Forgotten Lullaby (11 page)

Unable to bear the silence any longer, he opened his office door and spotted Martha bringing Carly from the nursery. “I'll take her,” Grant offered, crossing the room in quick easy strides.

“She had a good nap,” Martha said, patting Carly's hand.

“Come here, sweetie pie.” Carly grinned at him, and his mind must have turned to mush, because he heard himself babbling baby talk that would have had the people at the office rolling on the floor with laughter. But Carly loved it. She swiped her fingers at his chin and latched onto his earlobe, tugging it.

“You're pretty strong for such a tiny thing,” he said, nuzzling his face in her terry-cloth sleeper.

“She sure is,” Martha said.

“I appreciate your watching her while we went to the doctor, Martha.”

“It's my pleasure,” the housekeeper said, beaming.

“Martha, how well do you know Dan McGuire?”

She looked puzzled. “He's a kind employer. Personally I don't know him all that well. He seems real nice, a charmer with the ladies.”

“Yeah, I got that impression.”
He certainly tried to charm mine.
“Did he…did he and Emma have any… problems?”

Martha's forehead wrinkled. “Not that I knew of. He was usually leaving when I arrived.”

“Right,” Grant said, remembering Martha cleaned the store after hours. “Well, thanks again for watching Carly.”

“Nonsense.” Martha waved him off and gathered her things. “I love Carly.” She gave Carly a last kiss and left.

Carly began to fuss and Grant prepared a bottle for her. Carly latched onto the bottle just as the phone rang. He started to reach for it, but the sound died and he realized Emma must have answered it. Probably Kate, he thought, since she hadn't been by. Let Kate and Emma talk for a while, he decided, wiping a drop of formula off Carly's chin.

Then he remembered the threats to Emma and reached for the portable phone.

 

T
HE CALLER WAS THE SAME
, Emma realized with a dull panic that knotted her insides. The same hushed whisper, the same heady warning that had made chills sweep up her spine.

“I warned you before.
The people you trust will hurt you the most.
”

The hateful words sounded even more horrible the second time. And the dead silence on the other end of the line when the caller hung up hit her with a wave of nausea.

“What did he mean he warned you before?”

Emma nearly jumped off the bed when Grant's husky voice sounded from the bedroom doorway. But the calm resonance held an unleashed fury almost as potent as the rage in his eyes.

“Someone called last night,” Emma murmured, brushing her tousled hair over her shoulders. “Do you
think they were on long enough for the police to trace it?”

“No.” Grant moved into the room, his tall frame outlined faintly by the late-afternoon sunshine streaming through the blinds. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Emma shrugged, biting down on her lip. Feeling vulnerable in the darkness, she flipped on the Victorian lamp on her nightstand. Hurt simmered below the surface of his anger, she noted, when he stepped into the circle of light.

“Why, Emma?” he asked again.

“I don't know,” she said, trying to formulate a reasonable lie. “You were in the shower.”

His hand shook as he ran it through his hair. Then he closed the distance between them and stood over her, so that she had to look up to see his face. His hands sought her shoulders, rested gently on the top, but she could feel the trembling in his muscles as he fought to control himself. “You could have called me, Emma. I would have been here in a second.”

Remorse tightened her chest. “I'm sorry, Grant. Really. I…didn't know what to do. I was scared.”

He tenderly thumbed the outline of her sweater along the shoulder, then traced a line up her cheek. “You didn't trust me?” he asked, hurt coloring his quietly spoken words.

Emma hesitated, knowing her actions had already answered his question.

“That's right, you don't remember me,” he said tightly. “I guess you're not even sure if I've told you the truth about our marriage.”

She lowered her eyes, hating the anger and truth in his accusation. But he tipped up her chin, forcing her
to face him. “I really am sorry, Grant,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry for all of this.”

“What else did he say?” he asked, his expression clouded.

She strung together the first conversation verbatim, watching the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.

Grant ran a hand through his hair again. “The caller ID simply said Raleigh. It could be a cell phone anywhere.”

Emma nodded, her fingers tracing over his knuckle. He followed the movement, his eyes darkening. Emma shivered, looking into the distance. “Where's Carly?”

“In the playpen. She's fine.”

Emma slumped, exhausted and scared. “Why is this all happening?”

“I don't know,” Grant said, pulling her to him. “But it's beginning to sound more and more personal.”

Emma leaned against him. “You're right. It's almost like the person knows me. And my friends and family.”

Grant's blue eyes darkened with uncertainty. “And you're wondering if there's some truth to what the caller said. You're making a list in your head, wondering who you should trust and who you shouldn't.” A deep labored sigh escaped him. “And since you don't remember me, I'm at the top of that list.”

