Fallen Angels 04 - Rapture (54 page)

He’d known that leaving her was going to hurt—but like this? With her thinking he was a manipulator and a liar?

Then again, in his heart, he knew she was right. He’d always been a master liar.

A schemer.

A manipulator—

The headache came on hard and fast, and, as it turned out, it was the final one … not because he died, but because on that short-napped carpet of the hotel room, right at the foot of the door Mels had put to good use, everything came back to him—all of it.

From beginning to end, through all the evil in the middle, his memory returned with a roar, exploding the lid off of whatever had kept it down, filling the space between his ears, owning him.

It was ten thousand TVs in a room, all with the sound cranked up, the din so great it was a wonder people down on the street didn’t hear the noise.

It was a tsunami that swept onto the shore, wiping clean these last few days of relative innocence with Mels, ruining the landscape he had created for himself with her, revealing the foul earth beneath the feelings he had found with her.

It was, in many ways, worse than the nightmare of Hell.

Because after he saw what he was, up close and in detail, with no shadows to obscure the ugliness, he knew whatever game he was caught in was not going to end well.

His soul was rotten to the core.

And he’d already learned that what you sowed was what you reaped.

When Mels got home, she took the longest shower of her life: After scrubbing her skin with a soapy washcloth, she stood under the spray until the hot water heater was empty and things got stone cold.

Stepping out and wrapping her flushed body in a towel, she thought she really shouldn’t have told Matthias she was going to call the police. No doubt he’d already pulled out of that hotel room—although knowing how paranoid he’d always been, he probably would have done that anyway now that the lie was over.

At least she’d done the right thing. She’d called Detective de la Cruz from the taxi—at his home, no less. And she’d told him everything, even though she felt like she had shamed her father with the way she’d behaved.

At least de la Cruz was on it, and doing his job well: Matthias’s room was going to get a visit imminently—probably already had—

Shoot. She really should have stayed put to make sure that Matthias
met the police, but at the point when she’d left, she’d been focused on her personal safety.

Dear Lord, she felt dirty … absolutely filthy, and her emotions were another goddamn mess.

The irony, of course, was that the reporter in her was convinced she’d feel better if only she knew the why’s: Why her? Why now?

What the hell had he really wanted?

Then again, maybe that approach was no more illuminating than asking an out-of-control bus for its thinking behind which pedestrian it had “chosen” to run over.

Going into her bedroom, she took more care than usual as she got dressed, and she also delayed things an extra fifteen minutes to do her hair with a curling iron—which was unheard-of.

Last time she’d taken that thing out had been for a friend’s wedding, like, a year and a half ago.

Makeup seemed like a good idea, too, and she even threw some pumps on.

Bracing herself, she measured her reflection on the back of her closet door.

Shit. Still her.

Guess she’d been hoping to see someone else in the mirror, somebody who hadn’t spent the night before screwing a stranger she hadn’t known for more than a couple of days … who had turned out to be a violent criminal.

“Oh, God …”

Disgusted, she turned her back on herself, went downstairs, and started the coffee. She didn’t make it to the cups in the cupboard, however. Instead, she got stalled at her chair at the kitchen table, even as the percolating got louder on the counter as the cycle finished up.

In the oppressive quiet of the house, her mind seemed to be obsessed with replaying The Matthias Movie, everything from that
moment of impact outside the cemetery to the visit in the hospital afterward … from her tracking him down at that garage to the two of them at the hotel … from the first night to last night. …

She’d had inner doubts all along, and yup, look at how it had turned out.

“So stupid … so goddamn stupid.”

Putting her head in her hands, she rubbed her temples with her thumbs, wondering how long it was going to take before she didn’t blame herself for this mess.

Long time. Maybe forever.

Part of her just wanted to rewind time and return to that night when Dick had come to her desk and tap-danced through his prick routine. If only she had decided to leave before that, like at five o’clock with the other reporters, she could have avoided the letch-boss thing … and everything else that had followed.

If only …

As she sat in her mother’s cheery kitchen, the minutes drained away, the sun shifting its position from warming her back to bathing the side of her face and body. And as it moved, so did the close-exam thing, the introspection shifting from just Matthias to other areas of her life, like her career, and what it had been like to live in this house, and how the last few years since her father’s death had gone.

Looking at everything, it was clear she’d needed this wake-up call. She’d been so damned driven, and yet stuck in neutral: living at home, but not there for her mother; in mourning for her father—just not aware of it.

But seriously. If her life had required some recalibration, why couldn’t she have just changed her hairstyle or gotten a dog or done something less nuclear than having a disastrous affair?

That possibly had legal implications.

Dropping her hands, she sat back and stared at the seat her
mother always used. All the sunlight streaming in through the window was heating up the wood, making it clear why the woman liked that place at the table.

Plus you could see every corner of the kitchen, in case there was something on the stove.

Frowning, Mels realized she’d chosen her father’s chair, the one to her mom’s left, the one that faced the hallway that led to the front door.

Growing up, she’d always been in the seat across from this one.

