Crimson Eve (9 page)

The things she had done. The choices she’d made. As terrible as her current situation was, a part of her whispered that she deserved it. That, in fact, she should be glad she’d managed to survive, unexposed, for this long. Now she’d been driven out of her home, the life she’d built — and where could she possibly go that would be safe?

She’d been driven then too — by desire and the desperate need to
be
somebody.

But you didn’t have to give in.

True. She
had
been manipulated. But in the end, the choices were hers. And for the worst decision of all, she had no one but herself to blame.

Sick with grief but knowing she should continue, Carla picked up the diary and read on. Slowly. One page, some parts even one line at a time.

Remembering.

Reliving.

She finished shortly before five a.m., the diary like a dead weight in her hands.

Exhausted, her gut twisting and unshed tears burning her eyes, Carla laid the diary on her chest. Her bra
in could not take one more thought, one more emotion. She stared ahead, unseeing, her eyes growing heavy . . . and finally sank into a sleep filled with dreams from the diary.

NINETEEN

Two weeks. I’ve only been working for Bryson Hanley for two weeks, but it feels like forever. What did I do before I got this job?

I love what I’m doing. Well, I don’t like Jilke very much — in fact, he almost scares me. He’s so protective and all of Senator Hanley. But I love learning how to do all the stuff in the office. And I really like talking to Senator Hanley whenever I can. He makes me feel good about me.

Not that I get to talk to him very much. Jilke watches me like a hawk.

Today I took my camera to work, hoping to get a picture with Senator Hanley. Wouldn’t you know, people were in and out all morning. One meeting after another. Then he went out with two men and their wives for lunch. I think they were rich and give him campaign money or something. The women just had that look about them. I can always spot a rich woman. It’s not that they’re all cold and huffy like Mrs. My-Husband. Some are pretty nice. I can tell they have money by their good haircuts and their clothes and makeup. They just look classy.

I want to be like that some day.

Anyway, the pictures. After lunch Senator Hanley was finally alone, and his door was open. I sneaked the camera from my purse and hurried toward his office. Jilke’s head jerked around.

“What are you doing?”

I raised the camera, talking loud enough so Senator Hanley would hear. “Just wanted to take a picture for my scrapbook.”

Jilke gave me one of his looks. “Senator Hanley’s had a busy day; I don’t want you — ”

“Come on, Paul, give her a break.” Senator Hanley’s voice sounded from around the corner. “I can take one minute.”

I heard his desk chair squeak, then his footsteps across the carpet. I stood frozen, watching Jilke and trying not to smirk. Senator Hanley stuck his head around the door. “Come on in, Carla. Paul, come take our picture.”

Okay, I smirked then for sure. I turned away so Jilke wouldn’t see, but I think Senator Hanley did. He gave me this knowing little smile.

Jilke heaved a sigh and pushed to his feet like he’d just been told to walk barefoot over nails. Without a word he headed over to me and held out his hand for the camera. I kept my voice real light while I told him what button to press and how the flash worked.

We ended up taking six pictures. Three of them were of Senator Hanley and me. We stood in front of his desk, and he put his arm around my shoulders. He smiled and I smiled. Jilke didn’t smile, but he did push the camera button. That hand around my shoulder only lasted a minute, but it just . . . felt right being there. That’s the best way I can put it. It felt right.

Then Senator Hanley let me take a few shots of him at his desk. Jilke huffed back to his own chair. Senator Hanley pretended like he was reading a file or writing something. Like those pictures you’d see in the newspaper — but these are
mine.
Between the pictures, though, he’d raise his eyes and look at me. And one side of his mouth would curve, like he was giving me this private communication. I got bold and gave him one of my “well-ain’t-life-something” grins. He laughed, then tilted his head in Jilke’s direction like he was saying,
What’s the matter with that guy, anyway?

When we were through, he winked at me. “Carla, I like the way you take on the world.”

And I thought —
I like the way you make my world feel.

TWENTY

“Where
is
Carla? I swear, I’m gonna strangle that kid.” Wilbur Hucks drummed his gnarled fingers on the Java Joint counter, his wizened mouth pulled in and a deep frown on his face. Jake Tremaine hunched on his usual stool beside Wilbur nodding with animation, the ever-present red baseball cap shoved low on his head. “Ya just can’t depend on people anymore, I’m telling ya.” Wilbur aimed these words in Jake’s direction. “She
promised
she’d be here to help me!”

