in kindergarten. She thought I should be initiated into the Aerosmith fan club at an early age.
Thoreau snored. Even Odysseus had gone to bed.
I stared at the glowing clock. Three thirty-six. I lay on my side, watching Sean. He had become restless—his medication must have worn off. I almost wanted to wake him up to take another pill, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that too much.
I was slowly driving myself crazy just lying here, so I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could. I needed something to occupy my thoughts other than Sean’s breathing patterns. Grabbing my laptop, I headed into my walk-in closet and closed the door behind me. I turned on the light and settled in on the floor.
Sitting cross-legged, I started with Facebook and the South Shore fan page. I’d posted on there about Rufus. So far no one had seen him. I checked the notice I put on craigslist, too. Nothing. If Tristan hadn’t taken Rufus, where was he?
I thought about Rufus’s leash and suddenly had the sickening thought that maybe it had been snagged on a tree. He could be in the woods somewhere, just waiting for someone to find him. Pain ripped through my stomach, and I pressed my hand against where it hurt most. It didn’t help, and I had to wonder if I really was getting an ulcer.
Trying my best to ignore the image of a stranded Rufus, I clicked through my e-mail. I sent a note to Cutter about needing to change our dinner plans—and why—and added that I needed to talk to him about Preston and her snooping before the dinner.
I checked Facebook again, in case anyone had spotted Rufus in the last couple of minutes. No one had.
I clicked over to Google and plugged Rick Hayes’s name into the search box. No one around here seemed to know much about him, but over a million matches popped up. The first entry was Rick’s personal Web site, which was under construction.
The second was a Wiki entry. It contained the usual bio information—born in 1962 in New Jersey. Started singing in high school. Had little success until a song of his was chosen to use as a popular sitcom’s theme song but never again had another hit.
He’d been married four times—and divorced four times—before Jemima. Once as a teenager to a woman named Francine. That had lasted two years. No children. Then Patricia came along. That relationship lasted two years, no kids. Then Linda—two years, no kids. Then Esmeralda—four years, no kids.
At thirty-one, he’d met eighteen-year-old Jemima Gladstone. It was no wonder Mac and Betty hadn’t liked him—not with his track record with women. Considering he only had one relationship that lasted longer than two years, it was amazing th
at he’d been married to Jemima for almost twenty. I wondered if Christa had anything to do with that.
I noticed several citations referencing old teen magazines. I looked up at the top shelf of my closet. There were stacks and stacks of those magazines collecting dust. My mother had never thrown anything of mine away. Was there anything in those pages that would tell me more about Rick than the Internet could? I stood and grabbed as many magazines as I could hold. I set them down and peeked out the door to make sure I hadn’t disturbed Sean.
He had kicked his feet out from under the covers, and a pillow covered his head, his arm flung over the top of it to hold it down. He looked so incredibly pale in the moonlight.
I closed the door and dropped to the floor. I paged through old magazines, looking for any sign of Rick Hayes. I found several articles, but there was nothing in them I hadn’t learned online. There were, however, a ton of old pictures. I checked the dates on the magazines—most were early to mid-nineties.
I tried to focus, but every time I heard the bed squeak I had to stop what I was doing and peer out at Sean. Make sure he was breathing. It was a surefire way to lose my mind.
After the fourth time, I broke down and did something I told myself I’d never do—I Googled implanted defibrillators and the aftereffects of a shock. I read through story after story of people who felt as though they had been kicked in the chest. There was a whole site dedicated to people who had experienced inappropriate shocks (when the implant fires for no reason) just because they stood too close to a microwave that wasn’t grounded correctly or swam next to a pool light that had electrical issues. Threats were everywhere (cell phones, iPods) and reading about them only served to increase my anxiety.
Life is about living, not about constant worrying.
I vowed never to do a search on Sean’s condition again.
Suddenly I jumped as the closet door opened. I let out a strangled squeak.
Sean stuck his head in. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to remember how to breathe. You scared me.”
He sat on the floor next to me. “Do you need mouth-to-mouth?” he asked, flashing a sleepy grin.
Just like that I was all hot and bothered. “Maybe.”
I’d once promised never to treat him any differently because he had a heart condition. I was slowly realizing just how hard it was to keep that promise. Because even though I longed to have my way with him, a nagging voice in the back of my head kept wondering if it would be safe. Especially so soon after he had a shock.
But I’d promised him. So I tried to pretend everything was okay.
“It’s kind of cozy in here.” He glanced around at the shelves, the built-in dressers. “I think this place is bigger than any bedroom I had growing up.”
He rarely talked about his growing-up years. “Did you always share a room with Sam?”
“No. Why aren’t you sleeping?” Sean asked, stretching out beside me.
I noted the change of subject. I let it go. “Too much on my mind.”
“Me?” he asked softly.
I didn’t want to out and out lie. “Some.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Just some?”
I teased back. “I have a lot going on.” He’d be upset to know just how much I’d been worried about him. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard noises. So I investigated. It’s what I do.”
“Is that so?”
“It is. I might be a little off my game today, a bit slower than normal, but sometimes,” he said softly, his gaze lowering to my lips before looking at me straight on, “slow is better. Don’t you think?”
Oh. My.
He leaned in. I met him halfway. His lips brushed mine, tempting, teasing. I gently nipped his lip with my teeth.
I was quickly lost in the warmth of something that felt so incredibly good that I was trying desperately to silence the warning bells in my head.
