A Merciful Secret Page 13

I had no choice. All my life my mother warned me, and now it had started.

  I will not let him harm Morrigan. She is my heart, my soul, my everything. My sole focus is to protect my daughter.

  The fact that she physically exists outside my body is one of the miracles of motherhood. How can she run and play in my sight when she is part of me? When I feel every heartbeat, every scraped knee, every moment of her joy?

  She is my daughter and I will protect her with my dying breath.

  As my mother did for her.

  I’ll never know why Morrigan didn’t wake as my mother was murdered. I suspect my mother muted the noises, both hers and the murderer’s, and then blurred his vision to the sight of my daughter sleeping in her bed.

  There is a hole in my heart from my mother’s absence, but I’ve shut down everything and refuse to dwell on her death. Later I will mourn and say good-bye in the way I was taught. But not now. My emotions are numb, my thoughts shocked into a protective vault. I can’t think about her murder if I am to function.

  Instead I remember our past.

  All my life we lived in the woods. I hated it.

  “One day you’ll understand,” my mother told me. “One day you’ll thank me for saving you.”

  “Saving me from what?” I’d cry. “You keep talking about this person who will ruin our lives, but you won’t tell me who it is! You make us live in fear of a ghost!”

  “Right now we are protected. In the future that might change, and we’ll need to hide.”

  “We are hiding! Everyone thinks you’re a witch and that I am your cursed spawn.”

  That is when I’d start to cry. I hated our life, I hated her, and I dreamed of her death.

  If she was dead, I’d be able to live as I pleased, see who I wanted, be normal.

  But it wasn’t that simple.

  When I was young, she taught me to read and write at home while I longed to sit in a classroom with other children. We shopped in the bigger, more crowded towns and stores, blending in with the crowds. I stared at the children who ran through the stores, laughter ringing in their voices. I wanted to be like them, play with them, talk to them. I grew up believing our seclusion was normal, but as I became a teenager, I demanded freedom and she relaxed some rules. She allowed me to get my driver’s license and enroll in high school.

  I went to school with enthusiasm, convinced my life would change. I would have friends and confidants and be normal. Instead high school was a foreign land. The students stared, pointed at my clothes, and snickered at my shoes. The girls hated me, but the boys wouldn’t stop looking. Their gazes were different from the girls’.

  I liked the stares from the boys. I was noticed.

  So I manipulated the attention, learned how to foster it, how to tease them, how to make them pant after me like dogs.

  Outside the woods my eyes were opened to how money ruled society. Money bought you beauty, big houses, and cars. Our family’s lack of money was a painful, glaring sun in my eyes.

  My mother always managed to get by. We had food, a solid roof, a dependable car, and what she believed were enough clothes. She ran a small business out of our home, taking advantage of society’s darkest desires.

  Her clients were satisfied, and they always came back for more.

  I watched through cracks from behind doors, ordered to keep out of sight. The female visitors spoke in high voices and laughed too often, their gazes darting to every corner of the room, rarely looking my mother in the eye. They joked that they didn’t believe in my mother’s arts, but in their eyes I saw their desperation. They wanted beauty, love, and eternal youth. They wanted to know their futures. Their greed compelled them to take risks and enter our strange house, speak to a so-called witch, and hand over their cash for my mother’s concoctions.

  I could smell and feel the air pressure change with their entrance, showing me their true intent. I thought everyone could smell emotions . . . It was like smelling a color. Blues smelled fresh and felt light. Reds spicy and heavy. Greens damp and mellow. People emoted colors and changes in the air; I read them. It was that simple. Later I learned this was my special gift.

  Some tried not to pay for my mother’s wares. Usually it was the men. Their discomfort showed in different ways, but men were just as easy to read. They were scornful and belittling, hating that they’d stooped to what they considered unnatural. But they had the same desperation in their eyes as the women. They wanted their cancer to go away, money to fall in their laps, and a woman to worship them.

