A Guilty Mind (22 page)

 

Chapter Forty-­Three

M
ARY
H
ELEN STAYED
by his side. The children came and went when their mother allowed it. She joked that he looked as though he'd been in a prizefight—­on the losing end—­keeping things light for Wills and Elizabeth Grace. They stood next to the bed, confused by the sight of their injured dad. Mary Helen had done her best to prepare them, but the bandages and purple welts were terrifying to the teenagers. It broke his heart.

The police took his statement and she stayed. The doctors and nurses poked and prodded. Still, she stayed. He drifted off, drowsy with medication and exhausted by the pain. When he woke, the room was dark. He couldn't see her, but he knew she was there.

“Mary Helen?” he said through rubbery lips.

“Yes?” Her voice sounded soft and sweet in the cold hospital room.

He ached everywhere. The doctors had told him he'd cracked his ribs, broken his collarbone, and sprained his arm. His face had been badly bruised by the airbag. Even with the medication, the throbbing persisted, rising and falling with the timing of the doses. He took a deep breath, gritting his teeth. “I'm sorry.”

Mary Helen picked up her chair and moved it closer to the bed. She took his hand and stroked the skin with her delicate fingers. He could feel her trembling. “You could have died, George.” The fear in her voice stunned him. She began to weep and pressed his hand to her lips, kissing it over and over. “When I saw you, I was so scared.”

He rolled to face her. She smiled through swollen eyes and tears. He didn't know what to say except to apologize again.

She shook her head and told him not to be silly. Slowly, awkwardly, they began to talk. They kept it simple, talking of the children, the house, nothing important. His fingers intertwined with hers and he didn't want to let go, but it was late. “I'll be back first thing, George. I promise,” she said.

The truth of her words hit him then. He could have died. It was ironic, he realized. Only one week earlier, before Dr. Michael had been murdered, he wouldn't have cared whether he lived or died. He did now. Everything was different. He was different. All of it mattered now. Living, being with family, doing something with his life. Maybe Mary Helen wasn't to blame for everything between them. Maybe they had both made mistakes. It was probably too late for them—­too much had happened—­but he was glad she'd been with him, glad she was coming back.

He tried to fight the memories, tired of living in the past, eager to get on with the future. But Sarah's dark face, defiant and sad, forced its way into his mind.

“No, George, no one raped me. It wasn't like that.”

Her tone irritated him. Was she saying she had slept with his roommate, gotten pregnant, and then told George the baby was his? Worse, she'd said it as calmly as though she were telling him his favorite TV show was on or the car needed gas. Where was her sense of decency? He could barely choke out the words. “How was it then, Sarah? Why don't you tell me?”

“You're mad.”

“You're goddamn right I'm mad,” he said, his hands clenched into hard fists. “I don't believe you.” He took a step forward and her eyes widened. Shame flooded him and his shoulders slumped, anger forgotten. “I don't believe you,” he said again. “It doesn't make sense.”

She looked over his shoulder again. “Do I have to give you details, George? Just accept it and let me go.”

He couldn't, and in his heart, he knew it was no longer about her. It was the baby. For weeks, he'd believed the child growing inside her was his. He knew he should be relieved she was trying to absolve him of that responsibility. She was letting him walk away with no strings attached, severing his connection to her and the baby. It was exactly what Mary Helen wanted. It's what his family would want if they knew. And it would be so easy. Too easy.

He took a deep breath. “I don't believe you, Sarah. This is my baby, and even if you don't want me anymore, too bad. I'm the father and I'm gonna be around, whether you like it or not.”

Her face and chest flushed. “You have no say here, George. You haven't earned the right to tell me what I can and can't do with my baby. You're just a . . .” Her brows wrinkled as she searched for the words. “A spoiled, rich frat boy living on daddy's dime, playing around with the cocktail waitress.” Her eyes blazed when he tried to interrupt. “Don't you dare tell me whose baby this is. It's mine. You got that? It's mine!”

“What about Gordon?” He knew he had her now, his heart skipping a beat.

“He doesn't know,” she shot back, hands on her hips. “Don't act like you're so smart, George. Just because I haven't told him doesn't mean he's not the father. I just want to do this on my own.”

