by Gina Wilkins
“Do you know her well?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “Not really. It’s not like our families hang out. I’ve always gotten the impression that she’s a good-looking tomboy who got her uncle’s direct, plain-speaking personality. Hugo raised them, you know, after their mother committed suicide and their dad was killed a couple of months later.”
“Their mother committed suicide?” Tanya was stunned.
“Well, yeah. I thought you knew.”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I knew she had died and that Hugo raised them, but I never heard it was at her own hands. No one ever mentioned it.”
“I guess we don’t talk about the Murphys much in our household, do we? Except to mutter about how much we dislike them.”
“No.” And she had never really bothered to learn anything about the other family, having no particular interest in anyone in the world of racing except Kent and his clan. Everything she heard about the Murphy family just seemed to emphasize how much tragedy they had endured.
“I can see how Justin and Rachel would have cause to hate the Grossos if they’ve been raised to believe that someone in your family caused their father’s death shortly after they also lost their mother.”
“If they’d have bothered to get to know any of us, they’d have realized how unlikely that was.”
“You just said you didn’t get to know them, either,” Tanya pointed out.
“Well, yeah. But that’s different. No one in our family was accusing any of them of murder.”
“No. Just cheating and sabotage.”
“But those accusations were true.”
She didn’t bother to reply that Justin and Rachel probably thought the same about what they had been told. Still, if they did believe that the Grossos had killed their father and great-uncle, couldn’t their resentment lead to them wanting to retaliate somehow?
“Why blackmail?” she murmured, pursuing that thought aloud. “Justin doesn’t need the money. A hundred-thousand isn’t even that much, as far as blackmail goes. You just said yourself that drivers are very well-paid. Maybe Justin hasn’t won a championship, but he’s had enough success to not be hurting for money.”
“He lives good. And he likes to party. And Rachel isn’t a driver; she could probably find something to do with a hundred thou. But maybe it isn’t the money that’s the point. Maybe it’s just a way to make me suffer.”
It still didn’t feel quite right to Tanya. Granted, she hardly knew Justin and she couldn’t remember if she’d ever met his sister, but something just didn’t add up.
And yet, Justin had been spending time with Sophia. Was there an ulterior motive to that, too? She hated the thought that Justin could be using Sophia in such a way. “Are there any other Murphys?”
“Just Kim. Their cousin. Hugo’s stepdaughter, who he raised after his wife left him years ago. I don’t know much about her at all. She’s some sort of scientist, I think. A real brainy sort.”
“Someone else who would know her way around a computer.”
“I suppose.” But he didn’t look as though he really considered Kim a viable suspect. “Hell, it could be anybody.”
“Exactly. And the only way we’re going to know is to call in the police.”
Stubbornly, he shook his head. “No. Not yet. Not just before the race like this when the media is all over the place and everyone’s on edge. If we decide to call in the police, we’ll wait until tomorrow after the race, and then we’ll figure out a way to keep it as quiet as possible. I don’t want my mother to hear about this unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
She could understand that. This would be devastating to Patsy. Not to mention what it would do to Dean. Or Sophia. Or Milo and Juliana.
Her heart clenched with love for this family she had grown so close to during the past couple of years. Whatever happened between her and Kent ultimately, she was as committed as he was to protecting his family.
She looked at his anxiety-lined face. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not much,” he admitted.
“How did practice go?”
He shrugged. “Pretty well, actually. Concentrating completely on driving kept me from worrying about all of this.”
“Why don’t you get a couple of hours sleep before dinner? You need your rest for the race tomorrow.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting at five.”
“That still gives you about an hour and a half to sleep. Go on. I’ll make sure you’re up in time for your meeting.”
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he rose. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I will. Maybe I can think a little more clearly afterward.”
He turned toward the bedroom, then stopped and faced her again, his expression rueful. “I never even told you hello.”
“You were too busy suspecting me of snooping through your e-mails,” she said wryly.
“Yeah. I’m, uh, sorry about that.”
“Does that mean you believe that I was only going to look at the one you’d already shown me?”
A bit shamefaced, he nodded. “You had the chance to open the new one, and you didn’t. I know you aren’t the kind to pry, Tanya. I’m sorry if I sounded accusatory.”
“You have a lot on your mind,” she conceded, standing. “I can understand that you’re feeling tense.”
He chuckled a little and brushed her face with his knuckles. “Yeah. But there’s no excuse for taking it out on you. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.”
He leaned over to press a quick kiss to her lips.
She watched as he moved toward the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Though she would have liked to join him there, she knew neither of them would get any rest if she did.
She returned, instead, to the computer, now even more determined to look for clues as to who was tormenting Kent this way.
“OKAY, WHAT’S GOING ON with you and Kent?” Patsy had her hands on her hips as she faced Tanya down, determination in her eyes.
“I, um, don’t know what you mean,” Tanya said weakly. “We should probably go outside and watch the race, shouldn’t we? I mean, the green flag is going to fall any time now. Everyone will expect us to be out there, watching.”