  My mother knew how to make her clients believe in her. Image was the first step, she told me. She dressed in brightly colored long flowing dresses and grew her wavy hair to her waist. It didn’t gray until she was sixty, and then it happened rapidly. I swear in one month her hair changed from solid black to silver. She looked the part and spoke the part, her voice low and melodious, her words sometimes foreign. The buyers ate it up.

  I watched, learning body and facial language from the visitors. I knew how to spot fear, distrust, desperation, sorrow, and wariness without a word from their lips. Physical cues. The twitch of fingers. The set of the lips. The hesitation in a step. The picking at skin. Humans told their stories without speaking.

  Later I used these skills for my own benefit.

  I recognized Truman in the pizza parlor’s parking lot. I can’t place him, but I know we’ve . . . been involved. It must be long ago since the memory is fuzzy. There have been too many men over the years, and their faces blur together. I feel unclean when I meet their gazes in a store. The recognition flashes and they quickly look away, a flush creeping up their necks. Often there is a woman at their side. Her gaze is usually dismissive or locks on me with hatred.

  I’m sorry you married such a weak man.

  Truman didn’t look away. Compassion shone in his words and eyes. Perhaps he doesn’t remember me.

  I can’t stop staring at my daughter as she sleeps. For the moment we are safe. Her bed is warm, the room is secure, and we have food.

  But how long can we hide?

  He killed the judge. That was how I knew it was him.

  When Truman first told me of my mother’s death, I denied the possibility that her warnings had come true, telling myself it couldn’t be him. We knew her business had dangers. My mother risked her life every time she sold a spell or told someone’s future. We both knew that if someone physically attacked, we could be hurt or killed. She wouldn’t allow guns in the house for our protection. Another root of our fights.

  But when Truman said the judge’s name, I knew my mother’s fears had become truth, and my body physically rejected his words. Everything she’d warned me of was in motion. No one could protect me from him. He was too powerful, too connected.

  I had to run.

  SIXTEEN

  Truman couldn’t sit idly by. Curiosity about the two murders was driving him insane.

  Feeling like a spy, he’d looked up Rob Murray, the employee who had borrowed the Lexus, and decided to pay him a visit. After all, the car had been found in Truman’s jurisdiction . . . well, almost in his jurisdiction . . . and it was his responsibility to see that the man hadn’t been injured.

  Right?

  Rob Murray lived close to Bend. He definitely didn’t live in the Eagle’s Nest city limits, but Truman was a thoughtful cop. He liked to know everyone was okay. Maybe Rob would say a good citizen of Eagle’s Nest had helped him out when he abandoned the SUV, and Truman could go thank them. Community involvement should be recognized.

  I’m full of shit.

  Shoving away his guilt at sticking a finger in a case that wasn’t his, he knocked on the door of the apartment. Rob Murray lived on the second floor of a building that had seen better days. Truman dared not touch the outdoor iron stair railing, fearing its one remaining support would give way. On the second level he’d walked by apartment windows with curtains made from sagging floral sheets and one covered with a Seattle Seahawks beach towel. Rob hadn’t both
ered with window coverings. Through his small apartment window, Truman could see Rob’s chipped kitchen sink, piled with a half dozen milky bowls and plastic spoons. An open box of Lucky Charms sat to the right of the sink.

  Bachelor diet.

  The door opened, and a man dressed in splattered white painter’s clothing glared at him. “What?”

  His eyes were dark, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. He looked about thirty, and he had the pasty skin and the soft, round body of a man who lived on cold cereal and beer.

  “Rob Murray?”

  He squinted, and his suspicious gaze bounced from the business card Truman held out to the badge on his coat. He took the card and didn’t look at it. “Yeah?”

  “I’d like to ask you about the Lexus we found on Goose Hollow Road yesterday.”

  The suspicion cleared. “It’s not mine. I borrowed it, and the owner got it back already.”

  “Why was it just left there?”

  “Because it died. I don’t know what happened. It needed a tow.”

  “How come it sat there for a few days? Why didn’t you call for the tow right away?”

  Rob shuffled his feet and looked away. “I forgot,” he muttered.