Bailey Truitt took the tirade in stride. She’d been hearing it for an hour now. And she did hope Carla showed up soon. What could be taking her so long? It wasn’t like her to be late. Bailey had enough to do behind the counter and was very happy to let Carla type Wilbur’s blog post while he dictated. They tended to argue the entire way through a post — brassy Carla never did let Wilbur give her any flak without returning it doubled — but at least it got Wilbur off Bailey’s back.

Turning toward the espresso machine to make a nonfat latte, Bailey spoke in the old curmudgeon’s direction. “She’ll be here, Wilbur, and I’m sure with a very good reason for being late. Maybe that client she took to Edna San’s mansion yesterday wants to buy it. Wouldn’t
that
be something. She’d get the whole six percent commission after trying for over a year to sell that place.”

Wilbur grunted. “Well, I’ve lived here my whole life. I don’t cotton to some rich smart aleck coming along and thinking he’s more important than me.”

Boy, he
was
grumpy this morning. Maybe a free pastry would sweeten him up a little.

“How do you know what he thinks?” Jake elbowed Wilbur. “Just ’cause he’s rich don’t make him smart-alecky.”

“What do
you
know about bein’ rich?”

“Nothing myself, but my cousin’s swimming in money, and he’s decent enough.”

“Then why don’t you get
him
to come buy Edna San’s house? Cash down. So Carla can stop fretting about that place and start paying attention to the more important things in life. Like typing my blog post.”

Bailey refilled Wilbur’s coffee cup. No “fancy milk drinks” for him — just straight, strong coffee. Black. “Give her a few more minutes, okay? If she doesn’t show up soon, I’ll call her. In the meantime keep gabbing with Jake. That’ll keep you occupied.”

“Whatdya think I’ve been doing all this time, woman! I’ve been gabbing enough to talk Jake’s huge ears off.”

Jake sniffed. “Yeah, but all you been talking about is Carla.” He slid a hand up the side of his head. “And for your information, I’ve seen ears a lot bigger than mine.”

“Where, on a sow?”

“Wilbur.” Bailey frowned. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“Aw, I’m used to it.” Jake’s buggy eyes glanced toward the ceiling. His left hand explored the girth of his ear.

Bailey turned from the espresso machine and poured the latte into a middler cup. “Bev, your drink’s done.”

Across the café, Bev Trexel rose from her and Angie Brendt’s usual table. Bev looked particularly stern this morning, aiming one of her disapproving stares at Wilbur’s back as she approached. Both retired schoolteachers, Bev and Angie
were best friends but couldn’t have been more different. Bev’s genuine concern for others was blanketed by a Miss Manners sense of protocol — a standard that Wilbur Hucks
never
met — while Angie tended to laugh things off. Giggle was more like it.

“Thank you, Bailey.” Bev accepted her drink with her chin held extra high — a message to Wilbur that he’d managed to grate her nerves more than usual this morning.

Wilbur slid a sideways look in her direction but otherwise ignored her until she was on the way back to her table. Then he rocked his head side to side, flapping his mouth in a mocking silent harangue. Bev, all too used to his gyrations, didn’t even need to turn around. “I know what you’re doing, Wilbur Hucks.”

He folded his arms in a huff.

For a moment it was silent in the café, save for the quiet tap of S-Man’s computer keys. Ted Dawson, affectionately known as S-Man, hunched over his laptop, intense concentration knitting his dark eyebrows as he edited his science fiction manuscript,
Starfire
. After five months of rejections from agents, he was close to landing one — if he could fix a few “weaknesses” in the story.

Wilbur checked the round-faced clock on the wall and sighed. “After nine-thirty. She’s over an
hour
late. I came here all fired up to write my post. It was going to be a zinger too. Now my creativity’s draining away by the second.”

“Why don’t you ask Bev to type for you?” Bailey offered Wilbur a teasing smile. “I’m sure she’d just love to.”

Jake snorted. “That’ll be the day.”

“Will you call Carla now, Bailey?” Wilbur sounded petulant. “I’ve waited long enough.”

