Now You See Her (37 page)

“Bitch!” Margo shrieked, trying to wrench the knife free.

Sweeney saw the stair railing behind Margo and pushed harder, pushing, driving for the edge. The knife bit through the towel wrapped around her left arm, and the searing pain ignited a firestorm of rage. She heard herself screaming, over and over, and she pushed harder. A startled look crossed Margo's bloody face, just for a second; then the resistance of her body fell out from under Sweeney and she tumbled over the railing to land on the slate tiles below.

Panting, Sweeney dropped to her hands and knees next to the railing, heart hammering, and for a moment she thought she would faint. Blood streamed in rivulets down her left arm, soaking the towel. She would need stitches, she thought,
absurdly irritated by the thought. She had never had stitches before. It would probably hurt. Her lower lip trembled at the thought.

That small tremble made her realize she was close to hysteria. She took several deep breaths, trying to focus, though it was incredibly difficult to think. The deep breaths helped, and she sat on the floor. She couldn't bring herself to look over the railing; Margo had landed with a sickening, squashy sort of thud. Slate tiles weren't forgiving of bones and flesh.

Richard.
His name spread through her brain, the thought of him galvanizing her into action, pouring energy back into her legs. She scrambled to her feet and ran—stumbled, actually—into the bedroom to snatch up the receiver.

She fumbled with it, banging it against her cheekbone. “Damn it,” she mumbled, and even though she didn't have it pressed to her ear yet, she heard Richard's roar.

“Sweeney!”

“I'm okay,” she said hastily. “Well, almost. Margo fell over the stair railing. I haven't looked yet.”

“Don't,” he said, sounding strangled. “My God—” He broke off, and even over the sound of the siren coming through his cell phone, she heard his labored breathing. “We'll be there in about five minutes. Other patrol cars are on their way. Are you hurt?”

“A little. A couple of cuts on my arm, nothing serious.”
I don't think
. She hadn't looked at the cut on her triceps or the one on her forearm, where the knife had sliced through the towel. She didn't intend to unwrap that towel, either; she didn't want
to see the damage. She knew it hurt, and that was enough. “I'm going to hang up now, okay? I think I need to vomit.” She didn't wait for an answer, just hung up, and then put her head between her knees, taking deep breaths and fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

The sound was so low she wasn't certain she heard it. Her head came up, blood leaping through her veins as she prepared to fight again, but no one was there. She blinked, bewildered, then heard it again: a low moan, from downstairs.

Gingerly Sweeney crept out of the bedroom to the stairs and looked over the railing. Margo lay on her stomach, her left leg bent at an impossible angle under her torso, jagged edges of bone showing white through the torn flesh. Her arms . . . oh, God, she must have tried to brace herself. Margo moved feebly, trying to roll over, and another of those low moans echoed through the house.

Her legs trembling, Sweeney went down the stairs. No matter what, she couldn't leave Margo in that condition without trying to offer aid, though she had no idea what she could do for injuries so severe.

She knelt beside Margo, and to her shock the woman focused dazed eyes on her. “I fell,” Margo whispered.

“Don't talk. People are coming—”

“I want to . . . tell you. So someone knows.” She coughed, and blood dribbled from her mouth onto the floor. “Candra . . . Candra was blackmailing . . . Carson. I.. . I had to stop her. Kai had a ... key.. . to
her apartment. I . . . rented an apartment in the . . . building, and waited for her.” She winced and coughed again. “Couldn't . . . find the . . . tape, or pictures. I wore Carson's clothes ... so if anything surfaced, he . . . would be blamed. Her blood ... on his shoes. Then you . . . painting—”

Sweeney understood. “Kai saw the painting and told you.”

“He was . . . so beautiful,” Margo whispered, her gaze losing its focus and growing more distant. “I . . . loved him. Silly. Old enough ... to be his mother. Because of Carson . . . he's dead. Tell them . . . Tell them about Carson. Find . . . the pictures.” Her lips twitched in a ghastly, bitter smile. “Nail.. . his ass.”