“Give it up, Sarah.”

“You asked for it, George. Just remember that someday. You asked for this.” The fire in her eyes faded. “Gordon said he'd been attracted to me for a while, had even told you, and you hadn't said anything to him about it. He's a handsome guy and when he stood close to me, started kissing me, I didn't mind.” George couldn't look at her, couldn't listen to her tell lies, spin such a sick story. “I was surprised how much I liked it. It was different than you. Gordon's a good kisser.” A fresh wave of jealousy swept over him and he breathed heavily. “He took my clothes off slowly, telling me I was like an Amazon goddess. I remember he used those words. Amazon goddess. It made me think of that old Wonder Woman comic book. She was an Amazon, I think.”

He put his hands over his ears to drown out her words, to stop it from happening. He didn't want to hear her anymore, but she kept talking, staring past him.

“I helped him undress, too. He's not as tall as you are and I could look him in the eye, but he pulled me over to the bed, telling me to lie down and stretch out.”

He could taste the sickness creep into his mouth. Turning his head to the side, he threw up, hunched over, head hanging low.

She kept talking, her voice like acid on his skin. “He lay down next to me, touching me all over. I don't know what I was thinking at the time. I could say I was drunk and didn't know what I was doing, but that would be a lie. I knew. He wanted me to touch him.” She paused then, taking a breath. With a sinking heart, he knew she wasn't lying. Sarah told him about Gordon, about the dark birthmark that stretched from his hip to his groin, the one a woman could only know about if she'd seen it. When she stopped speaking, he stood paralyzed. A heavy silence fell over them, and he could hear every breath she took. He'd believed in her, in them. The pounding in his head gathered strength and he wanted to punch her, wanted to hurt her as much as she'd hurt him, but he couldn't. He hated her in that moment, but he loved her still. He forced himself to look at her. She seemed different, older, less alive than when she'd arrived.

“I need to say good-­bye now.” She moved close to him and raised one hand. She touched a lock of hair and brushed it off his face. He stiffened with desire, fighting the urge to pull her to his chest. He swatted at her hand and pushed her away with more force than he'd intended. She tripped on the stones and fell backward, mouth and eyes wide in surprise. Her head smacked against the corner of the boathouse and she landed with a thud among the rocks, her long legs twisted beneath her body.

He rushed to her, dropping to his knees. “Oh my God, Sarah, are you all right?” He cradled her in his arms. Her head lolled back and he gasped. “Sarah? Sarah, say something.” He pulled her legs from under her, talking all the while. “Sarah, c'mon, Sarah. Wake up.” He felt the sticky warmth of her blood before he saw it and he held her close, stroking her back. She didn't move, didn't respond. He laid her gently on the ground, rocked back on his heels, and howled. He'd killed her. Sarah was dead and he'd killed her.

 

Chapter Forty-­Four

C
ANCINI CLIMBED FROM
the cab and raised a hand to block the sun. The Temple house, a white Colonial with a two-­car garage, sat at the end of a quiet cul-­de-­sac. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and he glanced over his shoulder. He imagined children riding their bikes, tossing balls, and playing hide-­and-­seek among the bushes. On this day, everything was still, no screams or squeals ringing in his ear. He climbed the driveway and knocked on the front door. Silence. He peered in the front window and knocked again, louder.

“If you're looking for the Temples, they're not home,” a voice called from next door. A gray-­haired woman stood on her front stoop, a yellow-­flowered housecoat wrapped tightly around her waist. She folded her arms over her thin chest. “They're in New York.”

“Damn.” He slapped the file against his leg. To her, he said, “Do you know when they'll be back?”

“Not till Sunday.”

He didn't know if he had that long. Martin would have Vandenberg in custody as soon as he was able. There had to be another way. He crossed the lawn. “Maybe you can help me.”

The lady clutched at the collar of her housecoat and took a step backward. “I'm not buying anything,” she said.

“I'm not selling anything,” he said, and held up his badge.

Her hand went to her throat. “Oh my. Is everything all right?”

“As far as I know,” he said with a smile. “Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

“What kind of questions?” She kept one hand on the door.