But Patsy shook her head, not budging from Kent’s hauler lounge, to where she had practically dragged Tanya a few minutes earlier on the pretense of getting something cold to drink for watching the race. “I don’t care what everyone else expects. Besides, it’ll be hours before the race ends, and I couldn’t wait any longer to talk to you.”
Usually there were other people in and out of the lounge during the races. Just Tanya’s luck that it happened to be empty right now as everyone gathered outside for the opening festivities.
Patsy took a step closer. “You know I don’t like to pry. And I wouldn’t say anything if Kent hadn’t been acting so strangely this morning. He could hardly look me in the eyes. So what’s going on?”
They could hear the deafening noise of the cars circling the track behind the pace car, the roar of the crowds, the talking and banging of people now coming in and out of the open back of the hauler. And yet all of that distraction seemed to fade away as Patsy stared Tanya down, daring her not to answer.
“Patsy.” Tanya gestured helplessly with both hands. “I can’t really talk about it.”
“Are you breaking up? Is that it?”
“No, Kent and I aren’t breaking up.” At least, she didn’t think they were.
Things had been a bit stilted between them last night, but they had worked together trying to track the blackmail message—unsuccessfully, unfortunately. After he had returned to the motor home from his professional obligations last night, they had talked until very late, discussing options, trying to figure out who was doing this, and how the e-mails were being sent so anonymously and untraceably. They’d fallen asleep only after reluctantly agreeing that they were getting nowhere.
They had gone through the motions of Kent’s hi
gh-profile career this morning—the sponsor’s breakfast, the driver’s meeting, the worship service. Kent had smiled, posed, shaken hands, scrawled autographs, everything he always did the morning of a race. And he’d done it all so skillfully that Tanya had figured he’d fooled everyone about his state of mind.
They should have known he couldn’t deceive his mother.
And now he was out there on the track, doing the best he could to concentrate on his job when he was worried sick about Patsy, and Tanya was here, trying to decide what to say to keep Patsy from finding out that some psycho was threatening to accuse her of murder. Kent adamantly insisted that he didn’t for a minute believe his mother was capable of causing harm to anyone—and yet he’d had no explanation for that photograph that had looked so suspicious.
“I’m just worried about you both,” Patsy admitted. “Especially Kent. I’ve been so concerned about Sophia for the past week or so that I’ve only just realized that Kent hasn’t been acting quite like himself lately. This morning, especially. I can tell something’s very wrong.”
“He’s worried about Sophia, too,” Tanya said rather quickly, throwing Kent’s sister to the wolves without hesitation. “He hates that there’s gossip circulating about her.”
It almost worked. Patsy’s expression darkened and she started to launch into another diatribe about Sophia’s lack of common sense, but she stopped herself after only a few words to that effect.
“But we were talking about Kent,” she said stubbornly. “And don’t try to convince me that this is all about Sophia. As much as Kent dislikes Justin—as much as we all do—he isn’t fretting about whether she’s getting involved with him. For one thing, he knows his sister has more sense than that.”
“Listen, Patsy, if Kent has something he wants you to know, he’s going to have to tell you himself,” Tanya said just as firmly. “Don’t worry about him, okay? Let’s just watch the race and hope Kent and Dean do well.”
Patsy looked as though she wanted to argue. To insist that Tanya tell her whatever was going on. “You’re sure he’s okay?” she asked, instead.
Tanya rested a hand on Patsy’s arm. “He’s fine.”
He was just as worried about his mother as his mom was about him, Tanya added to herself. As sweet as their concern for each other was, it was very awkward for her to be in the middle this way, since Kent was so determined that his mother should not find out about those e-mails.
“Let’s just watch the race,” she said again, giving a little pat to the older woman’s arm before stepping away. “It sounds as if it’s getting exciting out there.”
After a moment, Patsy nodded. “All right. For heaven’s sake, we can’t let anything come before racing in this family,” she muttered, moving toward the doorway.
Tanya followed, silently shaking her head. If Patsy only knew that racing was probably the least important thing on Kent’s mind today….
HOPING HER ABSENCE wouldn’t be too noticeable, Tanya slipped away early during the race to make her way back to the motor home. She had at least three hours to make more attempts to trace those e-mails. It would probably be another futile effort, but she had to do something. She couldn’t concentrate on the race even long enough to cheer Kent on. She needed to see that so-called “evidence” against Patsy again.
It struck her as she wound her way through the chaos that the atmosphere surrounding her was almost manically festive. Almost a hundred-thousand fans screaming, laughing, booing, eating, drinking. Buying T-shirts, caps, banners, key rings, mugs, car decorations, jewelry and a thousand other officially licensed driver-loyalty items from the dozens of colorful and gaily decorated trailers parked in the midway. Vendors hawked concessions and souvenirs, a rainbow of banners and flags flapped everywhere one looked, the smells of food and sweat and beer and burning rubber permeated the air.
Was the blackmailer who had accused Patsy Grosso of murder even now mingling in the crowd, looking as innocent and carefree as any other fan there only to escape the drudgery of life for a few hours and enjoy an afternoon of racing revelry? Was he watching her move through the throng, grimly satisfied that he had caused so much distress? She shivered and moved a bit faster toward the motor home.
