Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  She didn’t wait for him to ring the bell, but opened the door as he climbed the two steps to the deck that circled this house set on the cliffs, the same house she’d lived in all her life. “What are you doing here?” she asked and slipped onto the front porch so that her father wouldn’t hear the conversation.

  “I need to see your father.”

  “He’s resting,” she said quickly. “He’s an invalid. He goes to bed early.”

  “He’s been ducking me.”

  “Do you blame him?” Jesus, the guy wasn’t taking a hint and Paige was nervous. She glanced over her shoulder to the windows of the den where her father had been watching television. “You’re dredging up a lot of pain for him. I would think you would have the decency to let everything be.”

  “I just want the truth.”

  “So you can profit from it,” she said, raising a disdainful eyebrow. “Don’t try to elevate this from anything more than what it is, one person making money off another person’s tragedy.”

  “You think that’s what I’m doing?” One side of his mouth lifted into a sexy smile, the same kind of grin she remembered from her youth, before she’d lost twenty pounds, before the braces had come off, before she’d learned how to color her hair and have it layered into a flattering style, before she’d discovered the magic of makeup. It was the same knowing grin that Weston’s friends had bestowed upon her as they’d teased her so mercilessly.

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Me?” she asked, breaking out into a nervous sweat. “Nothing.”

  “Then let me see Neal. Hear what he has to say.”

  “No, not now, you’ll only upset him.”

  “Would he prefer to be served with a summons?” Kane asked, his smile disappearing, the glint in his eyes hard determination. “Because that’s my next step. I think I have enough evidence to prove that your brother was murdered and that it was done by someone who knew him. I’d think you, and your father, would want that information. I’m sure the police will. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, you know, and if you’ll recall, three men died that summer. Three young men. Harley was just one of them. I think they’re all connected and the most common thread is that they all worked for dear old dad. Now either I talk to him right here, right now, or I show the DA what I’ve found and Neal can talk to a homicide detective.”

  “He already has, dozens of times.” She sounded forceful, but her palms were damp and it was all she could do not to rub them down the front of her khakis.

  “Well, that was just a warm-up for the main event,” Kane said and, from the corner of her eye, she saw the blinds of the den move, fingertips pushing the slats down, old eyes behind glasses peering through. Oh, God, it was all unraveling.

  “Just go home and leave us alone.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. She and Moran turned toward the window. Her father drew the blinds open and waved them both inside. Paige’s heart dropped like a stone. She shook her head but Neal scowled and motioned more violently.

  “Looks like he wants to chat,” Kane observed and walked past her toward the door. She grabbed hold of his arm.

  “I don’t know what you found, but I think I should talk with you first.”

  “Something you want to get off your chest?”

  She licked her lips. Her head was pounding with the truth. Images of the night Harley had died. Brutal pictures. Dark memories. It had been so dark aside from the lights of the marina. The sailboat had been rocking on its moorings, its masts jutting upward, lights glowing from inside. In the distance Paige heard a party going on and some music drifting over the water. There were people on the deck of the sailboat, a tall man she recognized as Harley and a woman with blond hair and something in her hand. A weapon.

  Paige shivered now. Even though she’d been far away and it had been dark, Paige remembered how the woman had struck Harley from behind. Fiercely. Angrily. Hard enough that the sound, the sickening crush of bones had echoed over the water. Paige, standing in the shadows had gasped and dropped her gun, the gun she’d intended to use to scare Harley into wising up, into realizing that Kendall was the woman he loved, but now . . . now some blond—Kendall?—was in a rage, intent on bashing Harley’s face in. Paige had dropped her mother’s gun. It had slid across the deck and into the water with a loud plop. Paige didn’t wait to be discovered. She’d turned and run as fast as her legs could carry her to her bike, hidden between the parked cars. And then she pedaled away as fast as she could before Kendall saw her, before Kendall, sweet, beautiful Kendall had realized that Paige had witnessed her crime.

  You should have stayed. You should have called for help. You should have done something to save your brother’s life, even if it meant incriminating the only girl who had treated you with any grain of dignity, but instead you ran, refusing to let anyone see you, leaving the gun, leaving Harley to drown. There was a chance you could have saved him. He didn’t die from the blow, but because he drowned and you knew how to swim, had been on the swim team . . . Guilt tore through her and she realized that she was crying, tears drizzling down her cheeks as Kane Moran stared at her. It was over. All the lies were at last being uncovered.

  “Yeah,” she finally said, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. There was no reason to try and protect Kendall any longer. And some of Paige’s infatuation with her friend had worn thin over the years . . . how could Kendall have ever married Weston? Harley had been weak, but Weston . . . he was just plain cruel. “Maybe you’re right,” she admitted. “But there are some things I want to tell you without my father hearing.” She opened the door and led him into the den where her father was about to learn that his daughter-in-law, the mother of his grandchild, had killed his son.

  She walked him into the den where her father sat in his motorized wheelchair. He looked Kane up one side and down the other, then motioned Paige to the bar. “Get our guest something to drink.”

  “I’m fine,” Kane said, shaking his head.

