Tattooed (9 page)

And yet she couldn’t just leave.

She had only arrived.

“Are you happy, Kenzie?” her mother asked.

Kenzie tensed. She did not want to explore this territory now—at this late stage—with her mother. And yet, she could tell by the urgency in her mother’s eyes, that the question was of vital importance to her.

“Yes.” There was truth in that answer. She was as happy as she had ever thought she could be.

“That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

Kenzie exhaled. Really?
Really?
It hadn’t felt that way when she was a teenager. Yet her mother now watched her with such obvious concern and love in her eyes that Kenzie almost believed it.

“I’m leaving you half of everything.”

That brought Kenzie to her feet. “I don’t want it.” Foo lifted his head.

“Please.” The laughter bubbled in her mother’s throat.
Shit
. She was getting her mother upset. “It’s all I have left to give.”

Too little, too late.

Kenzie shook her head. She didn’t want this visit to end in an argument, but she didn’t want to give in, either. She didn’t need her mother’s money now.

She had needed it seventeen years ago.

And had been rebuffed.

Phyllis came into the room, carrying a cup of pills.

“It’s time for your meds, Frances,” she said. She turned to Kenzie. “It will take a bit of time. She has difficulty swallowing.”

“I should go,” Kenzie said. She stood, trying to hide her relief. “Come on, Foo.”

The pug sprang off Frances’ lap and trotted over to Kenzie. She clipped on his studded leash. “Good night, Mom.”

“Will you come back?”

The question hung in the air. Her mother’s eyes held hers.

Kenzie’s heart tightened.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll call.”

“I’ll be here,” her mother said. It was a feeble attempt at humor.

Kenzie knew she should kiss her mother’s cheek. She raised a hand—the one marked with “strength”—and left.

The other, she shoved in her pocket.

8

K
ate’s cell phone rang just as she launched—full
voce
—into the chorus of “What’s Love Got to Do With It.” She scrabbled for the volume dial on her kitchen radio, muting Tina Turner’s throaty call to arms, and snatched her cell phone from the counter.

She knew who it was. She hated the fact her heart was pounding—and he wasn’t even in the same country.

“Hello.” She gazed out the window overlooking her backyard. Large drops of water streaked the glass. She had made it home just in time. The rain had begun. The dogs lay on their mats on the floor, content.

She wished she were a dog.

“Hi, Kate.” Randall Barrett’s voice was warm.

“Hi.”

There was an awkward pause. Kate was used to it. Both of them trod the high wire of their relationship with caution. Kate supposed that was a good sign. Her relationship with Randall had taken so many twists and turns since she’d joined McGrath Woods: from rookie associate on probation versus antagonistic managing partner, to last-hope criminal defense lawyer representing desperate accused. The magnetic undercurrent in their relationship mirrored those twists and turns, vacillating from attraction to repulsion.

It changed last summer, when they joined forces in a small motorboat on a desperate mission to save Randall’s children from a killer. The undercurrent deepened to an elemental pull. And although they both were caught in its force, the timing was about as bad as it could get.

In the end, they both came up for air.

Separately.

In the first few weeks after the trauma, Kate had dropped by Randall’s home. She had brought Alaska, ostensibly to visit Randall’s daughter, Lucy, who loved dogs.

But even armed with a husky as an ice-breaker, her visits to Randall’s family had never gotten past, “How are you?” To his children, she was their dad’s lawyer, former colleague and “friend,” someone who had been with them during the very worst time of their lives, been privy to their secrets, their anguish, their pain—and yet didn’t know them. It was an uncomfortable place to be. And neither Randall nor Kate wanted to force an intimacy that wasn’t there. One that would most certainly be rejected.

That was the first barrier. The other was more difficult to scale, for it came from within.

Kate understood all the dark niches and secret hiding places of grief, guilt, loss, pain. She understood what had driven Randall to leave, to find peace.

But the part of Kate that wasn’t ready to abandon the emotional intimacy she had shared with Randall was…lonely.

And the part of Kate that had only gotten over the pain of her failed engagement with Ethan Drake a year ago urged her to move on. Her heart could only take so much.

“Did your meeting go well?” Randall asked.

She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Sort of.”

“Mrs. Sloane knows assisted suicide isn’t in the cards?” His voice was low.

“Yes. But she changed tacks.”

“In what way?”

Legal ethics dictated that she maintain her client’s confidentiality. But Kate needed some advice. And she figured that since Randall had been the referring lawyer, it wasn’t unethical to get his opinion. Junior lawyer to senior mentor, et cetera, et cetera.

“She wants to strike down the provision in the Criminal Code that makes assisted suicide a crime,” she said.

“She’s going to mount a challenge?”

“No. She doesn’t feel she will live long enough to appear in court.”

“So…” he said, his tone thoughtful, “she’s going to attack it from the legislative end.”

“Bingo.”

“I suppose it could work. It will keep the fight going even if she dies. Who is her member of Parliament?”

Kate exhaled. “Harry Owen.”

“Isn’t he the ‘tough on crime’ guy?”

Kate could picture Randall, brow furrowed, as he tried to puzzle out the implications of this situation.

“Yes, indeed, he is.”

“She’s going to need one hell of a public relations campaign.”

“I agree.” Kate hesitated. “That’s why I told her I wouldn’t be her lobbyist.”

He was obviously as surprised by Frances’ request as Kate had been. “Why did she want you to do that?”

“She said that since I had survived an attack by a serial killer, then I would understand her desire to dictate the terms of her own death… .”

“So she thinks you would be more personally invested in it?”

“I think so. She also said that my so-called fame would help her cause.”

Darkness had fallen. The window reflected her face against a background of dark, streaked glass.