“I never said that.” Emma's voice quavered.

Grant exhaled loudly. “Kate's been telling you awful things about me, telling you all the reasons you shouldn't trust a man.”

Emma's fingers tightened on the edge of his shirt, Kate's cynical comments reverberating in her head.

“Kate's marriage failed, so now she wants to destroy
ours,” Grant continued. “Her husband cheated on her, so she assumes all men are cheaters.”

“Maybe she does think that, but Kate wouldn't do all this,” Emma argued. “She'd never threaten me or hurt me.”

“But she's making you doubt me.”

“I overheard you making a date with Priscilla,” Emma admitted.

“That call was business, Emma. Business, nothing more.” He closed his eyes and dropped his hands to his side. “Kate's wrong about me, Emma. Maybe I haven't always been the perfect husband or the greatest father, but I do love you and Carly.” His voice became a pained whisper. “I wish you'd believe me.”

Emma's heart lurched at the sincerity in his voice. She reached for him, but the doorbell rang and he went to answer it. She limped to the living room as the detective came in.

“Did you find out something new?” Grant asked.

Warner nodded. “I'm afraid so.” His gray eyes flitted over Emma, then Grant, his expression serious. “I need to ask you some questions about your past, Mr. Wadsworth.”

Grant's dark eyebrows arched in surprise. “What's this about, Detective?”

“It's about Faye Simmons.”

Grant jammed his hands in his pockets, tension radiating through the room.

“You remember her, Mr. Wadsworth,” Warner said, his voice level. “The girl you dated in college, the one who died in a car accident.”

Blood thundered in Grant's ears. This couldn't be happening. Faye's death had haunted him for years and now, when his wife was in danger, the police wanted to dredge up the past. Why? What could Faye's death possibly have to do with the threats to Emma?

“I don't understand, Detective,” Grant said. “Faye died five years ago. She has nothing to do with Emma, so why bring it up now?”

Warner shot Emma a look of regret, rubbing one hand over his balding spot. “I understand you were questioned about the Simmons girl's death.”

Grant sat down beside Emma and gestured toward the opposite chair for the policeman. “Yeah, everyone at the homecoming party was questioned.”

“But Ms. Simmons was driving your car when she wrecked. She ran the car off into the river.”

Grant shuddered. He remembered the scene too vividly. The broken bridge, his car nose-dived into the muddy banks of the river, Faye's limp bloody body, her tangled wet hair, the cold iciness of her skin when he'd touched her.

Grant forced the images to the back of his mind and
glanced at Emma, wondering how the detective's questions would affect Emma's already shaky trust in him.

“Mr. Wadsworth?”

“Sorry,” Grant said. “I don't understand what that accident has to do with Emma. Besides, the police covered this years ago.”

Warner cleared his throat. “Yes, but with your wife in danger, we investigate all the family.”

“Including me?” Grant asked.

Warner nodded. “Everyone. As a matter of fact—” his direct gaze was intimidating “—most times the spouse is the prime suspect. The fact that Ms. Simmons was killed in an automobile accident seems a little coincidental in light of your wife's suspicious accident.”

Grant bolted off the sofa, his anger boiling through his veins. “I don't like what you're implying, Detective. I asked you to help find the person threatening my wife, and you come into my house and insinuate it's me!”

Emma's shaky breath filled the strained silence. Warner linked his hands together, his face rigid. “I told you, Mr. Wadsworth, we have to look at every angle. Now I'm not saying you're guilty, but it would help clear things up for me if you'd simply answer my questions.”

Rage still tore through Grant, but he took a deep breath, gauging the strength of Emma's doubts by the wariness in her eyes. Or was it sympathy?

“All right,” he finally said, settling back on the sofa. “I went over this a dozen times as I'm sure you read in Faye's file, but what do you want to know?”

The detective removed a small notepad from the pocket of his denim shirt and flipped it open. “I believe the report said the accident happened around midnight.”

“That's right,” Grant confirmed. “I lent her my car to drive home.”

“How did you plan to get home?”

Emma was watching him with avid curiosity. Of all the details he'd like to share with Emma about his life, this particular evening's awful events were not among them.

“Mr. Wadsworth?”

“I was going to get a ride with one of the other girls at the party.”

“I see. You had a date other than Ms. Simmons?”

“That's right,” Grant explained. “She and I were acquaintances…” He shrugged. “Friends, but that's all.”

“So you didn't have a sexual relationship with her?”

“No,” Grant said, his voice clipped. Emma's big dark eyes revealed none of her thoughts, but she'd clenched her hands on her knees and scooted to the far end of the sofa as if she didn't want to touch him, even accidentally.

