Freefall (37 page)
Sure. Just like solid ground.
“Remember, keep your eyes forward, not down at your feet. Ready?”
He sounded so eager something inside her awakened, and she laughed. “Okay.” She was probably out of her mind, but she pushed against the fear, and it felt good.
The contest had hardly been fair, conditions almost a forfeit, but being out there had still worked its magic. By the time they splashed ashore, Cameron had pressed his conversation with Myra into the hard place that held the previous nine years. Guarding Gentry was enough to think about.
She’d done great in the water—as he’d expected, given her natural athleticism. If they got a high surf before she left, he’d show her how good it could be. Now, in her soaked T-shirt and bikini, she signed autographs and allowed a few photos while he searched the faces of fans for murderous intentions.
A guy he knew by the broad nose he’d gotten from too many faceplants on his board nodded toward her. “Geev ’um, brah.”
Cameron smiled, but “going for it” with Gentry Fox made as much sense as surfing the boneyard. If it came to choices, she’d take the cameras and the lights. She’d said so.
He toweled off, his thinking cleared by the sea. Kai. His namesake. Sometimes brutal, sometimes deadly; beautiful, seductive, ever present. Since his parents’ deaths he couldn’t remember a dream without the ocean in it. It was more alive than their memories. He’d dived its depths, forced out its secrets, ridden its crests, swum its currents. He breathed its scent even miles from the shore. He tasted its salt in his sleep.
Gentry said she could still feel the waves as they drove back to Nica’s, but he carried their loft and thrust inside always. Anytime he started to stray, he had only to ground himself in the sea.
While Gentry showered, he called Bette Walden, got through on the third ring and said, “I think we should talk.”
“I might agree if I knew who you were.”
Cameron leaned against the wall. “Your bag of tricks doesn’t include voice recognition?”
“Fancy maneuvering yesterday.”
“That was nothing.”
She sniffed. “What do you want?”
“To meet, come together on this thing.”
“We both have a job to do.” Her avoidance grated. “I skidded into a rock yesterday.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“My client can’t afford those kinds of expenses.”
Possibly informative. “Send me the bill.”
“So Gentry can pay? That’s almost worth it.”
He looked at his watch. “Where are you?”
“Lihue.”
Exactly where he’d be taking Gentry. The hospital should be safe enough for the span of time he’d spend with Bette. “I can be there in an hour.” Forty minutes for the drive and time for Gentry to clean up and dress. It wouldn’t be long before the police had questioned Malakua.
The island wasn’t that big. After the vehicular homicide, he’d skulked at his cousin’s house, but that cousin was in jail, and Malakua was easily recognized and unpopular. Not many would stick out their necks for him.
Bette said, “Good, you can buy me lunch.”
“Paradise Grill. South of town.” He’d try to have an appetite.
Gentry sat down beside her napping uncle and lifted the booklet from the side of the bed where it had fallen, one of his favorites,
Living the Psalms,
written by his pastor. It fell open from use on the page titled:
Being a Man After God’s Own Heart
. Was he finding solace in words that had shaped and defined him the last few years?
As her gaze slid to his sleeping face, his eyes shot open; he hollered and jolted up.
“Uncle Rob? What is it?”
He stared at her with reddened eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m—”
“I can’t keep you safe. Don’t you see?” He gripped the bed rails. “I can’t do anything for you! I can’t do anything …” He dropped back down.
She clutched his hand, feeling his anxiety and agitation. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” But her heart raced. Was this the post-traumatic stress Paul had warned them about?
Her uncle’s face pulled into a tight grimace as he sank into the pillows. He’d been so confident last night, meeting Cameron, charging him with her protection. Loving, strong, real.
He groaned.
“What is it, Uncle Rob? Were you dreaming?”
He rolled his head her way. “I’ve lost her, Gentry.”
She frowned. “Aunt Allegra?”
“You know how she is. Botox, tucks, liposuction, implants.”
More than she wanted to discuss, but no way would she stop him.
“She thought I wanted her that way.” He turned. “Maybe I did. I never stopped her, never told her she didn’t have to be thin, voluptuous, and wrinkle free. Not until I realized what mattered. Then telling her invalidated everything she’d done.”
“She didn’t understand.”
“Neither did I.”
“She wouldn’t listen.”
“Neither would I.” He groaned. “Now look at me. Look.”
She took in the maimed limb that would surely horrify Aunt Allegra, whose quest for perfection never ceased. The ache in his face showed how much he still loved her, how he needed her. She felt his fear and desolation.
She almost sank back into the mires of guilt, but the rhythm of the waves still rocked her. God had a plan, even in this. Life wasn’t random. They had only to do the best they could with what they had. “Hang on, Uncle Rob. Hold on to what you know is true.” His breath made a slow escape. “Tell me what’s true.”
She lifted the booklet.
“ ‘Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you. I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands. My soul will be satisfied as with the richest of foods; with singing lips my mouth will praise you.’ ”
The last thing Allegra wanted was a manicure. But she’d kept her standing appointment, because Gloria expected her. Allegra met people’s expectations. She knew how to qualify, modify, nullify. Like the real nails ground off to make room for the fake, a smoother, stronger self poured into the holes.