“How long the Temples have lived here, what kind of ­people they are, that sort of thing.”

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose and peered at him with cloudy eyes. “You have a nice face, young man. Kind of a big nose, but nice. I was just about to make some tea.” He followed her inside. “I'm Thelma Jenkins, but you can call me Thelma.”

“Nice to meet you, Thelma. Mike Cancini.” He walked through a narrow hall adorned with framed pictures, large and small. More pictures covered the refrigerator in her kitchen. The house smelled faintly of gardenias. “How well do you know the Temples?”

“Oh Lord, I've lived here since these houses were built. I know everyone. I'm an original owner, as they say.” She talked while she filled the silver kettle. “Now, the Temples moved in later, bought the house from the Lancasters.”

“Did they have a daughter when they moved in?”

“Oh yes. She was just a baby then. Cute little thing, too.” She set the sugar and cream on the table. “Is this about her?”

“Sort of. I'm trying to get a background on her.”

She sat down and placed a cool hand over his. “That poor dear. Is she in trouble?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out. It sounds as though you felt sorry for her. Weren't they a happy family?”

The teakettle whistled and she rose from the chair. She poured the hot water over tea bags and carried the cups to the table. “My children were older than Lauren. They didn't play together much, but no, I don't think ‘happy' is the word I would use.”

Cancini watched her dunk her tea bag and did the same. Steam curled up and warmed his face. “How would you describe the Temples?”

She pursed her lips. “Well, I think it was awful over there if you don't mind my saying so. Howard and Jean, those are Lauren's parents, aren't the most friendly of folks. The truth is, I always suspected something rather terrible was going on in that house.”

“What do you mean?”

Thelma wagged her finger and clucked her tongue. “Broken bones is what I mean. One time it was her arm, then her ribs, even her jaw. There was always some bruise or other. I know children get hurt, but it was so often. That girl jumped every time they yelled her name to come in for dinner. I wanted to call the police, but my husband told me to stay out of it.” She let out a breath. “I tried to be nice to her, gave her cookies, but I don't know how much it helped. Another neighbor told me the school was suspicious, too. They might have investigated. I'm not sure.”

Cancini swallowed. He remembered the lump on the girl's collarbone. If there was any truth to Thelma's story, Lauren Temple's “parent issues” were worse than he suspected. “What about when she was older? Do you know if she told anyone?”

“I doubt it. She was terrified of them.” She blew on her tea. “There was one time when I might have heard a fight in the driveway. Lauren was grown up then, maybe in high school. I heard her scream she hated them. Everyone in the neighborhood probably heard her. She said something like she wished she'd never been their daughter. I couldn't hear what Howard said back but it must have been something, because she fell to the ground and next thing I knew, she was crying like, well, I don't know what. Howard went in the house and shut the door.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Asshole.”

Cancini's lips twitched. “You didn't like Howard Temple.”

“Correction. I don't like Howard Temple.”

“And his wife?”

“I guess she's okay if he's not around.”

He reached into his file and pulled out a photo. “Is this Lauren?”

She smiled, her voice soft. “Pretty girl, isn't she? She deserved better than them.”

Cancini said nothing and pulled out a second photo, this one of Nora Michael. In the corporate photo he'd obtained, she wore a gray suit and silver earrings. Her hair, pinned up in a bun, emphasized the sculpted cheekbones and dark eyes. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

She leaned closer to the picture. “No, I've never seen her before.”

“Would you mind looking again? Maybe she was a friend of the Temples? Maybe visited their home over the years?”

“No, I've never seen her,” Thelma said again. “They don't have many friends.”

He left the house, his steps heavier than when he'd arrived. Although no closer to proving a connection between Nora Michael and Lauren Temple, he'd learned more than he'd expected. He slid into the waiting taxi.

“Where to now, pal?”

Cancini rolled down the window and snapped a photo of the Temple house. It was picturesque, just the kind of house kids dreamed of growing up in. The only thing missing was a white picket fence. His pulse quickened and his fingers tightened on the file. He needed to know more. He needed to know it all. “Take me to Social Ser­vices.”