“You can tell them yourself,” Sweeney said urgently, but Margo's eyes were already fixed, her expression fading, and her last breath sighed out of her lungs, never to be replaced.

A distant siren got louder and louder as it neared. Numbly Sweeney got to her feet and went to open the door as two patrol cars squealed to a stop in front of the house.

*   *   *

She was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs when Richard and Detectives Aquino and Ritenour burst in a few moments later. Richard's face was paper white, his skin drawn brutally tight across his cheekbones. His gaze went straight to her. He didn't even glance at Margo. With a rigidly controlled stride, he crossed to the stairs and, without a word, bent and lifted her into his arms, holding her to his chest.

“I'm taking her to a hospital,” he said hoarsely. His entire big body was trembling.

Aquino said, “The medics will be here in just a minute—”

Richard ignored him and carried Sweeney outside. She blinked like a mole at the bright sunshine. Evidently Edward had followed hard in the wake of the detectives' car, because the Mercedes was parked right behind it. He got into the backseat with Sweeney, holding her on his lap, and barked instructions at Edward.

Her voice shaking, Sweeney began telling him what Margo had said, just before she died. He stopped her with two fingers laid across her mouth. “I don't care,” he said fiercely. “Just—just shut up and let me hold you. God, I was so scared—” His voice broke and he buried his face in her hair.

He stayed with her the entire time her arm was being stitched. The cut in her forearm was the worst, requiring twenty-six stitches, but neither cut was deep enough to have damaged nerves or tendons. “Because of the towels,” she told him, her eyes wide and her lips trembling now that shock had set in. “If you hadn't told me about the towels—”

“I'll give you a prescription for pain medication,” the doctor said, easing off her stool. She smiled at Sweeney. “Go to your regular doctor in a week to get the stitches removed.” Then she went on to her next casualty, and Richard scooped Sweeney onto his lap again.

“I love you,” he said, his voice still shaken. “I was so afraid I was going to lose you. Will you marry me?”

That question rattled her almost as much as Margo's attack. “M-marry?” she stuttered.

“Marry.” He framed her face with his hands, searching her features with dark eyes stark and naked, letting her see every emotion. “I know you're wary; I understand that. But I would never try to get in the way of your painting; you're too talented for anyone to try to stifle. I've made some tentative plans to liquidate and get out of the market, buy a ranch somewhere, but if you—”

“Where?” she asked, interrupting.

“I haven't really looked yet; either the South or Southwest. As I was saying, if you prefer living in the city, I'll forget about the ranch and—”

“As long as it's somewhere warmer I don't care,” she interrupted again. “Though a palm tree or two would be nice.”

He went still, looking down at her. She looked back at him, then said, “Tick-tick-tick.”

“What's that?”

“That's my biological clock. I think it's about to alarm.”

His face changed, filling with such heat and passion for a moment she thought she might be ravished right there in the hospital. “Are you certain?” he asked, and he sounded shaken all over again.

“I'm terrified,” she admitted, her own voice shaking now that she had time to think about what she had just said. “I mean, I might be as lousy a mother as my mother was. But I want—” She swallowed. “I want you, and I want your children.”

He laughed softly. “Then, sweetie, we're all yours.”

E
PILOGUE

A Year Later

R
ichard looked up from the book he was reading. “What time of day were you born?” he asked curiously.

Surprised, she gave him a questioning glance. “What are you reading?” she asked suspiciously.

“Just answer the question.”

“I don't know exactly. I think I remember Mom saying I was born a little after sundown, whatever time sundown was. Why?”

He smiled and held up the book. She read the title:
Ghosts and Other Spirits.
“So?”

He looked down at the page and softly quoted, “
And there are those who are born on the twilight of certain days who shall be blessed with magic, and have the ability to see spirits.”

Brian Velenchenko

LINDA HOWARD
is an award-winning author whose
New York Times
bestsellers include
Open Season, All the Queen's Men, Mr. Perfect, Kill and Tell,
and
Son of the Morning.
She lives in Alabama with her husband and two golden retrievers.