She’d been scheduled to return from Hawaii the day before so, of course, Gloria wanted to hear all about it. Allegra described the beach, the hotel, the sunset view with the correct excitement. She had told her only that she was going with a friend, so needn’t discuss Curt, but when Gloria took her hand, Allegra shrank back, wanting to shout, “Unclean, unclean!”
Gloria chattered over her nails, blind to the pestilence, deaf to the silent screams. Guilt remained an invisible specter, and in fact Gloria would think nothing of it if she laid out the whole sordid affair. “Happens all the time,” she’d say. “Do you really think you’re the worst? Honey, the stories I hear …”
She wished she could put it behind her, out of her mind away from her thoughts. Instead, as Gloria worked, she imagined pulling each ground, shaped, and painted nail out. How people would stare at her bloody stumps. Bloody stump. Her gorge rose, and she pressed it down.
She couldn’t think of Rob that way. He’d always been so … whole. No pieces missing, nothing that didn’t fit. He knew so many things, did so many things. He was the fixer and the doer. He was the standard by which she measured—and always, always fell short. That was the downfall to marrying the perfect man—even before he found Divinity.
Waves of agony scoured her. Gentry had asked her to come. Instead she’d flown home. Gloria saw nothing. But Rob … Rob would look into her soul and recoil. The horror she felt for his mutilation wouldn’t touch what he’d feel for hers. Her amputated spirit writhed.
Unclean
.
Cameron ordered broiled-fish tacos;
Bette Walden the fish and chips. With all her angles and points, she must shed fat like sloughed skin. Or else she burned it away with white-hot spite.
When the waitress left, he said, “Who sent you the photos?”
Sweet’N Low dissolved in the whirlpool inside her tea glass. “You know I won’t say.”
“Whoever did is accessory to fraud and possibly attempted murder.”
She paused the spoon in her tea. “What are you talking about?”
“Gentry’s face; someone else’s lewd poses. I have a copy of the file used to create them.”
Bette brutalized the lemon that had hung innocently at the rim. “And you got this file …”
“From the source. Troy’s mother.”
Bette wrung the last drop from the fruit and drowned it. “She gave it to you?”
“Troy did.”
She looked up. “Troy, who’s on suicide watch?”
He frowned. “Since when?”
“Two months ago. Admitted to a juvenile facility for emotional distress resulting from sexual and emotional abuse. Gentry might have the biggest platform for denial, but—”
“You’d better check your source.”
“What do you mean?”
Cameron studied her face. “Troy Glasier, son of felon Darlene Glasier, sandy hair, small scar on the bridge of his nose?” He touched the side of his own to mark the spot. “He’s not in any facility, nor has he been, except for the brief examination after his supposed overdose. I spoke with him personally just days ago.”
She looked baffled.
“If your informant is your source for the pictures—”
She leaned forward. “What did you mean, attempted murder?”
“Gentry was pushed. Over the falls.”
“Of course.” Bette rolled her eyes. “I’m sure she played
that
well.”
“Actually she denied it. She couldn’t believe someone wanted her dead, until she found her place trashed. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
She jerked back. “You don’t think I had anything to do with it?”
He shrugged. “You’re harassing, stalking, and making false accusations. Collaborating in a fraud.”
“Those pictures were sent to me—”
“Who’s to say you haven’t taken it a step further?”
“That’s—”
“You’ve made this your personal vendetta. Why?”
She snapped her teeth together. “I’m doing my job.”
“Your job requires you get the facts. Fact one: Troy Glasier never had an affair with Gentry Fox. A true, if misguided, adoration, maybe. He’s offered to set the record straight. What he got from Gentry was someone who believed in him, who gave him an opportunity to deal with the junk in his life. Other people took it and twisted it.”
Bette still looked skeptical.
“He gave me the file because he’s tired of being manipulated by his mother, who planned to blackmail Gentry. Is she your client? Your source? You delivered the threat.”
Bette shook her head. “I saw his interview. I believe him.”
“He lied. What kid wouldn’t lie to cover his backside? He’d already boasted. Now he was getting national attention, not to mention the potential legal pitfalls of a false investigation. Who knows what Mom threatened. She’s a professional irritant.”
Bette grabbed her tea and drank.
“Not only is Troy not suicidal, not contained in a juvenile facility, he’s taking steps in the right direction, facing up to his mistakes.”
She worked her jaw side to side. “You don’t—”
He took out his phone. “Call him yourself, if you don’t believe me. He’s under G.”
She stared at the phone but didn’t take it. They’d gotten a table on the covered porch enclosed by a half wall. The heat of the day was building. “My client has not been anywhere near this island. She couldn’t possibly be involved in Gentry’s accident.”
She
. “You and I both know things can be orchestrated from a distance. Look how well she played you.”
Bette tapped her nails on the table. “I think you’re wrong.”
“Based on what? Your animosity toward Gentry?”
“I have nothing—”
“Your own baggage?” He pushed his napkin-clad place setting aside. “Admit it. You can’t wait to nail her. You’re so eager you didn’t even get the facts.”
“Fine.” She drew herself up. “I can’t stand people who damage kids. They ought to pay.”
“Big time. But Gentry hasn’t damaged anyone. Her program gave at-risk kids a place to deal with their damage.”
She moistened her lips. “So
she
says. I heard otherwise. Ego, disloyalty—”
“Disloyalty?”
Bette picked up her purse and planted it in her lap, a prim and protective position. “You have your opinion—”
