Novels 03 After Twilight, page 12
Her father was right. And this time she’d listen. “It’s what I want.”
Braedon leaned down and gently kissed her, his touch tender, as if he thought she might shatter. Which wasn’t far from the truth.
Without another word he turned to go, and she stood on the porch, eyes brimming with tears, watching him walk away.
Braedon refused to look back. He felt like someone had gutted him with a fishing knife. The pain was more than physical. It invaded his soul. Kacy touched him in a place he’d thought was dead. And her rejection hurt. Really hurt.
He yanked opened the car door and slid behind the wheel, his traitorous eyes demanding one last look. She was fumbling with her key, the dog pushing against her knees. He slammed a hand into the steering wheel.
Damn it, he was behaving like a love struck schoolboy. This was for the best. He didn’t need entanglements and certainly not with her. Even if she were innocent, and he suddenly knew with all certainty that she was, she’d still been married to the man who’d stolen his artwork and his reputation.
Guilt by association.
He ran a hand through his hair. Who was he kidding? He wanted her. Wanted to hold her, to touch her, to make love to her. And he was walking away?
With a grim smile, he opened the car door and stepped into the cool night. He wasn’t going to let her slip away. He turned toward the house, his mind made up.
A sharp scream split the night.
Kacy.
With heart pounding, he began to run.
Chapter 12
KACY PRESSED A hand to her mouth, swallowing another scream, her diaphragm slamming into the back of her rib cage, making it almost impossible to breathe.
The man lay on the stairs, his head twisted back, his eyes wide. He looked like something in a movie. She almost expected a voice to yell, ‘Cut,’ and the man to get up and walk away.
Mac circled the body, whining and sniffing, stopping every once in a while to look back at her.
She tried to move, to call for help, but her voice seemed to have only two working levels, scream and mute. There was blood on the stairs, dripping down the riser to the hallway floor, pooling a muddy crimson against the wood of the floorboards.
Hands landed on her waist, turning her. The mute button released and a scream rose in her throat. She drew in a breath, ready to face her assailant. Braedon. The scream died, its remains trailing out of her mouth like air from a balloon.
She threw herself into his arms, burying her head against his chest, gasping for air, trying to erase the image of the dead man seared in her mind.
Braedon held her tight for a moment, his hands rubbing soothing circles into her back. Then he pushed her away, moving in front of her, blocking her view of the stairs. “Stay here.”
A bubble of hysteria forced itself between her lips, sounding like a strangled giggle. She wasn’t moving an inch. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms, rocking back and forth, an excellent candidate for a rubber room.
Braedon knelt by the man’s body. There was no doubt in Kacy’s mind that he was dead. His head looked like someone had taken it off and put it back on crooked. A broken Barbie doll. Another burst of tortured laughter pushed past her clenched teeth. A Ken doll.
“Is he …” Her voice barely carried across the hall and she waited, not sure that he’d even heard her.
“Yeah.” Braedon stood up, careful not to disturb anything. “We need to call the Garda.”
Kacy nodded, but her feet refused to move. There was safety in this spot and she didn’t particularly want to leave it. Although the view left something to be desired.
“Do you have any idea who he is?” Braedon’s voice was close.
She snapped out of her corybantic reverie and looked up at him. “I don’t know. I can’t see his fa—” She stopped, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat.
Braedon slid an arm around her. “I’ll come with you, but you need to take a closer look.”
She steeled herself, willing her feet to move. She could do this. Braedon was here. She could do this. Her left foot moved forward, followed by her right. And way before she was ready, she reached the nightmare-inducing face.
A stranger. It was a stranger.
“I’ve never seen him.” She stared, mesmerized by the angle of his head and his stark, frozen features. Whoever he was, he had died a horrible death. “Was he … did he … I mean …”
“Looks like he fell. The Garda will be able to tell us more.”
“Right.” She drew in a shuddering breath and jerked her gaze away from the body.