Sitting at Kent’s computer, she stared at the screen, scrutinizing every detail of the photo. Yes, Patsy looked grim in the photo, and she did seem to be driving with a purpose toward the tavern—but that didn’t mean she had been involved in Troy’s death.
Who had taken this photo? And why? And if it really proved that Patsy had been in the vicinity when Troy died, why hadn’t someone come forward a long time ago?
Unless, of course, the photographer hadn’t realized what he’d captured. Maybe the blackmailer had just come across this photograph. Or maybe it hadn’t been possible twenty-nine years ago to zoom in as clearly on Patsy’s face in the photo.
She could see where people who wanted to believe the worst could view this photo suspiciously. They’d probably speculate that Patsy had seen Troy heading down that dangerously winding road and had impulsively, if not premeditatedly, decided to take revenge on the man who had caused her family so much public humiliation.
But there had to be an explanation for this photograph. As fiercely protective as she could be about her family, Patsy was no murderer. Not even an impulsive one. And somehow or another, Tanya intended to help Kent prove it. Because she loved them both.
She leaned closer to the computer and started tapping on the keyboard.
KENT WON THE RACE.
It was almost as much of a surprise to him as it was to anyone who had made other predictions. He hadn’t thought of his personal problems once on the track. He had simply metaphorically put his head down and done his job, communicating tersely with his team, keeping his eyes open, his thoughts focused on nothing except getting out front and staying there.
He took the lead with fifty laps to go out of the 250-lap, three-and-a-half-hour race, and held onto it for most of the remainder of the contest. There were two cautions during those final fifty laps, both for accidents in the backfield—one that knocked his dad out of the race, courtesy of Justin Murphy—but the Maximus Motor Sports/Vittle Farms team performed flawlessly, getting Kent back out in front both times.
The only real challenge came on Lap 245. Will Branch bumped Rafael O’Bryan out of the way, almost putting him into the wall and causing another caution, but O’Bryan managed to hang onto his car, keeping the race under green.
“The Number 467 car’s coming up fast behind you,” Steve warned through the receiver in Kent’s ear. “Will wants the lead.”
“He isn’t going to get it,” Kent growled, realizing the gold-and-black Branch Investment Alliance car was closing in on his rear bumper.
“Stay cool,” Neil ordered, though there was an edge to his own voice that revealed his concern. “Don’t let him get around you.”
“Four laps to go,” Steve said. “Watch him, Kent, he’s going low in Turn Two.”
“Copy that.” Dragging left on his steering wheel, Kent took the turn as close to the apron as he could manage, then shot up to block Will from taking him high. He was going to make his Number 427 car as wide as possible, a metaphor for blocking both high and low.
Traffic was ahead, and he depended on Steve to guide him safely through. Two multiple-lapped drivers moved obligingly out of his way, thanks to quick deals Steve made with their spotters, but he had to battle another who didn’t want to give up the lead lap. That brief, but ultimately successful skirmish allowed Will to get closer, nosing almost side by side with Kent at one point until he had to make way in Turn Three or risk hitting the wall.
With two laps to go, while both Neil and Steve telling Kent to stay calm and relaxed, Will got over-anxious, putting on a burst of reckless speed that brought him door to door beside Kent—and then caused him to fishtail in the final turn. Kent shot forward, digging in and placing his car squarely in front of Will, who had no choice but to fall in line
behind him.
They crossed the finish line in that order. Only then did Neil and Steve let go of the rigid control they had both maintained through the end of the race and whoop loudly into their headsets, making Kent wince and grin all at the same time.
He just wished he could have been able to enjoy the moment wholeheartedly.
Oh, he celebrated. He gave his fans their money’s worth with exuberant, tire-smoking spins in the infield. He stood on the window frame of his car for a striking victory pose, then leaped lightly down to be high-fived and fist-bumped and man-hugged and shoulder-slapped. He endured sprays of shaken-up champagne and a sponsor’s soft drink. He gave happy interviews and posed for grinning victory photos.
Tanya showed up as if on cue for the happy significant other. They hugged and kissed as expected by the media, Tanya smiling broadly—and determinedly. But the memory of that threatening e-mail hovered like a vulture at the back of Kent’s mind the whole time, significantly dimming his pleasure in his accomplishment.
The one bright note of the race, itself, was that Justin Murphy had finished forty-first, he thought with a grim satisfaction. So who’s concentration had been off this week, hmm?
Putting her head close to his, Tanya murmured through her set smile, “Your mom’s asking questions about the way you’ve been acting today. You’d better keep that in mind when she comes to congratulate you on your win.”
He grimaced, then regretted doing so when a camera flashed. Who knew how that expression would be interpreted? Forcing a smile again, he kissed Tanya’s cheek. “Thanks for the warning,” he murmured.
“So, Kent,” a particularly annoying racing-gossip reporter inquired, her voice carrying shrilly over the surrounding noise, “when are you and Tanya going to tie the knot? All your fans want to know.”
Kent was professional enough that he didn’t let his annoyance show, even though Tanya knew he hated extremely personal questions like that. “I’m sure you can understand that Tanya and I value our privacy. Just suffice it to say that we treasure every day we can spend together.”
