Deceptions of the Heart (22 page)

The long afternoon spent hunkered down in the seat of the car strained my determination, but there was a smidgen of fight left in me. “Why don’t we go to Crane’s office?” I asked. “He might—”

“He won’t be there.” He turned out of the neighborhood onto a larger road.

“How can you be sure? Even if he’s not there, we might wheedle some information out of his receptionist or nurse or something.”

He lifted his cell phone from the cupholder. “This is hopeless, Jennifer. We have no idea where to start looking for either of them. Or the girls. I think we should tell the cops—”

“No.” I couldn’t believe he was giving up so easily. I slapped the phone away from his ear. It dropped to the floorboard.

“Jennifer!” He scooped the phone from beneath his feet and tossed it in a compartment of the console, then tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel.

“Just wait a minute. Just listen. Before you call the police…I found copies of old newspaper clippings in the safe. I must have done some research on Crane. Maybe this stuff will give us a clue where to look for them.” I didn’t care if we found Crane or Alex. This was about finding Rhonda’s daughters.

When he didn’t argue with my theory, I cleared my throat and dragged the clump of papers out of my newly-acquired, oversized purse, pawing through the copies, trying to shift them into some sort of logical sequence. “There’s no date on any of them…” I picked up the last piece of paper. Not a clipping. A note.

“Anson, stop the car.” I pushed on his shoulder. “Stop the car.”

He slowed onto the shoulder of a busy four-lane road. I handed him the brief note.

If you won’t tell Daddy the truth, then I will.

I didn’t have to ask him whose handwriting it was. Disappointment covered his features. “So read and see what truth she’s talking about,” he urged, pointing at the mess of unruly paper in my lap.

I devoured the assorted articles one at a time while Anson waited for my verdict. The truth stunned me in black and white. “Did I tell you the truth?”

“I don’t know. What truth is Marnie getting at?”

My breath clung to the back of my throat, already constricted with anxiety. I handed him the picture from the society pages of the newspaper, then the article about the San Francisco police accusing Crane of murdering his wife. “She disappeared, Anson. They never found her body.” I rubbed my hands on my pants while he studied them. “Maybe that’s why I’ve lost my memory. Maybe I don’t want to remember.”

He shoved the papers at me. “You sort of look like his wife, maybe a little bit, but I think you look more like Claire’s mother than this woman. This doesn’t prove anything.”

“What if Crane thinks I’m his long-lost wife? Maybe she ran away from him and he’s been looking for her all these years. That must be why he found me a heart outside the list.”

That seemed so wrong.

What about all the other souls waiting for a second chance to live?

“Did I ask him to do that?”

“If you did, I wasn’t there when it happened.” He cleared his throat. “I thought he did that because I offered him an…incentive.”

I pursed my lips and puffed the bangs out of my eyes. “Every time I think I have this figured out, something new gets thrown into the mix and just…stirs it all up like a…witch’s brew. This is a nightmare.” I glanced at him. He kept his head turned away from me. “I can understand if you want to bail on me. This mess keeps getting more complicated.” I held my breath, waiting for him to respond.

His hand closed around mine. “I’m not going anywhere.” He started the car, but didn’t shove the gear into drive. “Why was Kristen so adamant you were Crane’s daughter? Something’s missing. We don’t have all the information.” He leaned his head back on the rest. “I’m so tired.”

“Me too.” I wanted him to fold me into his arms. I wanted us to absorb each other’s weariness—to lean on each other. I needed him to tell me everything would be all right.

“You know, there’s only one man who can give us answers.”

“Crane,” I said and looked at Anson to verify my assumption. His mouth set into a grim line. “What if I am his missing wife?” I nudged him on the shoulder. “Anson?”

“What?”

“I just want this to be over so we can get on with the rest of our life. I don’t want to be his wife.”

“Well, then, if you are his wife, we’ll just have to deal with that, won’t we?” And finally, he said exactly the right thing.

Chapter Twenty-Three

At another cheap motel independent of any national chain, I watched Anson slip into the sleep of the exhausted. His chest rose and fell in the early stages of slumber. He shifted and rolled. I wanted to curl up next to him and forget about everything, but I couldn’t.

When he was sound asleep, I rifled his pockets, looking for spare change. Slipping out the door, I shielded my eyes from the glare of the neon sign—bright lettering blinking pink and green with the middle burned out. The Easy Rest Motel had become the Easy Motel. The sign advertised weekly rates. My bare feet scraped across the rough concrete of the parking lot as I headed for the only payphone I’d seen for miles. I pulled my sweater closer around me despite the warm California night.

The phone rang six times before she answered.

“Marnie? It’s me, Jennifer.”

“Jennifer? So help me…you can’t just disappear and not let anybody…where are you? Where’s Daddy?” She plowed into me with all the indignation of a spoiled princess.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Well, I know you’re in California. My Caller ID says so,” she retorted with an ah-ha snap. “Why are you there? And where is Daddy? Is he with you?”

“Marnie, shut up.”

“What?” she sputtered.

“I said shut up. Listen to me. I don’t have much time. Someone could be watching me—”

“I can’t believe—”

“Shut up and listen!” I screamed into the grimy mouthpiece.

She grumbled on the other end of the line. I gulped some smoggy California air. A noxious combination of diesel fuel, barbecue, used vegetable oil, and cat urine wafted past my nose. I wiped the burn from my eyes. “I have a question for you and I want a straight answer. I don’t have time for games. My life and your father’s life depend on the truth—”

“Are you serious?”

“The newspaper articles that you sent me. Where did you get them?” I asked. She was speechless for the first time in our limited association. “Marnie, answer me. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” She huffed her annoyance so I hit her where it hurt. “If you won’t tell Daddy the truth, then I will,” I quoted her note.