She’d stepped into her father’s shoes in a lot of ways, hadn’t she.

In fact … it might be possible that the real reason she’d quit her job down in Manhattan at the
Post
had been to come back here and be with her mom.

The more she thought about it, the more that felt like the truth. First, there had been her father’s last words, his dying worries about his wife. And then after the funeral, her mother had been so very alone, lost in so many ways. Like any good daughter, and as she imagined her father would want, Mels had stepped in to fill the void … but the sacrifice had driven her mad—and made her resentful of her mother, her job at the
CCJ
, her life here in Caldwell.

Best of intentions. But not so great—or necessary—an outcome. No one had asked her to do what she had. Not her father or her mother. And as she looked around the kitchen, and the dining room, and out through the sliding glass doors to the porch and the garden … everything was in order.

Not because she had arranged for the upkeep, however: Her mom had taken care of it all.

Shaking her head, she wondered how this
pater familias
transformation had happened without her knowing it. Then again, was she really asking herself that after the crap with Matthias? Clearly, interpersonal stuff was not her forte—

The sound of keys in a lock was followed by the front door opening, and as light flared in the hall, her mother’s diminutive form was spotlit from behind. She was carrying a yoga mat and talking on the phone as she shut herself in and came down the corridor.

“—oh, I know she did, and I really do believe the best of people—up until they prove me wrong. So, yes, I think you should cut this off and stop talking to her.” Her mother paused to wave hello and put her things down on the counter by the refrigerator. Then she frowned, as if sensing all was not well in Mels-land. “Listen, Maria, may I call you back? Okay, thanks. Talk to you soon.”

She ended the call and put the cell down next to her
Go Organic!
canvas bag. “Mels, what’s wrong?”

Mels eased back and thought of her father doing the same thing. The chair had always creaked under his weight, but with her, it was silent.

“Can I ask you something really bizarre?” she said to her mother. “And please know I don’t mean to offend you.”

Her mom slowly sat down beside her. “Sure.”

“Do you remember when Dad was still with us—how he used to sit here and pay bills?” Mels patted the surface of the wood in front of her. “With that checkbook open, the big one that had three checks a page? He’d sit here and write out the bills and put them in the envelopes and record everything in the registry.”

“Oh, yes,” her mother said sadly. “Every month. Like clockwork.”

“He had those reading glasses—they’d fall to the end of his nose, and they’d annoy the crap out of him. And the entire time, he’d squint like his toes were in a vise.”

“He hated the whole thing—he made sure it got done, though. Every month.”

Mels cleared her throat. “How do you … I mean, you pay the bills here now. But where? When? I’ve never seen you write a check.”

Her mother smiled a little. “Your father wanted to do everything by hand. He didn’t trust banks—I used to think that monthly ritual was a physical expression of his suspicion of First National Bank and Trust. I’m not like that. I have everything from my car payment to the electric bill to my insurance on automatic deduction. My accounts are linked online—I look at them once a week and keep track of it all that way. Cuts down on stamps, paperwork, and visits to the mailbox. More efficient.”

Mels felt surprise ripple through her—but come on. Her mother wasn’t a child. “What about … like, the lawn care? Dad used to mow the grass, but who does it now?”

“Right after he died, I asked the neighbors how they handled it. Some have their husbands or their kids tackle the yard, and that obviously wasn’t an option for me. I gave it a go a couple of times, but it was so much work, I knew it was better to pay someone. I went with a professional service, because I don’t want to worry from week to week if it’s getting done—plus they do a cleanup in the fall and the spring. Mels, is there something you’re worried about?”

“Yeah, actually, there is.” She smoothed the table again, running her palm over the place where her father had taken care of things his way. “I—ah, I’m concerned that I’ve spent the last few years trying to be Dad for you, and not only hasn’t it worked—I haven’t been very supportive on any level. And you’ve managed to take care of yourself quite nicely.”

There was a long silence. “You know, I’ve wondered,” her mother murmured, “why you stayed. You’ve been so unhappy here—and it’s pretty clear you’ve resented me.”

“Which is not your doing—and a bad call on my part, all the way around.” Mels tapped the table. “I just … he would have wanted me to look after you. Or someone to.”

“That was his way.” She shook her head slowly. “He was always
old-fashioned, a real man’s man with values that were very traditional. I loved him, so I let him love me the way he saw fit.”

“But you didn’t need it, did you.”

“I needed him. I was very happy with him.” A sad light came into her eyes. “He was the type of man who had to be in control, and I married him and had you when I was young. But I did grow up.”

“Were there … problems about that?” God, that seemed so personal.

There was a long period of quiet. “I loved him, he loved me—at the end of the day, nothing changed that.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“That he died and left you alone.”

“I’m not alone. I have a life now that is rich and full with friends and things I like to do. And what has worried me most about you is that that doesn’t seem to be happening for you. This is your time to do what you want, succeed where you wish, choose your own path. It’s what I did with your father … and I was so glad I didn’t hesitate because he and I got shortchanged out of a good thirty more years. You deserve the same the thing, with whoever or wherever or whatever you love.”