  “You forgot about a vehicle? An expensive SUV you’d borrowed?” Bull.

  The man worked his cigarette for a moment and reluctantly moved his gaze back to Truman’s. “My buddy who picked me up wanted to party. It slipped my mind.”

  “How long was this party?”

  Rob winced. “A day or two. He had some great weed.” Defense squared his shoulders. “It’s legal here now. We can do that.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Truman tried a different approach. “Christian Lake told me you work for him.”

  “Yeah, I’m sort of a handyman for his place. It takes a lot of upkeep. Stuff’s always breaking.”

  “I’ve seen the house and can I imagine it takes a lot of work. It’s massive. I guess I assumed Brent Rollins took care of that sort of thing.”

  Rob gave a short laugh. “Rollins doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. I’ve always said my job is to do the stuff Rollins thinks he’s too good for.” Resentment simmered in his gaze, and he sucked hard on his cigarette.

  Truman prodded. “Not the best boss?”

  He blew a cloud of smoke to the side. “Rollins is the pain in the butt, but Lake is great. That’s why I asked Christian for the loaner when my truck wouldn’t start. I knew he’d help me out.”

  “Nice loaner.”

  More puffing on the cigarette. “Yeah, I expected him to offer the Ford truck. It’s a little beat up and used for hauling stuff on the property. I knew he kept every vehicle stocked with gas and emergency supplies in this type of weather. Surprised the crap out of me when he handed over the Lexus keys.”

  Truman gestured at the white clothing. “You doing some painting up there today?”

  “Nah, I’ve got another job today. Rollins called and told me to stay home for a few days. I have a painter friend I help out when they don’t need me.”

  “That makes it hard to count on a paycheck.”

  “Christian pays me a salary. Some weeks I have sixty hours of work to do; some weeks I have ten. It all balances out, and I get a regular paycheck in my account.”

  “What day did he loan you the Lexus?”

  Rob screwed up his face, thinking hard. “Three days ago . . . No, four. It was the day I repaired the greenhouse. The snowstorm cracked some panels. I finished up and my truck wouldn’t start.”

  Truman remembered how Rollins had to step into the garage to confirm the SUV was missing. “Is the greenhouse close to the main house?”

  “Nah, it’s back a ways through the woods. There’s an open area that gets good light.”

  “Your own truck was parked out of sight of the home?”

  “Yeah, until yesterday after Christian called me about the Lexus. The tow truck driver who returned the Lexus checked my battery and gave me a jump. I figured that’s what it was.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask Rollins for a jump that day?” With a six-car garage, surely there was a vehicle to use for a jump.

  He smirked. “And risk the engine of one of Christian’s precious vehicles? I knew what he’d say.”

  “You know, you’re lucky you have a job after leaving the boss’s precious vehicle on the side of the road for days.” Truman would have fired his irresponsible ass.

  Rob managed to look contrite. “Rollins chewed me out.”

  But didn’t fire him?

  “Christian didn’t say anything?”

  “No, he’s cool.”

  Cool enough not to care about a ninety-thousand-dollar Lexus?

  “Why were you on Goose Hollow Road? That isn’t on your way home from the Lake house.”

  “I was headed to my buddy’s house.”

  “Can you give me his name and address?”

  “Why? We didn’t do anything.” Rob’s scowl grew. “I don’t have to give you that. You know there’s privacy laws and shit, right?”

  I’m speaking to a lawyer.

  “Just asking,” Truman said as he gave his best troubled look. “There were some disturbances out on that road a few days ago,” he lied. “And I wondered if you or he saw anything. It’s part of the reason I came to you about the Lexus. I didn’t know if the car being abandoned was a result of one of them. You didn’t see anything suspicious on that road, did you?”

  Rob stroked his chin, his suspicion gone. “No. It’s a quiet road.” He rattled off his friend’s address and phone number, and Truman wrote them down.

  He thanked Rob for his help and excused himself, feeling like the world’s biggest con man. He reviewed the discussion in his mind, making certain he hadn’t asked anything that could affect the true investigation.

