Hidden Desires (3 page)

If it wasn’t Travis, that meant someone else was out there, some unknown person who had destroyed her sister and walked away unfettered. Who was it? And did that person know what he or she had done?

Fear began to tremble in her hands. Her body went cold with the thought that the answers she’d always held on to may not be answers at all. If she was wrong about the diary, if it wasn’t Travis, then the closure she’d thought she had was suddenly gone.

She didn’t want to believe it, but somehow he’d succeeded in leaving her riddled in doubt.

“It’s at my mother’s house.”

“Fine, give me a minute to head back into the store to reschedule an interview. I can follow you—”

“No,” she said sharply.

Her mother’s house was not a place for visitors. Hell, it wasn’t a place Rachel went very frequently.

The memories were too painful, the sights too sickening. And, depending on her mother’s state, she didn’t need the additional embarrassment of someone standing witness to the impurity from which she was born.

“I’ll get it myself. We’ll look at it at my house.”

Travis backed away, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a business card.

“I can be reached at the cell phone number,” he said, handing her the card. “Can you get it today?” Rachel never knew what she’d find when she went to her mother’s house. One of these days she was certain she’d find the woman dead, which meant her afternoon could be spent with the coroner. Or worse, her mother could be entertaining one of the many suitors who stumbled in and out of her house in a drunken stupor. Rachel learned long ago to steer clear if she found a strange car in the driveway. Lord knows how many days it might be before the coast was clear enough to enter her childhood home.

“I don’t know if I’ll make it over today. I’ll try and I’ll let you know.” A heavy sigh released from his chest as he lowered his hand from the car and opened the door for her.

She tossed her purse on the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel.

Holding the door, Travis gave a grim smile. “Thank you, Rachel.” This bad day was just getting worse. Not only had Rachel’s beliefs been ripped out from under her, she was now on her way to the one place she avoided like sour milk.

Visits to her mother were never fun-filled events. Long ago, Hattie Foster had forgotten she’d had more than one child, and every time Rachel confronted the woman, she had to convince her that she wasn’t her dead daughter returning from the grave.

It was actually for the better. Hattie was a woman Rachel was happy to forget, and the fact that her mother was barely conscious of her existence made it easy to stay away. Whenever she felt that tug of obligation that coaxed her to stop by, the confused look in Hattie’s eyes reminded her there was really no reason to return. Instead of seeking comfort in the daughter she still had, Rachel’s visits would just set off delusions that Carrie had never died, and her ensuing attempts to remind the woman who she was just left both of them in a worse state than they’d been before she’d arrived.

But Travis Gage had stirred a pot of doubts Rachel couldn’t ignore, and she knew she’d be tormented by the words in that diary if she didn’t go back and see for herself.

It had been years since she’d looked through the pages. Many of the passages were forever burned in her mind. But, she had to admit, Travis’s claims of a break-up had left her wondering if there was anything she’d overlooked, and despite the dread she felt at returning, she had to get hold of the diary and see for herself.

Slowly, she turned the corner, relieved to see the driveway was vacant. At least, if her mother was there, she would be alone.

She pulled up to the curb, got out of the car and proceeded to the door, shaking her head in dismay when she found it unlocked. It was just like her mother to leave the latch unturned. Heaven forbid she’d need to leave her bed to allow passage to the brothel she called her home.

She reluctantly pushed open the door and stood for a moment, wondering what she might find when she walked inside. The house was deathly quiet. Was her mother gone, passed out, or had she already taken her last breath?

She stepped over the threshold and jumped at the sound of tinkling glass. Looking down, she saw she had accidentally knocked over an empty bottle of bourbon that had been left by the door. The echo of the glass left a morbid tone against the dusty hardwood floor. She closed the door behind her, then crossed the room and headed for the stairs. She climbed them quietly, hoping that she could grab the diary and leave without notice.