As he pulled me atop him, we fell backward with a loud thump.
“Shh! Shh!” I whispered, giggling. “My parents!”
He kissed his way along the skin behind my ear, down my neck. Tipping my head back, I moaned softly.
Sean suddenly froze.
“What?” I asked.
Then I heard it. Knocking.
My mother’s voice floated through the door. “LucyD?”
Sean lowered his head to the floor with a strangled sigh. I scrambled for the door, tugging on the hem of my shirt, straightening my lounge pants. I felt the color on my cheeks as I pulled open the bedroom door. “Mum?”
She eyed me as she tied her robe. “I heard something.”
I noticed Thoreau and Grendel didn’t so much as lift their heads at the intrusion. Tristan Rourke wouldn’t meet much resistance with the two of them on guard.
“Oh. Well. Right.” I coughed. “That was Sean. Investigating.”
“LucyD,” my mother said, fighting a smile, “normally I wouldn’t be checking on bumps in the night coming from the room of a young couple in love, but there’s a criminal on the loose, and the noise came from your closet. I worry!”
Craning her neck, she peeked in the closet, as if she didn’t trust me that Tristan Rourke wasn’t in there, lying in wait. Sean waved.
She waved back. “Why is your laptop on in your closet?”
No mention of Sean at all. “We’re, ah, working.”
Her eyebrow arched. In a sugary voice, she said, “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
I smiled. “You just couldn’t resist.”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “Trauma cuts both ways, LucyD. That’s all I’m saying.”
As she walked down the hallway, I swear I could hear her mutter, “Therapy.”
I closed the door, sank back onto the floor in the closet. Sean still lay where I left him, a huge smile on his face. “Your mom’s room on the other side of the wall?”
I nodded.
“Figures,” he said. “The curse?”
“I thought you were having doubts about its existence.”
“Temporary insanity.” He ran a hand over his face. “Guess that puts my investigating on hold. Rain check?”
“Sure.” I was actually grateful for the reprieve. “How are you feeling?”
“I was better a couple of minutes ago.”
I seconded that. For a while there I had forgotten I was worried sick.
“What are you working on? Tristan Rourke? Did I tell you I’m meeting with Mary Ellen and Catherine tomorrow morning?” His brow furrowed. “This morning. Meaghan begged them to meet with me. She’s convinced Mary Ellen is mistaken in IDing Tristan.”
I supposed it was possible. Catherine, especially, had been terrified Tristan Rourke would seek revenge. Maybe fear had influenced what Mary Ellen had seen, too. I bit the inside of my cheek. Aiden probably hadn’t had time to check on other witnesses in the case.…
Sean turned the laptop screen to face him. With a swipe of his finger, he cleared the screen saver.
Oh. No.
His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned into a grim line.
“I, ah—” I suddenly knew how my father felt with that cheesecake. There was no explaining the Web site away.
Sean closed the screen and looked at me with such tenderness I could have melted into a puddle. “Come here.”
I crawled over to him, fell into his open arms. He held me so tight I could barely breathe, but I didn’t care. My cheek was pressed to his chest, and I could hear the reassuring beat of his heart. Wump, wump. Wump, wump.
“You know if you have questions you can ask me, right?”
His voice echoed around his chest, mixing with the wump, wump.
“Luce?” He nudged my chin. “Right?”
I shook my head. “You don’t always answer my questions. You pick and choose.”
Wump, wump.
“Not about my heart,” he answered. “I’ve always been completely open with you about that.”
I love you,
Lucy Valentine.
I lifted my head. “I know. But about other things. Your childhood, for one. Your years as a firefighter. Why you couldn’t walk away from Tristan Rourke’s case.”
Wump, wump. “I know,” he said. Here in the closet, with its dim light, his eyes glowed, almost unnaturally. “And I’m sorry.”
I waited him out, hoping for more of an explanation.
He twisted one of my curls around his finger. “Sometimes it’s easier to just lock it away.”
“Lock what?” I was pressing. He didn’t want to talk about it; I could tell by the way his voice grew tight. I put my head back on his chest. Wump, wump.
“The pain. I took Rourke’s case because I wanted to believe he was innocent. I wanted to believe because we have a lot in common.”
“You do?”
“To an extent. I was a foster kid once, too. I had my fair share of trouble. My juvie record is at least ten pages long. I was kicked out of more homes that I can remember before finally deciding I could do better on my own.”
My jaw dropped. I lifted my head again and stared at him. He wasn’t teasing. His eyes were troubled. No wonder he’d been acting strangely all week. It was a wonder Sean hadn’t run Spero down himself after the hellhole comment he’d made the night he was killed.
“I met Sam on the streets.”
“You mean he’s not … your brother?”
Sean twisted another of my curls around his finger, let the hair slide free. “Not biologically, no. But that hardly matters in here.” He tapped his chest.
Of course I’d noticed he and Sam didn’t look alike, but I never dreamed they weren’t really related … I just thought they took after opposite sides of the family. “How did you end up together? With the same last name?”
Sean yawned loudly. “It’s a long story.”
I suspected he faked the yawn to get out of telling me. But I didn’t push. I couldn’t. There was such pain in the depths of his eyes it made me ache to the center of my soul. What kind of hell had he been through? No wonder he kept it all locked up. “Some other day?”
He cupped my face and kissed me. “Thank you,” he whispered, “for understanding.”
I fussed with the magazines so I wouldn’t start crying again. Sean picked one up, grinned. “These yours?”