“Well, you are quite a public-relations coup, Kate. Frances’ team could put a good spin on this. It would certainly help her case, at least in the court of public opinion.”

“I’m not a professional lobbyist, Randall. I don’t know the first thing about it. She’d be much better off with someone who knows how to work the system.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you, Kate.” Randall’s tone was thoughtful. “I think, given you are trying to sway Harry Owen’s tough-on-crime position, you are better off letting the voters do the talking. He’s pandering to fear. You have more credibility than he does. He talks the talk, but you walked the walk, Kate. You are the epitome of toughness. You can show that being ‘tough’ on vulnerable, dying people is inhumane.”

God. That kind of made sense.

“It was actually a very savvy suggestion by Frances,” he added.

“But that’s exactly the reason why I don’t want to do this.”

“Because you’re famous?”

“I’m not famous,” Kate said with a slight edge to her voice. “What I meant was I don’t want to dig up the past again. It’s taken me a long time to get over what happened to me. I’m finally moving forward.” She swallowed. “I can sleep again.”

She heard him exhale. “Sorry, Kate.” His voice was gentle. “That was presumptuous of me. You’ve been through a lot.”

She wanted to throw herself against him, to let him stroke the tension from her shoulders, to murmur that he was wrong to add more to her already burdened conscience.

But he had chosen to move over six hundred miles away and lick his wounds in private.

“Kate, I understand how you feel.” His voice became low. “I wish I was there with you. I should never have asked you to see Frances Sloane. I’m sorry. It’s just… I trust you. I knew you would do right by her.”

“How would you feel if you were asked to trade your notoriety to help her cause?” she asked, trying hard not to sound defensive—but failing.

There was a pause. “I would…” She could tell he was choosing his words carefully. He cleared his throat. “Kate, I’m different than you. I guess I would do it because it would make me feel that I hadn’t been made a victim in vain. That I could do something positive with it. That the person who hurt me and my family had not triumphed in the end.”

Kate’s fingers gripped the phone. Would the Body Butcher triumph in the end? Would she die from the same disease that had robbed him of reason?

“Oh, God.” Kate could hear the blood rushing in her ears. It pulsed through her veins, sustaining her body.

And yet, it could be infected.

She herself could die a terrible death.

The inverse of Frances’. One where her mind became a sponge, full of holes, little vacuums of dementia.

She would be helpless. Unable to reason. Unable to communicate her wishes.

Unable to ask someone to take her out of her misery.

Because she wouldn’t even be aware she was in it.

She had almost died alone last year. Just her and a serial killer.

If she died tomorrow, the only being whose life would truly be affected would be her dog, Alaska.

Would she be in the same situation as Frances? Asking someone to help her before it was too late—and no one would? Not even someone who could end up in the same situation? She pressed her hands to her temples. Her veins throbbed against her fingers.

“Oh, damn. I’ll do it.”

“I don’t think you will regret it, Kate. She needs your help.” Randall paused. “Do you realize,” he said, his tone pensive, “that if Frances succeeds and the law against assisted suicide is struck down, then we might have an argument to get Don Clarkson out of jail?”

Kate exhaled. “No…” She hadn’t even thought about Don Clarkson since her meeting with Frances. But, of course, the whole reason that Frances had come to see her was because of Randall’s involvement in the Don Clarkson case. His old friend had been rotting in jail for the past five years, serving a sentence for murder after he had tried to end a patient’s suffering. The law was, indeed, a slippery slope. And he had tumbled down it. “But that wasn’t assisted suicide.” It had been considered euthanasia.

“But if we could strike down assisted suicide, it might crack open the door for Don.”

She swallowed. “Good point.”

“I was only incarcerated for a few days, Kate. He’s been in there for five years. It sucks the soul out of you. You were the one who got me out of there. I will never forget how hopeless—and helpless—I felt.”

The weight in her chest had returned full force. “I will do my best, Randall. But I think it’s an uphill battle.”

“Perhaps. But it might spur other people to agitate.”

Kate sat down at the kitchen table. Alaska leaned against her leg. She stroked his head, his fur soothing under her hand. “You’re right. It isn’t just Frances’ fight.”
Or mine.
She felt lighter. “Thank you. You’ve given me some clarity.”

“I miss you.” His voice was low. She remembered last summer, after they had saved Lucy and Nick, how he had pressed her numb, wet body against his in the boat. His arm clasped her to his side as if he would never let go.

But he had.

And so had she.

So much for clarity.

The silence on the other end of the phone expanded. Randall waited for her reply. She wanted to say, “I miss you, too.” Hell, she wanted to say, “Fly home.” If she was really honest with herself, she wanted to add, “And spend the weekend at my place.”

But those words stuck in her throat. She had no idea where Randall’s head—or heart—was. He had chosen to move six hundred miles away and lick his wounds in private. Why the hell had he left her? She was hanging in limbo, getting older, watching her biological clock ramp up into overdrive. She cleared her throat. “How are things?”

“So-so. Nick is still sticking pretty close to his room, but he has had a good year at his new school.” His voice dropped. “Lucy is still suffering from a lot of nightmares.”

“I’m sorry.” She hesitated. “I had those too, after…I was attacked. They do lessen over time.”

“Sometimes I get so angry I have to punch the wall. You should see my knuckles.”

She bet the wall didn’t look so hot, either.

He cleared his throat. “Listen, Kate, the kids are still a long way from getting over Elise. I can’t…” He exhaled.

“I understand, Randall.” And she did.

Yes, indeed, she did.

The sprinkle of rain had paused. The clouds held their breath. “Look, I’ve got to run. I have some work to do. I don’t have the first clue about being a lobbyist.”