At the top of the stairs, her mother’s bedroom door stood ajar, and Rachel peeked her head inside to see the woman splayed over the bed on her back. Rachel stood and stared, like she’d done so many times before, waiting for the rise of her mother’s chest to indicate she was still alive.

One of these days, Rachel knew she’d see no movement, and the last shred of her painful childhood could finally be put behind her. It was a shame that a daughter could actually feel relief at her mother’s passing, but Rachel had let go of any guilt for those feelings long ago. Too many therapists had concurred she had every right to want her mother gone, and after a while, she had finally believed them.

The slow rise of her mother’s silk nightgown told her today would not be the day, so she quietly backed from the doorway and tiptoed down the hall.

Carrie’s room was the only room in the house left perfectly intact. Aside from a layer of dust, not a photo or hairbrush was left out of place. It had become a shrine for Hattie Foster, the bed made perfectly, Carrie’s things set precisely where she’d left them. Hattie wouldn’t allow it any other way. She was certain some day Carrie would return and be angered if her belongings had been touched.

A swell of pain and rage clogged the passage to her throat. Carrie had been Rachel’s only saving grace, the only bright flower in a garden that had withered and died years ago. Until Carrie chopped off her own stem, leaving Rachel alone in the world.

How Carrie could be so selfish, so unconcerned with leaving her behind, she never understood, and standing in Carrie’s room, all the bitterness returned as if her death had occurred just yesterday.

The dust filled her nostrils, the room went stiflingly hot. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead as a cold shiver left her stomach nauseous with anger and resentment. It didn’t take two minutes in Carrie’s room to leave Rachel’s lunch hovering dangerously close to her throat.

Unable to take it, she dashed to the bed, lifted up the mattress, and began fumbling for the diary. She felt the cold metal of the gold latch that enclosed the leather-bound book, grasped it in her hand then turned to rush from the room.

No longer caring about making a sound, she rounded to the top of the stairs and made her way down.

She needed to get out, into the cool afternoon air, to quell the sickness that rose in her throat.

Dashing down the stairs, she heard a murmur from her mother’s room and her need to flee heightened.

Soon she would hear her mother calling to the dead sister who never had to hear that voice again, and Rachel wasn’t going to stick around to listen herself.

She crossed the living room and bolted through the open door, slamming it behind her.

Slamming her past behind her.

As she stood on the lawn, gasping and swallowing to keep the sickness at bay, she promised herself she would never return to this house again.

BF called. It’s all set. After graduation, he’s taking R and me away from here. I can’t wait. I’ve so
wanted to tell R about it, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise. I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her to
pack.

“Rachel, this isn’t me.” Travis’s voice was somber.

“I…I always thought it was,” she murmured. “But…” She flipped the pages of the diary. “Here she says, ‘My bf T is taking me to the show tonight’. But in most other passages, she just referred to you as T.

She never mentions T again after prom night.”

“There’s nothing in here about our break-up. I had hoped she would have said something about it, something explaining why she didn’t want to see me anymore.” He sat next to Rachel on the sofa, skimming through the pages.

“She mentions the prom and that’s it,” he continued. “Then she just starts talking about BF and phone calls. There isn’t even an entry for the day we broke up.” Rachel turned her gaze from the diary to the hard look in Travis’s eyes. She had read the diary over and over before phoning him to come over. She wanted to believe she was right. She wanted to blame Travis Gage for her sister’s death, but the more she studied the words, the more she realized that what he’d said could very well be true.

The thought left her empty inside.

The therapists had explained that no one but Carrie was responsible for her death. She was the one who swallowed those pills. She was the one who made the choice. But the anger Rachel had felt for her sister had become too much to bear. She’d needed another outlet for the pain, someone else to blame.

Travis had always been that someone.

Until today.

And now, without a culprit, the strength she had gained over the years dissolved in the pages of the diary. Someone had broken her sister beyond repair, and she had no idea who that person was, or why they had done it. The slightest morsel of closure she had been holding onto had just swung wide open, leaving her feeling angry and exposed.

