Fear Is Louder Than Words: Her stalker taught her fear. Her suspicions taught her terror.

by Linda S. Glaz

  She stuck her chest out and threw her head back. “That’s fine with me. What makes you think I’d want to remember even one minute I spent with you?”

  Oh, she would remember all right. “You are an employee here, and I expect complete loyalty. Not merely about our past, but where our work is concerned. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Tessa?”

  He reached up and touched her face, ran his thumb along her jaw. Rather than pull away, Tessa swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She tilted her head upward. Yes, he controlled her every move; such pathetic lack of character. He stepped back, leaving her waiting, wanting.

  When she opened her eyes and looked around, air hissed through her teeth. “You really are Satan himself.”

  Erik chuckled and clipped her on the end of the nose with the knuckle of his finger. “And you are amusing as usual, my dear little imp.”

  Her eyes pooled, but her chin continued to jut forward. “I’ll have your test results off the printer in five minutes, Doctor Reinholdt.”

  He laughed and went about his business, but he knew better than to ever trust her completely.

  CHAPTER 82

  MAGGIE WIPED HER EYES with the back of her hand, leaving dirt streaks on her fingers. She paused a minute. Where was she? Oh yes. She had brought the storage carton out of the attic to the library. There, she’d fallen asleep studying the reports and instead of her usual nightcap and sleeping pill, she’d taken nothing. Her path was clear and rational this morning.

  After a quick shower and a cup of very strong coffee, she plopped onto a stool at the kitchen island with phone in hand and called Benjamin Bernstein, her attorney. Bernstein had encouraged her to contact him with any information that might help in the upcoming divorce. She glared at the manila folder. If this didn’t do it, nothing would.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Reinholdt,” the receptionist explained. “He’s in court this morning. But can I help you or would you prefer I put you through to Mr. Bernstein’s voicemail? Wait a minute. I think I hear him now.”

  Maggie listened to the bleep as she was put on hold. Another bleep, this one louder. He answered, “Mrs. Reinholdt, my secretary said you have information you believe will be helpful in the divorce hearing?”

  Maggie smiled. He wasted no time getting to the point. Inclined to do the same, she said, “I was looking over old tax statements. I waded through box after box until I thought I might lose my mind.”

  “Your tax statements could be important, true,” he said. “But Mrs. Reinholdt, I doubt very much they’ll do a great deal to—”

  “No. Wait. I’m not talking about tax statements.” She slapped her head. Think, stupid.

  “I’m listening.”

  Clutching the edge of the desk, she steadied herself as she heard him ticking off reminders to his secretary one at a time. Without liquid courage, this wasn’t going to be easy. “I’m getting there. Allow me a minute.”

  “Mrs. Reinholdt, would you like me to call you back later? My plate’s pretty full at the moment,” he said.

  “No. No. I called because I found these papers.” Living a sober life took courage. Her thoughts swirled in her head like scrambled mumbo jumbo. “I think they might—”

  “Mrs. Reinholdt, I’m due back at court in a half hour. Could we discuss your tax statements this afternoon? You might be feeling a little better then, and I could call around four or five.”

  She couldn’t wait, but her thoughts jumbled together like beans in a bag. “No. I’m fine. If you’d just listen. This is important.” Just say it. “All right. I’ll be in your office at four o’clock. You be there.”

  CHAPTER 83

  KYLE JUGGLED HIS COFFEE cup, almost dumping it in his lap. He breathed a sigh. This was too good to be true. McGrath had exited the building and none of his teammates followed. Kyle would fix Miss Uppity by hurting the guy who’d recently become her shadow. That way, McGrath would be neatly out of the way.

  He had driven his beater around the building lots of times hoping for a glimpse before finally parking. After another sip of coffee, he set the cup on the dash and mulled over the possibilities. Maybe a little crack to the legs. That would stop the promising career and the meddling.

  If only Kyle could get Rochelle alone.