Braedon’s arm tightened around her. “Let’s make that phone call.”
Braedon replaced the receiver, not surprised to see that his hand was shaking. Kacy clung to his other hand like a lifeline, her eyes still locked on the broken body on the stairs. “They’re on their way. I think you should wait outside.”
Kacy turned to meet his gaze. Her eyes were wide, her mouth set in a thin line. “No. This is my house. I won’t let him—” She jerked her head toward the stairs. “—ruin that.” She crossed her arms over her chest, eyes flashing.
He raised a hand to her face, impressed with her fortitude. She was so tiny. It looked as if a strong gust of wind would blow her away. Ye t she stood here, in the face of death, determined to preserve her home. A gutsy lady.
She relaxed, smiling weakly, and, for a moment, leaned into his touch. Then, with a quick breath, she squared her shoulders. “Well, best we get on with it.” She turned, heading for the door leading to the parlor.
“At least let me go first.” He took a step to pass her and collided with her back, feeling the rigid muscles of her shoulders against his chest. “Kacy?”
A little “oh” escaped her mouth, alarming him more than her scream had. She leaned back against him, all attempt at bravado vanishing. He circled her waist with his arm, his eyes scanning the room for the source of her pain.
The room had obviously been searched, methodically, from the looks of it. Books were thrown on the cabinet and papers littered the floor. Cushions from the chairs and sofa were slit, their stuffing spilling out like grotesque aberrations, a room gone insane.
The curtains hung lopsidedly against the window, one end of the rod wedged against the windowsill. Lamps were overturned, magazines hung in tattered remnants off the coffee table. It was as if wild horses had thundered through the room in sheer panic.
Whoever the man on the stairs was, he had been looking for something, looking with no thought to covering his tracks.
Kacy shivered, the tremor running through her body and into his. For a moment it felt as if they were joined, as if her anguish were his.
Then she pulled away, taking a staggering step forward, her eyes locked on the far wall.
On the Monet.
Kacy’s Monet.
It had been slashed diagonally from corner to corner, leaving the canvas gaping, hanging. He reached her side, gathering her into his arms.
“Why?” she whispered, her eyes meeting his. “Why?”
He shook his head wordlessly. There was nothing he could say. With a groan, he pulled her close, surrounding her with his body, trying to shield her from the destruction around them, knowing the mutilated painting was etched in her brain. He frowned, rage and anger giving way to frustration.
He didn’t know how to help her. Didn’t know what to do.
So he held her, stroking her hair, whispering useless words of comfort, wondering if the wetness on his face could really be tears.
Kacy sat in the kitchen, a cup of tea in front of her. Policemen roamed the house, dusting, photographing, touching everything. She remembered reading somewhere that robbery victims often felt violated. She hadn’t understood. Not then. But now she knew it was an inadequate description. Her home had been desecrated. Again. Sanctuary had been broken. She felt more than violated. She felt defiled.
She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped the tepid tea. It tasted bitter. She lowered the cup, surprised that the liquid had grown cold. Everything was cold. She rubbed her arms with her hands, her nervous fingers kneading her icy flesh.
“Kacy?”
She raised her head. Frowning at the face in front of her. Fin. It was Fin.
“Angel, are you all right? I came as soon as I heard.”
She dug her nails into the palm of her hand, the sudden pain helping her clear her mind. “I’m fine,” she lied.
He covered her hand with his. “I’m so sorry.” He waved helplessly in the direction of the hallway and parlor.
“They’re just things, Fin.” She ran a weary hand through her hair. “Have they … have they …” She broke off, unable to bring herself to say it.
“Yes. They … ah … just carried him out.”
She nodded, chewing on the inside of her lip, turning the teacup in its saucer.
“Kacy?”
Braedon. Suddenly the room felt safer, his presence sending shivers of relief pulsing through her. “They’re almost finished.” He nodded at Fin and drew up a chair, one hand warmly covering her thigh. Tipping her chin up with a finger, he looked deep into her eyes.