  “Well, I’m not. I’ll have a scotch and soda”

  Paige hesitated. “But the doctor said—”

  “To hell with that old sawbones. Get me a drink. What more damage can it do? Put me in a damned wheelchair?” he demanded. Paige knew there was no talking to him. He was in one of his moods. Fine. Then she’d pour him a double—no, maybe a triple. He didn’t seem to mind as she handed him the glass and he took a long swallow. “Now why the hell are you here? For that damned book you’re writing.”

  “That’s the main reason.”

  “So tell me, who killed my son?”

  “I’m still working on that.” Kane glanced at Paige and she looked pointedly at the television where an old rerun of a comedy her father had enjoyed years ago was playing. “I thought you two could help me.”

  “Bah. I’ve already said what I had to say a long time ago. You think my story has changed?”

  “No, but I thought you might shed some light on who would want him killed.” Kane had a theory, one that he’d been working on. He knew that Tessa had hit Harley over the head, that she in essence had delivered the blow that had taken his life, but there were still some pieces to the puzzle that were missing. The gun in the water didn’t make sense. Harley drowned, the blow to his head hard, but not severe enough to have necessarily caused him to black out. So why hadn’t he tried to save himself?

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  Paige could barely breathe. This was getting too close.

  “He had women trouble. Worse than Weston did. Couldn’t choose between Claire Holland and Kendall Forsythe, who’s now Weston’s wife.” He snorted as if there were no choice involved. Kane visibly bristled, but Neal didn’t seem to notice. “Kendall came from a good family, loved that boy, she did, but he was all twisted up over the Holland girl, the middle one. She had him twisted around her finger so bad that Harley
thought he was going to marry her.” He snorted, then tossed back his drink. “If you ask me, she probably did it. Harley must’ve called off the engagement . . . and she freaked out.”

  All the muscles in Kane’s shoulders bunched. His smile had long ago disappeared. “I don’t think so. According to Claire, she broke off the engagement.”

  “Yeah, right.” He acted as if no one would be that stupid. “I always told the police she was the one. Harley didn’t just fall over the side of the boat and hit his head and drown.”

  “Not like Jack Songbird?” Kane threw out.

  “What’re you saying, that the same person killed them both?”

  “And Hunter Riley.”

  “For the love of Christ, you are writing fiction, aren’t you?”

  “All I want to know is who would most benefit from Harley’s death.”

  Paige swallowed hard as her father glared at Kane over the rim of his glass. “Well, that’s pretty simple to figure out, isn’t it? But believe me, Weston didn’t kill his brother.”

  Kane’s eyes narrowed and Paige saw a spark in his eyes. As if he’d been waiting for Neal to say just those words. “Why didn’t he?”

  “Because he was far away from there. Not even in town.”

  “You’re certain?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation and in that split second Paige knew her father was lying. Had been for sixteen years. Just as she had been. “I said he was with me, didn’t I?”

  “For most of the night. Some of the rest he was with Kendall, but there are still some holes.”

  Kendall? Had she and Weston lied to protect each other? That didn’t make any sense.

  “You’re fishin’, Moran. Without any bait.” The old man laughed as if he’d pulled one over on Moran, but Paige knew differently and she realized that tonight, she’d have to tell the truth. She’d borne the lies long enough. Been loyal to Kendall for all the wrong reasons. She’d tried to protect the only friend she’d thought she’d had and to what end? It was all unraveling anyway and Weston was losing it. It was only a matter of time before he would completely snap and then everyone, she herself and Kendall included would be in danger.

  “I don’t like it . . .” Claire rubbed her arms and stared into the damp, foggy night. Sean had been missing for four hours, not long enough to file a missing person’s report but enough hours had passed to move her from worried, past edgy, and into frantic. For the first time since he’d first brought it up, she wished she’d broken down and bought him a cell phone or a pager so that there was some way to communicate with him. Already she’d waited, then gone looking and now, like it or not, she reached for the telephone and dialed Kane on his cell.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Moran.”

  She sagged against the edge of the kitchen counter. Just the sound of his voice was steadying, yet made her want to cry. “It’s Claire.” Her voice caught.

  “You okay?”

  “No . . . not really. It’s Sean. He’s missing.”

  A swift intake of breath. “How long?”

  “Over four hours.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t know. We had an argument and . . . and . . .” Pull yourself together, Claire! “And he took off. I thought he’d go somewhere and cool off, you know, once he’d sorted things out, he’d be back. That’s the way it usually works.”

  But nothing’s been usual since you came back to Oregon. She glanced out the window, couldn’t see past the murky fog.

  “What was the argument about?”

  She hesitated. Gathered herself. “I told him the truth about you. That you’re his father.”

  “And I take it he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect.”

  She snorted. “Not thrilled at all.”

  “Where would he go?”

  “I don’t know. I waited a couple of hours and then drove around.” She bit her lip and moved her finger along the edge of the counter. “I went to a couple of places where kids hang out and then called three boys he’s mentioned since we moved here, but I couldn’t find him and if the boys know where he is, they’re not saying.”

  “It hasn’t been that long.” But there was something in his voice, something he wasn’t saying.