  Will the FBI question Rob too?

  They’d shown interest in the abandoned car, hoping to link it to Christian Lake’s whereabouts on the nights of the two murders. But clearly Rob Murray had been the driver.

  A dead end?

  Truman climbed in his SUV, wanting to call Mercy and wondering if they’d tracked down Salome Sabin yet.

  Not my case.

  It wasn’t her case either, but she was in it up to her neck.

  Ava’s charming phone call to ask Christian for permission to print the Hummer tires didn’t work, and Mercy wasn’t surprised when he told her to get a warrant. Back in the Bend offices, Ava asked Eddie to write up a request for the warrant and then started to review the next steps in the investigation.

  Mercy inched away from the duo, toward the office door. Jeff had more work for her. She couldn’t hover around Eddie and Ava, expecting to be informed about every little phone call on the murders of Olivia Sabin and Malcolm Lake.

  “I think we need to go back to Portland,” Ava abruptly stated.

  Mercy halted her slow escape. “You just got here.” If Ava and Eddie left, she’d be out of the loop.

  “I’ve seen the scene and talked to Christian Lake. The warrant will take a little time, and the tire treads need to be taken by a crime scene tech, not us. I don’t see what else there is for us to do right now. Any other evidence results can be emailed to me, and I don’t want to sit around waiting for it. What I want to do is meet with the judge’s assistant, check the video footage, and see if there is any truth to the mystery visitor. I also want to talk with the judge’s ex-wife again. Christian painted a different picture of Brenda Lake compared to what I picked up during my first interview with her.” She looked at Eddie. “You’ll go with me.”

  Eddie glanced at Mercy, and she spotted the sympathy in his eyes. He knew she was personally invested in the case and wanted to be close to the investigation. “Just for a few days,” he agreed.

  “Then you need to go today,” said Mercy reluctantly. “The next round of storms is supposed to start tonight, and the passes will get hammered with snow.”

  Ava checked the clock on the wall. “Good idea. Can yo
u be ready in a half hour?” she asked Eddie, who blanched.

  “Give me an hour.”

  “Seriously?” Ava asked. “Clothes, toothbrush, and toothpaste. What else do men pack?”

  Mercy coughed. She’d seen Eddie spend twenty minutes on his hair and iron three different shirts before he was satisfied with how he looked. Packing with urgency wasn’t something he knew how to do.

  “I need an hour,” he confirmed.

  “Fine. Meet back here. One hour.”

  Mercy told them both good-bye and called to see if Truman could meet her for lunch. She got in her vehicle and decided to get a big dessert to soothe her disappointment about being left behind as the investigation moved to Portland. She walked into her favorite farm-to-table café and spotted that damned reporter at a window table, sinking a fork into the exact gooey chocolate bread pudding she’d planned to order. Michael Brody spotted her and waved her over.

  Not who I want to talk to.

  But she went anyway and even sat down when he stood and gestured at an empty seat directly across from him.

  What am I doing?

  “You’re looking at me as if you suspect I stole your car.” He took an enormous bite of the dessert and her stomach growled.

  “Ava confirmed she knows you.”

  “I don’t lie. Not too much, anyway.” Another bite disappeared into his mouth.

  The waitress stopped at the table, her hands full of dishes. “The usual, Mercy?”

  “Please.”

  “Is Truman coming too?” she asked.

  “He’s trying to. Don’t put his order in yet.”

  She nodded and took her load into the kitchen.

  Michael raised a brow at her. “That confirms my impression that the food here is really good. My sandwich wasn’t a fluke.” He looked at his dessert. “And this makes me consider moving to Bend.”

  “When are you leaving?” Mercy asked. The reporter made her want to scratch her neck. She couldn’t relax around him.

  Amusement lit his green eyes. “Ready to get rid of me so soon?”

  Mercy said nothing.

  He took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I still need to interview Christian Lake. I’m doing a big article on his father’s legacy. I can’t do it justice without talking to the sons, but he’s not taking my phone calls.” He held her gaze.