She swallowed, tears welling at the tenderness she saw there. “I’m doing all right. As well as can be expected.” Fin held out a handkerchief and cleared his throat. She pulled her gaze away from Braedon’s and smiled at Fin. “Thanks. I can’t seem to stop blubbering.”
“’Tis expected under the circumstances.” He turned his attention to Braedon. “So they’re thinking it was a robbery?”
“Yeah.” Braedon blew out a breath, rubbing his temple.
“Did you tell the Garda about the other incidents?” Fin crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair.
Kacy nodded wearily. “They think the dead man may have been the one who drugged Mac.”
“So he tried before?”
“Yeah. I think maybe we interrupted him when I brought Kacy home last night.” Braedon leaned forward, elbow on the table, bracing his chin on his hand.
“And so he came back for a second go round. Makes sense.” Fin frowned. “And the car that ran you down?”
“They agree that it was probably just coincidence.” Kacy rubbed her arms, trying to dispel the icy numbness creeping through her.
“So what was the man after?” Fin asked.
“No telling, really. This place is full of priceless things.” Braedon waved a hand at the Waterford lined up on the Welsh dresser.
“I hardly think there’s much of a market for stolen crystal.” Fin looked around the kitchen.
Kacy offered him a weak smile. “There’s been a number of robberies in the area lately. Someone hopped up on drugs. The Garda seem to think the dead man is the culprit.”
“Well, if he was high on something, that would certainly explain all the destruction. Do they know who he is?”
“No,” Braedon answered. “And frankly, I don’t think it’s a priority to find out.”
Kacy watched the two of them, part of her listening, another part of her trying to bury itself somewhere deep inside her, somewhere safe. The police were just going to give up. Tell her there was nothing more they could do. Like before. They’d left her alone then. And the only thing she’d been able to do was run.
She choked back a sob. Evidently she hadn’t run far enough.
Fin frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“As far as the Garda are concerned, the matter ended here, tonight.” Braedon stroked her leg absently with his palm, the heat seeping into her, easing some of the icy agony that filled her.
“Because the man is dead?” Fin sounded dubious.
“That and the fact that his death was apparently an accident.”
“You mean the bugger really fell down the stairs?”
“It sure looks that way. They think he tripped. One of the risers was rotted.”
“But only a little.” She shook her head, surprised at her own reaction. The next thing, they’d be telling her she was liable for killing the man.
She buried her head in her hands. This was turning into something for the Geraldo Rivera Show. “I Killed My Burglar.” She was on the edge of losing control. She knew that, even recognized that it was probably shock, but she’d be damned if she knew what to do about it. Sister Margaretta hadn’t prepared her for this sort of thing.
“Kacy.” Braedon lifted a hand to her hair. “No one’s blaming you for this.” His voice was soft, but firm.
“I know. It’s just that it’s all so much to take in.” She smiled weakly, covering his hand with hers, and for a moment it was just the two of them in the room.
“Mr. Roche, sir?” The young officer stood in the doorway. “We’re finished here.”
“You’ll let us know as soon as you identify the body?” Braedon squeezed her hand reassuringly.
The man nodded. “That we will. And we may have some more questions for Miss Macgrath.”
Kacy lifted her head, meeting the man’s kindly gaze. “Is it all right if I clean up?”
He smiled, a comforting it’s-going-to-be-okay smile. “We’ve got all we need.’Tis your house again.” He smiled again and turned to go.
Kacy bit back a bitter laugh. Her house? She wondered if it would ever truly be her house again.
“Come now, Kacy, surely you don’t want to be cleaning the place tonight? We’ll get someone from the village to do it for you in the morning.” Fin’s heavy brows drew together in concern.
“Fin’s right.” Braedon moved his thumb in circles on her palm. “You need to rest.”
“You know you’re welcome at the pub. And if you don’t want to stay there, I know Irene Macnamara would be happy to give you a room for a day or so.”