  “I know,” she said as she heard a beep stutter on the handset. “Another call is coming in. I’d better take it. It might be Sean.”

  “I’m on the road, only twenty minutes away. I’ll be right over. Stay put,” Kane said and hung up.

  Claire took the call that was waiting. “Hello?”

  “Claire?” Tessa’s voice sounded far away and frightened.

  “Where are you?”

  “Sean’s with me.”

  “You found him? Good. Bring him home.” She glanced at the clock. “We can still make the party if we push it—”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Why not?” Dread skittered through Claire’s heart. “Wait a minute. Let me talk to Sean.”

  “I can’t.” Was Tessa’s voice slurred?

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because it’s too late, Claire. It’s too late for us all.”

  “Wait a minute, Tessa. Where are you? Tell me where you are and I’ll come to you.”

  Click. The line went dead.

  Claire was left standing in the kitchen, staring out the window at the shifting shadows. Tessa had Sean, they were together. Tessa had killed Harley. Tessa sounded desperate on the phone—different. Dear God, what was she planning to do?

  Quickly she picked up the phone again and dialed Kane’s cell. One ring. Two. Three. “Come on, come on,” but his voice mail picked up and she hung up in frustration. He was on his way, hadn’t he said so? Give him time to get here. She needed to calm down, to think clearly. What could she do? Call Miranda. As an assistant DA she had enough connections in the police department to get the help they needed to find Tessa and Sean. Tessa’s Mustang wouldn’t be hard to spot.

  Claire punched in the numbers of Miranda’s cell and waited as the phone rang. God, wasn’t anyone answering tonight? One ring. Two. Three. Finally she heard her sister’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Miranda, it’s Claire. You have to help me. Tessa has Sean and—”

  “Hello? Hello?” Miranda’s voice crackled over the phone.

  “Miranda, it’s me! Tessa’s got—”

  “Claire is that you? I . . . breaking up . . . call back . . . minutes.”

  “Miranda! Please, you have to listen to me!” But the static on the phone got more intense and suddenly the phone went silent.

  “Damn it!” She started to dial Kane’s number again.

  “Mom?” She whirled, hadn’t expected to see her daughter standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Samantha’s face was pulled into a knot of worry as she stood wearing a yellow two piece dress that showed off part of her flat little abdomen. Her hair was piled onto her head and she was wearing too much eye makeup, lip gloss and something that made her skin shimmer. “Is something wrong?”

  Everything. “I’m just worried about Sean,” she said, trying to stay calm. No reason to panic Samantha.

  “He’ll be back.”

  Oh, God, I hope so.

  “He’s just being a prick—a jerk.”

  If only I could believe that.

  “You’re not dressed . . . Hey, is something wrong?”

  “I said I’m worried. I, um, might not be going to the party after all. Kane’s on his way over and we’re going to look for Sean.”

  Samantha’s face fell. “This means we’re not going to Grandpa’s party, right?”

  “We’ll go later. When we find your brother.”

  “That’s what he wants, you know. To mess things up.” She rolled her overly shadowed eyes and crossed her arms under her chest. Her dress rode up, exposing more of her stomach.

  “Why don’t you change into something more appropriate,” Claire suggested though her mind was screaming with fear for her son. Where
the devil was Kane. True it had been only a few minutes since she’d talked to him, but it felt like an eternity.

  “I like this.”

  “It’s fine. You look good in it, but you need something a bit more conservative.” She was marching her daughter upstairs and into her room. Once there she rifled through the closet, but anything she pulled out, Samantha vetoed.

  “You want me to look like a nerd.”

  “No, I want you to look like a geek,” Claire shot back, forcing a humor she didn’t feel. She didn’t have time for this kind of argument. She didn’t have time for anything other than finding her son. Where the hell were Tessa and Sean? Why was her sister pulling this stunt? And Kane, why the hell hadn’t he—She heard the sound of an engine roaring toward the house. “Look, Sam, I was just kidding. Why not wear this?” she asked, and pulled out a navy blue sheath with beading at the neck and hem.

  “Bor-ing. Aunt Tessa wouldn’t be caught dead in something like this.”

  “I wouldn’t call Aunt Tessa a fashion maven. Let’s not put what you’re wearing up to her . . . or even down to her standards.” She dropped the dress over the back of Samantha’s desk chair. “Just find something sedate and tasteful, okay? Kane’s here.”

  “And you’re really worried about Sean.”

  “Yeah,” Claire admitted, “I am.” She was already racing out of the room but caught her daughter rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath.

  “. . . always ruining everything . . .”

  “Stay put, I’ll be back,” Claire called as she hurried down the stairs. She’d reached the first floor and already grabbed her purse, cell, and keys when she heard a pounding on the door. Relieved she threw the door open, expecting Kane, ready to fall into his arms. “I’ve been trying to find you, Tessa called and—”

  Weston Taggert stood in the shadows of the porch. “And what?”

  Fear dark as death slithered down her spine. “Wait a minute. What are you doing here?” she asked, her lungs constricting as she saw desperation in the corners of his mouth. Her knees threatened to give way.

  “I think you’d better come with me,” he said, his expression grim.