She took the diary from his hands and rose from the couch. “I’m sorry I unfairly accused you. And I’m sorry you didn’t get the answers you wanted.”

She set the leather book on the counter then moved to the door. “I have things to do, if you don’t mind.”

It was a lie, but the clamp on her throat told her she was pressed to the edge of tears, and she really didn’t want to break down in front of Travis Gage. She’d already stood half-naked in front of the man then all but accused him of murdering her sister. Sobbing on his shoulder would prove to be too much humiliation for one day.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, showing no signs of leaving.

“There’s nothing I can do. The identity of BF died with my sister.” He crossed a leg over his knee, demonstrating that he was nowhere near rising and leaving for good.

Rachel fumbled near the door. She wanted him to leave her to her own self-pity, but she’d already tormented the man enough today. She wasn’t sure how to ask him to leave in a manner that bordered on polite.

“Not necessarily,” he remarked.

She studied him for a moment, trying to understand what he was suggesting. The apparent befuddled look on her face caused him to continue.

“Rachel, I’m a homicide investigator. I work cold case files that are decades old. I’ve solved murders with less to go on than what’s written in that diary. It wouldn’t take much to find out who this BF is.”

“A homicide detective?” Wallowing in her own turmoil, she’d never thought to ask what he did for a living. Then something else occurred to her. “Last I heard, you’d taken over your father’s computer company after he died.”

She cringed as she awaited his reply. Hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the fact that she’d indeed kept some kind of tabs on him over the years.

“I still own Quintac, yes, but it’s run by very competent managers.”

“Isn’t it a multi-million-dollar corporation? I’d think you’d be more focused on keeping it that way instead of working as a detective.”

He shrugged. “The money the company brings in helped me form the cold case unit in the Chicago PD. That’s what I’d rather focus on.”

She felt compelled to ask him why cold cases seemed so important to him, but she bit back the question. Knowing Travis, he wouldn’t tell her anyway, and besides, just hearing about his specialty had lightened her chest with hope.

In all honesty, she really did want answers. She knew she would never rest until she knew what happened to her sister. And she doubted she’d be able to unravel the mystery without the help of someone like Travis. But, before she allowed herself to smile, suspicion set in. Though Travis seemed sincere, she’d had plenty of experience with men, thanks to her mother. Men never did anything without wanting something in return, and she knew exactly what that something was.

“Why would you want to help me?”

As if he could see the trepidation in her eyes, he straightened on the couch, turning his posture from relaxed to strictly professional.

“I’d be curious for some answers myself, but it’s not just that.” He rose from the couch and approached the door, being careful not to step inside her space. “I’ve always regretted not being there for you after Carrie died.”

He took her hand, and she felt the sharp contrast in the warmth of his touch against the ice of her fingers. Apparently feeling it himself, he cupped her hand between his and began rubbing in some warmth.

“Let me do this for you and Carrie.”

Rachel wanted to say no. She wanted to believe Travis was no different then all the men who’d walked through the revolving door of her childhood home. She wanted to believe he was just after her body, that he would just steal her heart and crush it like all the others. But she couldn’t shake the genuine sincerity of his gaze.

He had been a friend, after all. It was long ago, buried under years of hurt and betrayal. But he had been a friend, nonetheless. A friend she had been quick to accuse, and in a fit of regret for all the years she’d hated him, she heard herself say, “Okay.”

Chapter Three

“Any developments on the Harris case?” Travis asked, poking his head into Matt Grafton’s office.

His partner’s blond head was bent over a file folder, and when Matt looked up with a satisfied grin on his face, Travis knew they’d gotten the news they’d hoped for.

“DNA results just came in,” Matt replied, holding out the file for Travis. “We got our man.” Travis stepped toward Matt’s desk and took the folder, opening it and skimming the lab report. Nicky Thomas’s DNA and the genetic blueprint from the hair strands found at the scene were one and the same.

The odds that Thomas wasn’t their guy were one in forty-eight trillion, and Travis liked those odds.