  He spied an old lady out of the corner of his eye dawdling next to the building. Great, another witness. His eyes narrowed as he focused on her. Maybe he should frighten her away. Before he decided on his plan of action, she stepped back from the frosty morning shadows with nothing but a thin sweater to protect her from the cold.

  In six strides, McGrath drew alongside her, stripping off his wool jacket. “Here. You look like you could use this.”

  As he reached out, she jerked back, tugging a scarf around her face. “S’cuse me?”

  “Thought you might want to warm up.” He set the coat gently on a fire hydrant, tucked a bill in the pocket, and walked away. “Take care.”

  Oh, please. Probably a coat he didn’t want anymore.

  Kyle could have puked in his cup.

  CHAPTER 84

  AFTER FINISHING THE REST of her errands, Rochelle had to press her way through reporters and gawkers at the entrance to Children’s Hospital. News was important, no argument there, but she longed to spend time with Ed and Cody without having to explain every move.

  “Come on, Rochelle.” A reporter named Mack McCleary shouted. “McGrath’s surgery’s a big deal. How about something for around the water cooler? You two engaged or not?”

  McCleary, an acquaintance from her past. She swallowed hard. He was supposed to be a friend. And he was forcing her into the middle of this media circus. In the last few weeks she had come to appreciate those individuals who didn’t trust the newsmakers. She’d become one.

  She and McCleary had attended Haines School of Broadcast Art, only he’d gone on to investigative reporting, and she’d used her debating skills as a radio talk show host. She appreciated he had to dig up stories for the sensational leg of the news. But she didn’t like being the nightly sound byte.

  “You have your facts all wrong, Mack.” She shook her head. Maybe he’d get the idea.

  He pulled a toothy grin in the middle of his scruffy face and winked with a nod. “What about that sparkler on your finger? Valentine’s gift?”

  She stared at the antique diamond. “It’s a beauty, at least, that’s what my mom thought when my father gave it to her. Sorry, wrong hand. Wrong ring. Wrong again, Mack.” She winked back. “Just like in school, eh?” He’d forever fought to be number one but always followed in her shadow.

  Ed was all that mattered. If nothing ever came of the two of them, he still had to be okay. If that meant loving him from afar, loving him with no chance of a relationship, loving him in spirit only, then so be it. She hurried to the elevator to avoid any more hounding.

  They’d harangued her and Ed since his decision to have the surgery. What made them think a news story would stop him from doing what he knew to be the right thing? Stanley Cup or not, Ed’s family came first. She smiled.

  A man held the door open for her, and she hustled through without looking up. She clutched her purse, punched the floor button, and murmured a hurried, “Thank you.”

  He bowed low with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Anything for you.”

  That voice!

  CHAPTER 85

  RIGHT AFTER LUNCH, THE door to Ed’s room opened slowly. A little boy clunked along on a walking cast far too big for the tiny leg. The boy’s hand barely circled a huge hockey puck and the other, a white marker. His face radiated the same hope Ed had witnessed on thousands of kids’ faces after hundreds of games.

  “Mr. McGraf? Will you sign my puck?” The toothy smile again. Cute kid.

  “Are you supposed to be in here, young fella?”

  “I thinks it’s okay.”

  Ed untangled the IV lines and reached out. “Here. Let me see that puck.” He wished he could do more than merely sign an autograph. “Wh
at did you do to your leg, buddy?” His fingers ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “We had birfday cake and pizza for my fif birfday last week and a car hit us and hurt us, and then a amb’lance came and then we got to ride in it and ’nen the sirens went ‘Weo, weo, weo’ and we all got to—”

  “Whoa, slow down. Take your time.” Ed’s throat tightened. What a way to spend your birthday. He couldn’t let the boy see sympathy. The kid no doubt got plenty of that from every direction. A smile of encouragement followed as he clipped the boy’s chin. “Sounds like you had a pretty exciting birthday, didn’t you?” He signed the puck while listening to the recap two more times, and he grinned at the boy’s animation in spite of his pain. This was a trouper. He reached for an apple from the fruit basket which had been delivered; he couldn’t eat any of it until after surgery. The boy might like some.