“And why did Ms. Simmons borrow your car? Didn't she have her own transportation or date?”

Grant frowned, trying to remember the details of the evening. “She came to the party late with a girlfriend. She was upset when she arrived. She'd had a fight with some guy she'd been seeing.”

Emma's eyes remained glued on him. He softened his tone, wanting her to realize he'd been sensitive to Faye's problems. “Anyway, she said the guy had ditched her earlier and she wasn't in a partying mood. But she didn't want to spoil her friends' night.”

“So you gave her your keys?”

Grant bristled at the implication. “Sure, I felt sorry
for her—she was crying. I let her drive my car. She claimed she was going back to the dorm.”

“But she didn't return to the dorm, did she?”

Her blood-splattered face flashed through his mind. “No, she didn't,” he said in a low voice. He studied his fingernails, fighting the sense of guilt that tugged at him every time he remembered that night. If only he'd offered to drive her home, insisted she stay and talk things through. If only she hadn't just discovered she was pregnant…

“You had no idea she'd taken sleeping pills before she got behind the wheel of the car?”

“No,” Grant said emphatically. He gave Emma a beseeching look, praying she believed him. Her dark lashes fluttered over creamy cheeks, and his gut clenched. God, he didn't want his wife to doubt him. And he didn't want her to end up like Faye….

“You didn't see anyone slip drugs into Ms. Simmons' drink that night?”

Grant shook his head. “We partied, but none of us were into that kind of stuff. We didn't do drugs, Detective. Just had a few beers, a little cheap wine.”

Warner nodded, then snapped his notebook shut. “And you told the police everything you knew about that night, right?”

“That's right,” Grant said, his voice stronger.

“You admitted you knew the girl was pregnant?”

A soft gasp escaped Emma's mouth. He fought the instinct to touch her and reassure her. “Yeah, she told me about the baby,” he said, his voice strained.

Warner arched a gray eyebrow. “You weren't the father?”

“No, I told you we weren't sexually involved. We were just friends.”

Warner cleared his throat, his gaze never wavering. “Didn't she tell you who the father of the baby was?”

Grant swallowed his emotions, then answered the same way he had three years earlier, hoping the detective would let sleeping dogs lie and move on with the search for the person after his wife. “No, she never told me.”

Emma listened to Grant's comments with an uneasiness that threatened to break her calm. Her palms were perspiring, and she brushed them on the side of her sweats, her insides quaking at the desolate expression on his face. She noted the fine tremble of his fingers, the way his chin quivered slightly when he spoke, the way his hands started to move toward her, then retreated to fists at his sides. Either Grant was telling the truth or he was a great actor.

But why was the detective so curious about this young woman's death? Had she also known this girl named Faye?

“Mrs. Wadsworth, you still haven't regained your memory?” Warner asked.

Emma bit down on her bottom lip. “I'm afraid not. I don't remember anything of the past four years.”

Warner made a clicking sound with his cheek. “What about this Ms. Simmons? Did you know her?”

“No, she didn't,” Grant answered automatically, earning a suspicious look from the detective.

“I don't remember if I knew her or not,” Emma said, her own patience flailing with the strain of the inquisition.

“Emma and I hadn't started dating yet,” Grant clarified.

“Had the two of you met?” Warner asked.

Emma shrugged, feeling helpless. She would have to
rely on Grant to fill in the detail—and trust him to tell Warner the truth.

“We met through Emma's sister, Kate, a year later. She attended UNC. Kate and I had a couple of classes together.”

“Hmm,” Warner mumbled. “Did you ever date Emma's sister?”

Grant shook his head. “Not really. We went to a couple of movies together, a few ball games, but we didn't really date.”

“You went out with Kate?” Emma asked in surprise.

“Not on a date. A whole group of us hung around together,” Grant explained.

“So Emma's sister introduced you and Emma?”

“Yeah. Emma came to visit for the homecoming weekend.” Grant tilted his head back in thought. “But Kate wasn't too keen on me dating Emma at first.”

“She didn't want us to go out?” Emma asked.

“Did she have a crush on you, Mr. Wadsworth?”

“You've got to be kidding. Kate like me?” Grant laughed wryly. “She didn't think I was good enough for her—or you, Emma.”

“You don't remember any of this?” Warner asked, his face angled toward Emma.

Emma shook her head, frustration pounding at her temple.

“And nothing about the accident?”

“She already answered you,” Grant barked.

“You seem agitated, Mr. Wadsworth,” Warner said, narrowing his eyes. “Is there some reason you don't want your wife to remember the past?”

Grant's expression turned thunderous. “Of course I want her to remember. But I don't like the way you're
making her doubt me! I'm her husband, for God's sake.”