Bailey
was
getting a little worried. Carla would usually call if she was going to be late for an appointment — even just a blog-typing commitment to Wilbur. She had a strong responsibility ethic. “All right, I’ll call.”

She turned toward the phone, near the wall at the end of the L-shaped counter. First she dialed Carla’s office at the realty company, only to hear that Carla hadn’t come in yet. Next she dialed Carla’s home. No answer.

Maybe Carla was in her car somewhere. Bailey would have to check the Rolodex back in her office for Carla’s cell phone number. She headed around the long counter. “Wilbur, I’m going to — ”

The phone rang, and Bailey turned back to answer it. “Maybe that’s her now.” She picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Java Joint.”

“Hello. Would this be . . . is this Bailey?” Not Carla. A woman’s voice. Low and breathless.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to get hold of Carla Radling.”

Get in line
. “I haven’t seen her this morning. Do you have her office number? I don’t think she’s there yet, but you could leave a message for her.”

“I’ve called there. But I need to talk to her
now
. Could you possibly give me her home number?”

Bailey hesitated. “I’m sorry. Who am I speaking with?”

A pause. “Ellie.”

Bailey waited for the last name. None was given. And something told her to doubt the first. Pinpricks danced up Bailey’s back. Carla not showing up — now this. Something didn’t feel right.

“
Ellie
,” Bailey emphasized the name, “I’m very sorry, but I’m not able to give out someone’s home phone.”

“How about a cell number?”

Unlike most realtors, who advertised their cell as well as office numbers, Carla had always chosen not to give hers out to just anybody. She was a private person. Bailey and all who knew her had simply accepted that. “I don’t — ”

“Look, I
have
to talk to her as soon as possible. It’s
important
.”

The edge in the woman’s tone only increased Bailey’s tension. She worked to keep her voice even. “Carla will probably be here soon; we were expecting her quite a while ago. Would you like to leave a message?”

“You mean you don’t know where she
is
?”

Real fear hitched the words. Bailey’s thoughts spun. “I’m sure she’s fine. I just — ”

The woman gasped. “I have to go.” Her words spilled over each other. “Tell Carla someone she knew years ago has to talk to her. I’ll call back.”

The line clicked.

Bailey pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. Trying to tell herself this was some crazy coincidence, and Carla was all right. But Bailey couldn’t forget the phone call six months ago that had changed her world — Kanner Lake’s world — with word of a terrible tragedy. She’d stood in this very place, staring at the same wall . . .

Slowly, she hung up the phone.

“Somebody else looking for Carla?” Wilbur’s irritated voice cut through Bailey’s thoughts. “They can just wait. I get her first.”

Bailey pasted a smile on her face before turning around. No need to get Wilbur any more riled. “You two hold the fort down, okay?” She tapped her palm on the Formica, then headed toward the opening of the counter. “I’m going to look up Carla’s cell phone in my office.”

“Tell her she owes me a week’s worth of coffee,” Wilbur growled. “And when you come back you can fetch me one of those cinnamon rolls, heated. Put that on her tab too.”

No need. Bailey would gladly give him the pastry free. She just wanted to hear Carla’s voice — safe and sound.

Oh, Lord, please watch over her, wherever she is.

TWENTY-ONE

Carla woke with a start.

Her bleary gaze landed on a blanket in filtered daylight . . . her left arm . . . the diary. It was lying facedown on her chest, her fingers spread over it as if in protection.

Had she heard something?

Carla’s heart drummed. She raised her head from the pillow, cocked it. A rush of awareness flooded her body with heat. What had she done, wasting the whole night so close to Kanner Lake? Thornby could have found her car hours ago. Why hadn’t she driven across two states while she had the chance?

A knock at the door.

Carla sprang off the bed. Intense pain shot up her left ankle. She cried out, listed to one side, and crashed to the floor.

A harder knock. “Housekeeping!”

The rattle of the door.

Carla sat up. Her head fell back and she dragged in air. She slumped against the bed, one hand against her roiling stomach. For a moment her throat refused to form words.

Behind her, the door opened. How in the
world
had she forgotten to put on the chain lock?

She twisted to look over her shoulder toward the entryway. “Hello, I’m still here! Be checked out in an hour or so.”