“No.” The word hung in the room, and Kacy was ashamed at the tone of her voice. “It’s really nice of you, Fin, and I know you mean well, but I need to be here.”
Braedon searched her eyes. “Are you sure?”
She squared her shoulders and tilted her chin, determined to look strong. “Positive.”
“All right then, I’m staying, too.”
Relief surged through her. She wanted to be brave, but the thought of doing it alone terrified her. With him beside her, she was suddenly certain she could find a way to put this behind her.
She smiled at the two men. Her friend and her … what? What was Braedon to her? Certainly more than a friend, but not a lover. Yet. The word echoed through her brain. And she sucked in a breath, wondering when exactly he had come to mean so much to her.
“Looks pretty good.” Braedon stood in the restored tranquillity of Kacy’s bedroom. It was magazine perfect again, everything returned to its proper place.
“That leaves the attic.” She was moving on blind energy. He recognized the signs, but knew there was nothing he could do about it. Hopefully, she’d deal with it all in time. But for now, he figured she was coping in the only way she knew how. And Braedon was determined to help her.
“All right. Let me go first. I don’t trust those stairs.”
She nodded, shifting so that he could lead the way. The staircase was tucked into an opening the size of a small closet, the stairs themselves treacherously narrow and steep. No doubt its predecessor had been a rickety ladder.
The broken riser was covered with police tape, the exposed wood looking strangely harmless without the sprawled body to accentuate its danger. Braedon reached for Kacy’s hand as they cautiously stepped over it.
“It’s hard to believe that killed a man.” Kacy’s voice was soft but steady. She was gradually gaining control. He just hoped there wouldn’t be any more surprises.
He looked down at the splintered piece of wood. “I suppose one could argue that he got his just desserts.”
Kacy shuddered. “Nobody deserves to die like that.”
He wished his thoughts were as kind. Personally he wished the bastard had lived, if only long enough to get his hands on him.
They stepped into the attic and Braedon reached for the cord hanging from the lone lightbulb. The room was small, angled on both sides from the pitch of the roof. It was packed with boxes and various discarded paraphernalia, some of which Kacy must have inherited with the house.
The intruder hadn’t made much progress here. There were only a few boxes overturned, but their contents were strewn haphazardly around the room. Kacy sighed and bent down to pick up a file folder.
“It’s like he’s been inside me somehow.” She straightened the papers and stuck them into an empty box. “Like he knows—” She shivered. “—or knew, things about me that no one else knows. I know it’s silly, but it makes me feel dirty.”
“It’s normal to feel that way. The man invaded your privacy, and for most of us that’s the one part of our lives we truly feel in control of. But you have to remember, no matter what he saw, no matter what he touched—” He reached to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “—he didn’t really reach you, Kacy.”
She searched his gaze, looking for answers he knew he couldn’t give, but he found himself wishing that he could. “Come on, let’s get this mess cleaned up.” His words broke the spell and she sat on the floor, beginning to gather papers.
He joined her and they sorted in silence broken only by his questions as to where she wanted things. Kacy kept everything. There were Playbills from shows that had long ago ended their run, papers from college, even course notes. There were photographs and letters, books and mementos. A faded corsage. A menu from some Caribbean restaurant. All the personal things missing from the rooms below, here, haphazardly stored in boxes. Memories, forcibly contained, kept well out of reach. Why?
He picked up an envelope addressed to an M. Giles. Something flickered in the back of his brain. He held it out to her. “What’s this?”
She looked up from a newspaper clipping and frowned at the creamy envelope. “I don’t know.” Taking it from him, she held it close to her face, squinting at the address. “Wait, I remember. It was sent to our apartment in New York by mistake. After Alex—” She paused, the pain surfacing again. “—after he died, I meant to send it back, but things got a little—harried, and I guess I never did.” She lowered the envelope, memories clouding her beautiful face. “It was an awful time.”