  “Thank you, Mr. McGraf. I love hockey and so does Dad. He, well, he gots hurt in the accident wif me, but Mom told me he gots hurt a who’ bunch more. I just broke my leg, see?” He hoisted his leg in the air. “But I was brave and it didn’t hurt. Not too much. Mom says I cried when it happened, but I don’t remember that, so I don’t think so.”

  His little head shook so hard from side to side Ed feared he’d scramble his brains.

  In spite of the boy’s insistence otherwise, his strained features gave Ed a true account of what the family must have gone through. He wasn’t fooled by the five-year-old bravado. The kid still smarted from the experience. “Could I sign your cast as well as the puck?”

  With eyes bigger than saucers and lips moving rapidly, he said, “Suurre! Awesome, dude!” He noticed Rochelle at last. “Who’s she?”

  “She’s a friend.”

  “Ooohh. She’s a girl and she’s a friend. She’s a girlfriend.” He giggled and made a face.

  Ed lifted him carefully to the edge of the bed and propped his leg on a pillow. Then he searched for a good spot to sign. He turned to Rochelle and in a low voice asked, “Do you think you could go ask the aide, who I see peeking around my door, to help you locate his mom and find out what happened to his dad? Please.”

  “Of course.” She slipped quietly from the room.

  Taking a black marker from the dry erase board above his head, Ed stretched over the leg so he could maneuver the cast easier without causing the boy any more discomfort. “Now, young man. What is your name?”

  “Bradley Christopher Steffans.” He saluted. “And I’m five years old. But just write Bunky, that’s my nickaname.”

  Ed laughed. “Your nickaname?”

  “Uh-huh.” His nose crinkled up, and he watched with interest as Ed signed.

  One autograph he’d make count. “Well Bunky, how about from your best friend, Ed?”

  “Gosh!”

  “And if you come back after my surgery, I might be able to find a hockey stick that I used in the play-offs last year. Would you like that?”

  “Would I!”

  “I’ll have one of my buddies bring it in as soon as I’m out of surgery. Just for you, buddy.”

  “Wow!”

  CHAPTER 86

  AFTER EATING, GUZZLING COFFEE, and suffering another ice-cold shower, Maggie sobered for what she realized may have been the first time in five years. More than just the three sheets she handed Bernstein, her briefcase was full of paperwork.

  Within minutes of reviewing the papers Maggie had brought in, Mr. Bernstein dipped his head low and peered over reading glasses far too small for his round, baby face. “Mrs. Reinholdt, thank you for coming in. From what I can see, most of this information is about Dr. Reinholdt’s father, Reinhold Eriksen. How is it the names were changed?”

  “They came to the US shortly after Erik was born in nineteen fifty-seven. I’m honestly not sure where they were until then, but Erik told me his father had dabbled in high-end medicine. Pushing the envelope, I think is how he explained it. Said there were people who would not understand. So they called him Erik Reinholdt, changing the spelling slightly and reversing the names. I can’t imagine any intelligent person fell for the deception, but his parents apparently tried to put some distance between the father’s earlier work and Erik’s becoming a doctor.”

  Bernstein frowned but never took his eyes from the paperwork. “And you’re sure about where his father worked before? Can you give me details about what made his research so controversial?”

  “He was an obstetrician in Germany … Dachau.”

  CHAPTER 87

  MAGGIE TOOK IN THE pretentious house and sighed. Such an important obsession of Erik’s. The best city, the best neighborhood, the best house. And for Maggie, a small bungalow with a loving husband would have been sufficient.

  As it was, she lived alone in four-thousand square feet.

  Today had been long. A bit after seven, following the first shopping spree in years and a light Mexican supper which produced more heartburn than Maggie wanted at the moment, she slid her key into the lock at the front of the house.

