Authors: Lisa Jackson

Whispers (35 page)

BOOK: Whispers

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Twenty-six

“So you didn't get any correspondence from Riley at all. No phone calls. Nothing?” Denver, seated in one of the cane-backed chairs that surrounded Miranda's small kitchen table, was settled low on his back, the heel of one boot hooked over the base of another chair. Throughout their conversation, he regarded her with eyes as sharp as an eagle's, eyes that missed nothing, eyes that made her want to squirm away. But she wouldn't. She'd faced murderers, rapists, wife beaters, and worked hard to put them behind bars. She'd been cool against big-league defense lawyers and even survived Ronnie Klug's knife attack. She'd even managed to lie and put that God-awful night sixteen years ago to rest. As intimidating as Styles was, he still couldn't get to her.

“I didn't hear from Hunter. No letters, no phone calls. Nothing.” Sunlight streamed through the bay windows, warming Miranda's back. The Metro section of this morning's copy of
The Oregonian
was lying open by a basket of fruit. Styles's beat-up jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of another chair and looked as if it belonged there.

Coffee, unwanted by either of them, cooled in ceramic mugs and scented the air. Styles's cell phone chirped. He ignored it.

“Didn't you think that was odd?”

“Yes, but . . . I assumed it was because of the charges that were going to be brought against him.”

“Statutory rape and grand theft auto?” he asked, obviously having done his homework.

“Yeah.”

“No charges were ever filed.”

“I know, but I thought it was because he left the country.”

“There are extradition proceedings, you know.”

Of course she knew. Now. But at the time she'd been much younger, less knowledgeable about the law, and hurt, wounded that Hunter had betrayed her and been involved with someone else. When he'd never contacted her it had been easier to close her eyes and turn her head, believe the worst. Besides, by that time, it didn't matter. Not really. The baby was already gone. And somehow she'd survived those dark, debilitating nights.

That old pain, the one she'd tried so desperately to lock away, stole past her defenses to grab hold of her heart and twist mightily, squeezing until she could barely breathe. Dear God in heaven how she'd wanted that child, needed that special part of Hunter he'd left with her.

“I was young,” she admitted, fiddling with her coffee mug. “And scared.”

“And pregnant.”

The word seemed to echo through the room like the reverberations of a chapel bell, resounding through her heart.

“Yes.” There was no reason to lie; he knew too much already. Dry-eyed, she stared him down and refused to let him see the pain that was still with her after all these years. “Not that it's anyone's business.”

A flicker of tenderness and understanding passed through his harsh eyes, but it quickly vanished, and she wondered if she'd imagined it. Styles wasn't the empathetic type. “Just doing my job.”

“Digging up the dirt on people. Great job.”

One dark brow quirked upward. “Not unlike yours, counselor.”

“I'm always looking for the truth.”

“So am I.” He took a swallow of tepid coffee and set the mug onto the table again. His voice softened when he asked, “So what happened to the baby?”

Closing her eyes, she said, “It's not something I want to discuss.” Oh God, the pain. Losing the child, losing a part of Hunter. And because . . . because . . . She felt as if she might be sick.

“I know.”

“You couldn't,” she whispered. “No one could.”

“All right, no more platitudes.” He looked so deeply into her eyes she was certain he could see past her pain, past her lies, to the truth. The seconds ticked by in silence and finally Miranda opened her eyes. What did it matter what he knew? “I lost it.”

“When?”

“The night that I lost control of the car and it ended up in Lake Arrowhead. I'm sure you've seen the hospital reports. There must've been some mention of a miscarriage.” Not many people had known. She'd been eighteen at the time, and so her parents were never told that she'd been pregnant and was suffering the loss of her baby. Miranda had been well enough versed in the law to know that she had rights and that patientâdoctor confidentiality wasn't to be compromised.

If her father had ever found out, he'd never mentioned it, and so the subject had been avoided. But somehow Denver Styles had come up with the information. How? She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill.

“How did you link up with Dad?” she asked, wondering about him. An interesting, but threatening man, one who had no past. If Petrillo couldn't find anything on him, no one could.

“He came looking for me.”

“And how did he find you?” she asked. “Somehow I don't think you're listed on the Internet.”

The ghost of a smile touched his lips and his gray eyes sparked for a heartbeat. “Through a mutual acquaintance.” He finished his coffee and reached for his jacket. “But we're not here to talk about me, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

He leaned closer to her. “You know, Miranda, you're a smart woman. Clever. But not quite as clever sixteen years ago. Personally, I think the story you've peddled to the sheriff's department about the night that Taggert was killed is bullshit. I think you and your sisters made some sort of pact that you'd be each other's alibis, and I think, whether you want to face the truth or not, the whole damned thing is going to blow up in your face. Now you could tell me the truth, and I could keep it between me, you, and your old man. Or else Kane Moran or your father's political enemies will grab hold of it and it'll be the biggest scandal that's ever hit good old Chinook, Oregon. Your job will be on the line. Tessa could end up needing more than a personal shrink, and Claire will think that little scandal with her husband in Colorado was just a teeny ripple in her life compared to the waterfall that's going to sweep over her when all this comes out.”