The pain in Emma's head intensified. She rubbed at her forehead, spots dancing before her eyes, then sighed when Grant's broad hand cupped her neck, massaging the tense muscles. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“I'm getting a headache,” she whispered, noticing he'd lowered his voice to a soothing pitch.

“Detective, I think we've had enough,” Grant said calmly. But Emma saw his shoulders go rigid. “Now, did you find anything on McGuire?”

“Nothing. So far his business looks legit.”

Emma remembered the strange phone calls. “Detective, there is something else I need to tell you.” She explained about the phone calls, relaying the message word for word.

“I heard him,” Grant assured Warner. “He called a few minutes before you arrived.”

“So the voice was definitely a man's?”

Emma hesitated, searching her memory. “I'm not sure. The voice sounded very hoarse and faraway.”

“She's right,” Grant said. “I thought at first it was a man's voice. But when I think about it, it was so muffled it could have been a woman's.”

“Well, we should have the voice on tape. We'll have it analyzed. Should be able to at least tell if the voice belonged to a man or woman.”

Emma blinked against the pain in her temple and lay her head back.

“I hope you find the creep who's doing this soon,” Grant said.

“I'm working on it. That message may be our best clue so far.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked.

“Whoever's doing this may be someone close to you, Mrs. Wadsworth. Someone who has a personal problem with either you or your husband.” He glanced at Grant. “And for your wife's sake, Mr. Wadsworth, I hope you're telling the truth.” Then he strode toward the door and let himself out.

Grant swung around and faced her, studying her for so long she began to tremble. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, anger burning his cheeks red, “Emma, you don't think I would do anything to hurt you, do you?”

 

E
MMA'S SLIGHT HESITATION
slashed into Grant's hopes like a knife tearing through his skin. He sank down beside her on the sofa, despair filling him. “Emma?”

“No, I don't think you would hurt me,” she finally said, her voice a throaty whisper.

His breath tumbled out and he cupped her shoulders with his hands, then pulled her to him. “You can't imagine how bad I felt when that girl died. She was driving my car. I kept thinking if only I hadn't lent her my car…” He dropped his forehead against hers, his breathing labored as the memory of Faye's dead body and Emma's injured one mingled in his mind. Thank God Emma was alive. “I've wished a thousand times that I could go back and change that night, that I'd offered to drive her…”

“Shh, it's okay,” Emma whispered against his neck. “It wasn't your fault, Grant.”

Grant squeezed his eyes shut, the guilt he'd thought he'd buried long ago erupting. “I should have offered to take her home. I knew she was upset. She shouldn't have been driving, just like I should have been driving the night you had your wreck—”

Emma pressed a finger to his lips. “Grant, you couldn't have known she'd taken some pills or that she was going to have an accident.” Then she gently lifted a lock of his hair from his forehead, an intimate gesture that pained Grant, for he remembered all the other times she'd completed the same sweet loving gesture and knew she did not. “And you couldn't have known I was going to have a wreck, either.”

Grant shook his head miserably. “I would have died before I'd let you get hurt,” he said in an anguished whisper. Then realizing she was in his arms, knowing she'd offered him comfort, he couldn't resist having her, if only for a moment. He had to taste her, to know she was real, still alive in his arms, still his wife.

He swept his hand gently down her back and around her waist, then lowered his mouth and sipped at the rose-petal corners of her lips, tasting, teasing her until she parted her lips and let him inside. Tenderness, passion, raw heat swirled through his body, dancing through his fingertips as he massaged the curve of her hip and felt her subtle response become bolder.

He asked and she gave, she moaned and he nearly came apart, devouring her hungrily, making love to her with his mouth. Her hands found their way into his hair and he groaned, the tender way she drew his head down for more plundering exciting him beyond reason. Then he threaded one hand into her silky gold mane and sank into oblivion. He tilted her head back and nibbled at her ear, tasting the sensitive skin on her neck, laving her with his tongue.

She clung to him, her hands digging into his arms, her small moans encouraging him to do more. He accepted her invitation and kissed her neck, brushed her face with gentle but hungry kisses, her shoulder, then
lower until he nuzzled his face in the crevice of her breasts. Her nipples puckered and hardened beneath her light cotton sweater, and his hand inched beneath the fabric, moving slowly upward until he connected with bare skin. She groaned and cupped his head with her hands, her breathing shallow and unsteady. He curved his hand over the fullness of her breasts, aching to do more, but an image of her in the mangled car tore through his need and he was afraid he would hurt her. He gently flicked his thumb over the nipple while he angled his mouth and kissed her again, whispering sweet nonsense words of yearning to her as he loved her.