“I don’t know who sent them. They just came in the mail. There was no return address.” Her words crawled as if poured from a bottle of molasses.

“There are no dates on any of them so…I don’t know how old they are. Crane looks younger. A lot younger than he does now. So I’m confused. Am I his wife or his daughter?”

“Well, it’s obvious you’re his missing wife.” She chomped at me long distance with what I could only imagine were sharp, bared, ugly teeth.

“Really? Because Kristen told me I was his daughter.”

“No, you are his wife.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Have you told Daddy about this?”

I was tired of deception. I was tired of lies. I was tired of innuendo. I was tired of speculation. I wanted answers. “I did.”

“What did he say?” she asked, her voice soft and low.

“He said we’d deal with it, but he wouldn’t discuss it further. So you never told him any of this?” I asked, holding my breath.

“No. Of course not. I wanted you to do the right thing.”

The rancid air I inhaled left a twangy flavor. I rubbed my tongue between my lips, trying to rid my mouth of the nasty aftertaste. “Even if that made me a bigamist or a con artist or the conniving manipulator you’ve always accused me of being? Even if it broke Anson’s heart? Are you sure telling him was the right thing?”

“
You
told him. Tell me, was it the right thing?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m confused about everything. Nothing I’ve thought was true has turned out to be true. Nothing I thought was false has turned out to be a lie. Everything’s backward and upside down. I can’t sort this out. And I’m tired. So tired.” The decision floated on the wings of my consciousness only moments before it flew out of my mouth. “He’s better off without me.”

“Are you leaving him, Jennifer? There in California? You can’t do this to him.”

“Why? Haven’t I done enough? I know you don’t believe me, but I love him. I can’t involve him in this anymore. So when he calls you, because I know he will, tell him I said that.”

“Don’t put this on me.”

“I have no choice.” I slammed the phone onto the hook before I changed my mind and went back to Anson.

“Well, that was touching,” Alex said from behind my back.

I swiveled on one foot, the loose gravel gouging into my heel. I winced from the pain. His face contorted with some emotion that went beyond anger or hatred. Before a scream could exit my mouth, a gun pressed into my flesh.

“You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

Alex, the man that Rhonda loved, grabbed my hair, shoving his fingers all the way to the roots, dragging me toward his parked car, the gun still jammed into my side. “Get in,” he demanded and released me as he tugged open the driver’s side door. When I didn’t move fast enough, his fingers curled into my hair once again. I slid behind the steering wheel, trying to minimize the damage. He released my hair, and then slammed the door, almost snagging my hand in the frame.

He hadn’t demoralized me yet. There was still fight in me. My fingers wrapped around the handle. He raced around the car before I could push the door all the way open. Reaching over me, he yanked it shut, refusing my escape.

“Why are you doing this? I told you I wouldn’t tell anyone.” I sucked in a cluster of ragged breaths.

“No. You won’t tell anyone.” He shoved my head forward. The impact blinded me.

A dim memory amplified my horror—visions of slamming into a steering wheel. Rhonda’s heart dragged her past out of the far reaches of my subconscious and I faced what she refused to face—the vision so much clearer than the muggy night sky above me.

“Stop,” I begged. “You know I won’t tell.” Those words fell from Jennifer’s lips, repeating Rhonda’s pleas of three years ago. But Rhonda fell silent and the scene faded to black. A blank canvas.

I shook my head to bring some image, any image back to my consciousness. My eyes opened.
Was I Jennifer or Rhonda?
Alex was talking, but I couldn’t hear him.

“No, don’t,” I begged. I reached for the door handle, but he thrust the gun in my face. I looked along the polished barrel into his glazed eyes.

“Drive,” he commanded and shoved the key into the ignition with his other hand.

I didn’t want to remember what Rhonda remembered any longer. I was Jennifer because I wanted to be. I obeyed Alex because I had no choice.

****

Alex paced like a caged animal, his steps ringing on the concrete floor of the warehouse. He mumbled to himself. He turned hollow, bloodshot eyes toward me and I cringed despite my resolve to remain calm and present him with a stoic front. It did no good to pull on the duct tape that strapped me to the chair arms, but I squirmed anyway. The hard seat bruised my tailbone. My feet stung from a thousand tiny cuts and abrasions and I swore at myself for leaving my shoes behind.

I gritted my teeth and counted to five before I confronted him. “Why haven’t you murdered me yet?”

He swung around, agitation in his spastic movements. “Because you might still be useful.”

I laughed at his villainous cliché. “Really?”

“I should kill you and be done with it,” he said, grinding his threat into my face.

I scrunched my nose at his foul breath. “Why don’t you?” I asked, as if his logic was senseless when in fact it made horrifying sense.

“I should. Right now. You know too much.”

“That sounds like a trite line from a lame movie. Besides, I thought we covered this when you crept into my hospital room. I wasn’t going to tell anyone about Jackson and what you covered up for him.” I strained against my bindings to get a little closer to him. “I know you never talked to Anson. He didn’t tell you Jackson threatened me on my back porch. He didn’t even know you were in my room. I bet Jackson told you he was in my house, didn’t he? Did he tell you he had his arm around my neck, that he almost choked me to death? Did he tell you he tried to freak me out? Tried to get me to kill myself? Did he? I bet he did. You’ve seen him. You’ve talked to him.”

He rolled his eyes as if my rant was irrelevant. “What if he did? We’re brothers.”

“He’d roll on you in a heartbeat—”

He laughed, a strange choking chortle that made my ears throb. “Nah, I can trust him. He’s kept our secrets for years. It’s you I can’t trust. You were asking too many questions and getting too close to the truth.”

“Who’s going to believe I have Rhonda’s memory? No court of law would even allow that kind of testimony.”

He laughed. “What would
you
know about it?”