  She stepped through the doorway and with a flick of the switch by the door, illuminated the entrance.

  Her hand clutched the front of her coat as she fought to catch her breath. Maggie staggered backwards. Fear and acid churned in her stomach. Stumbling onto the porch, she yanked her cell phone from her purse and called the police. A scout car would arrive shortly, but she ignored their other instructions.

  Foolish, yet she couldn’t stop. Instead of waiting outside, she opened the door wide. “The police are coming. Who’s there?”

  No sounds. She re-entered cautiously, turning on every light from the front entrance.

  Stumbling a few feet into the foyer, she stared. All of the doors, drawers, cupboards, and containers visible from the front had been scavenged. Her boots, hats, even her mink jacket were dumped on the floor. All of the boxes of personal items from the closet were strewn about. Gloves from bins dumped on the marble bench, her leather coat crumpled on the floor with footprints across the sleeve, and a scarf dangling from the chandelier chased away any lingering doubts.

  Erik had been here.

  On shaky legs, she moved through the hallway, her hand over her heart. On the floor was her beautiful new kid jacket, smeared with dirt. Her favorite hat—crushed.

  Did people really see red? She did. But instead of heading for the liquor cabinet to numb her feelings, she pulled back her fist and smashed the wedding portrait of her and Erik. The frame fell.

  With her boots still on, she lifted her heel and smashed it over the piece of Erik’s face that remained intact, a sliver of an eye the only reminder of his likeness. She huffed and sat on the bench. If only she could get rid of him as easily.

  After stripping off her boots, she replaced them with a pair of loafers. Kneeling carefully, she cleaned the broken glass from the floor and piled it on the edge of the bench. Cutting her knee or foot would simply make her more of a victim. No way.

  How dare he? She shut her eyes and shook her head. He was going to get exactly what he deserved. Exactly.

  This divorce would be sweet—sweet—sweet.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten. She headed for the kitchen. What was taking the police so long? This exclusive neighborhood normally had quick turnarounds after a call to 9-1-1.

  Sitting on the kitchen floor with a cup of hot, instant coffee in her hands, she soaked in the depth of his hatred. And hers. When an officer finally arrived, she turned toward the open door, leaned so he could see her, and motioned him in. “This way, please.”

  In time, the tall fellow went through the entire house, starting in the hallway where his head barely slipped under the frame.

  Less than half an hour passed. She had shown him everything that had been ransacked. The officer’s face betrayed very little, and she couldn’t tell where the conversation was heading.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “But as I said before, his fingerprints are expected to be in his house. So, we won’t consider any of his that we find. Whoever el
se could have been hunting for almost anything, but if that person was your husband, as you seem to believe, he had every right. Chances are someone broke in hoping for paintings, electronics, or other items of interest to pawn. Then any new prints we find will help.”

  “Never mind. Forget it. This has Erik written all over it. Look around. That was a mink coat thrown on the floor. Nothing was stolen. All Erik wanted to do was raid the house and frighten me. That’s his way, frightening people. And he could have been searching for his father’s records.” She chuckled because Erik wouldn’t find them.

  “Records of his own?”

  “His father’s, actually. But they’re records I need for the divorce.” If only she had a drink. But that wasn’t an option at this point.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have taken his property.”

  She had plenty to say on that topic. Instead, she walked to the fridge and removed two bottles of water. She twisted the cap and offered one to the officer. “Let me try again to explain.”

  He pulled out a chair, stretched his gangly legs under the kitchen table and smiled as he accepted the bottle. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  She slid into the seat across from him, careful not to kick the long legs, and finished the water and as much of the story as she intended to divulge. “Don’t you see what a monster he was?”

  “But the records belonged to his father and not to you, correct?”

  She pressed a fingernail to her lips and gnawed the edge. This wasn’t coming out at all as she had planned.

  Think! Think! Think, before you speak.

  “Yes, but I’ll need them for the divorce.”

  “Ma’am, have you filed for divorce yet?”