“You're wrong,” she insisted, anger surging through her, but his words scared her spitless. “And if you're finished, I don't think we have anything else to discuss.”

He scraped his chair back. “You'll change your mind.”

“Nothing to change it to.”

“We'll see.” He snagged his jacket from the back of the nearby chair, reached into the pocket, and dropped a business card for a motel in Chinook, the Tradewinds, onto the table. “Room twenty-five if you want to talk to me. My cell phone number isâ”

“Don't hold your breath.” She didn't bother picking up the white card. The less she knew of him, the better. For the first time in her life, she wasn't eager for the truth, didn't know how she could face it.

He slung his jacket over one shoulder, and touched her lightly on the back of the neck with his free hand. “Think about it, Miranda,” he said softly as her skin heated beneath his fingertips. “I'll show myself out.”

As she heard his footsteps retreat, her skin still was warm where he'd touched her. A second later the latch of the front door opened, then softly closed again. He was gone. She let out her breath and sighed. It was all falling apart. All the lies that she'd so carefully fabricated. Biting her lower lip, she dropped her forehead into her hands. “God help me,” she whispered because she knew the end was near. Come hell or high water, Denver Styles wouldn't rest until his job was done.

Tessa felt the breath of salty breeze against her face and wished she could find some peace of mind, the kind that was supposed to come when a person stared out at the vastness of the ocean, the serenity that people felt just walking on the sand, but as she ambled along the edge of the sea, feeling the frothy tide nibbling at her toes only to ebb away again, she only felt restless and distracted.

She should never have come back to Oregon, should have stayed away, but one of her shrinks, the bald one with the red beardâDoctor Terry, was his nameâhad told her she would have to face her demons someday. She'd have to return to this hellhole of a spot in Oregon and confront those who had used and abused her.

The sand was squishy under her feet, and here and there she spied round razor clam holes or the soft spoonlike impressions indicating a crab was just below the surface. Kelp and broken sand dollars, the shells of eviscerated crabs and clams and pieces of clear jellyfish littered the white sand of the beach that curved close to Stone Illahee, where Tessa was now living in a private suite. Complete with Jacuzzi, sauna, two king-size beds and a spectacular view of the ocean, the suite was hers for as long as she needed it. Dutch wanted her to be comfortable.

“Thanks a lot, Dad,” she said, picking up her pace to a slow jog. She'd come back to Oregon with a single purpose in mind and now as she splashed along the edge of the sand, she couldn't help but savor her own sweet revenge. She'd waited sixteen years, hoping that the need to get back at those who had wronged her would disappear with years of counseling. But she'd been wrong. As long as she was in California, away from her sisters and the memories of that one hellish, pain-riddled night, she'd been able to push all thoughts of vengeance aside, but now that she was back in Oregon, faced with all the torments of her youth, she could only think of one thing. She needed to get a little of hers back, and those who had hurt her would pay. Big-time.

From the attic over the garage where she and Samantha were refurbishing the studio, Claire heard the sound of a motorcycle engine. She poked her head out the window and her heart clutched.

Astride a huge black Harley-Davidson, Kane Moran wheeled down the drive. Reflective aviator glasses shaded his eyes, dusty jeans and his battle-scarred leather jacket covered his body. Old memories of riding with the wind racing through her hair, her arms wrapped around Kane's leather-draped torso, the smell of leather and smoke drifting to her nostrils assailed her. She thought of the days of longing for him and the nights wanting nothing more than to hold him close.

His hair was burnished by the sun's final rays this late afternoon, and she couldn't help but remember how much she'd loved him, how much she'd cared. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

“What? What is it?” Samantha demanded while standing on her tiptoes and peering over her mother's shoulder. “Oh, wow!” she said on the heels of a gasp.

Sean had been shooting hoops at the old backboard he'd mounted over the third bay of the garage, but at the sound and sight of the motorcycle, he'd stopped, tucked his basketball between his wrist and hip, and stared in awe as Kane slowed the bike to park not five feet from him.

“Is this yours?” Sean asked as Kane climbed off the bike.

“As of today.”

Unaware his mother was watching, Sean let out a long, low whistle of appreciation. “Holy shit.”

“Sean!” Claire said from the window.

“But Mom, look, a Harley!”

Harley.
This was all about him.

“Big deal,” Samantha muttered under her breath.

BOOK: Whispers

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