by Ana Barrons
In the midst of their grief over losing their oldest daughter, her parents discovered that Blair had broken up Catherine’s marriage by sleeping with her husband. More relentless digging by reporters had resulted in another shock. In the weeks following her discovery of Blair and Alan’s affair, Alan’s father became Catherine’s main source of support. She’d been too humiliated to confide in friends and didn’t want to cause any more strife in the family by telling her parents. Alan’s father encouraged her to pick up the pieces and go on and provided a soft shoulder when the pain became too great to bear alone. His wife, a depressed woman fifteen years his senior, was quietly threatened by the young, attractive woman whose hand her husband spent so much time holding. Catherine had no idea how much distress she was causing Agnes.
Until Agnes committed suicide.
It simply didn’t get more sordid than that.
Catherine slid down the door until she was sitting on the carpet with her arms wrapped around her knees. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “If only I’d known, I would have stayed away.” But she hadn’t, and that guilt would live with her for the rest of her life.
When she finally picked herself up and walked numbly into the bedroom she noticed the light blinking on the answering machine. She’d listen to the message tomorrow. At the moment she had barely enough energy to pull off her clothes and slip into a tank top and boxers. Yawning, she walked into the small attached bathroom, flipped on the light—
And stumbled back into the wall.
“Oh my God!” she cried.
Written on the bathroom mirror in bright red lipstick was a message: GO HOME, BITCH.
She froze. Someone had been in the apartment. Is he still here? Oh God oh God oh God.
The phone rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. What if it was another hang-up call? It rang again but she stood, paralyzed, her heart thumping wildly. On the third ring she tripped over the carpet getting to it and snatched it up.
“Who is this?” she said, her throat so dry she could only whisper.
“Catherine, are you okay?”
Joe! In that moment all was forgotten except the relief of hearing his voice. “No. someone was here—they wrote on the mirror.”
“What? Have you called the police?”
“No, I—”
“Good,” he said. “Listen to me. I’m going to get in my car right now and drive over there. What room are you in?”
“The bedroom. It’s— The message is in the bathroom.”
“Okay. Go into the bathroom and lock the door. And don’t move till I get there.”
She tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I won’t,” she said in a whispery voice she didn’t recognize. She carried the phone into the bathroom.
“I doubt that he’s still there,” Joe said, “but just in case, I want you to keep talking. He’s not going to do anything if he knows you’ve alerted someone. Keep talking to me, all right? Say, ‘I’ve told you everything, officer. I’m so glad you’re right downstairs.’ That kind of thing. When I get there I’ll knock on the door and you come out.”
She could hear traffic sounds through the phone. Joe was already in the car. “Who wants me gone so badly? Who would do this?”
“I wish I could tell you, babe. Is the bathroom door locked?”
“Yes. Oh God, Joe.”
“I know honey, I know.” A horn blared. “I’m already past Ward Circle—”
“I don’t know where that is,” she said, hating the hysteria in her tone. “Are you almost here?”
“Getting closer every second. Just hang on.”
They kept up the chatter for another ten minutes and then he was knocking on the door. She raced out of the bathroom and into the living room. When she opened the door and saw him standing there she found she couldn’t speak. Joe pulled her through the doorway and closed the door behind her.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, her gaze never leaving his face. His arms would feel so good around her right now. He would make her feel safe. Cared for. The way her used to make her feel when he called her on particularly bad nights during the months when they didn’t know whether Blair was dead or alive. But she’d thrown up a wall between them, and it would be too dangerous to climb over. Especially now, when she wanted him so badly.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” she asked, her voice tiny.
“Who knows you’re here? In Washington.”
He was so close that she could detect a hint of alcohol mingled with mint and wondered if he’d been out somewhere having a drink. With a date, maybe? That thought, and the sting of jealousy that followed, caught her off guard.
“Well,” she said, trying to get her thoughts in order. “You and Ned. And the Mitchells, and Betsy—”
“And the desk guy. And whoever sent you the note at Betsy’s house.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Who sent it?”
“I don’t know.”
An expression of alarm crossed Joe’s face but was instantly gone. “You didn’t mention that the last couple of times we talked. Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”
She told him about the invitation with the note written on the back that had been slipped under her door.
“What did the note you got at Betsy’s say?”
She cleared her throat. “It said, ‘Be careful, Catherine. He’s not what he appears to be.’”
Joe frowned. “And the message on the mirror?”
“Go home, bitch.”
He gazed into near space. “You stay here while I check out the apartment.”
A chill ran down her spine. “Do you think—”
“No, but just in case.”
“We should call the police, Joe.”
“If you hear shots, hit 911 and wait for the cavalry to arrive.” He smiled, and she mentally damned him for looking so handsome.
“And if he uses a silencer?” she asked, annoyed. “Or a knife?”
“I promise to hit the floor with a very loud thud. Then you can call 911.”
“I’m coming with you.” Her tone said, Don’t even think about arguing with me.
He stepped inside first, then grabbed her hand. His was big and warm and solid, and yeah, it would have been smart to pull away. That small bit of physical contact threatened to reconnect them in ways that were too painful for her to bear. But she held on.
He whistled when he saw the message on the bathroom mirror. “Your lipstick?”
“Probably Blair’s. Not mine, anyway.”
She scanned every surface in the bedroom carefully. Now that Joe was here she wasn’t paralyzed by fear. Everything looked as it had when she’d left for the evening, as far as she could tell. Joe watched her closely.
“Nothing seems to have been moved,” she said. “There aren’t any...wait a minute.” She crossed quickly to the dresser and pulled open a small drawer between the two longer top drawers. Dread pooled in her belly when she saw it was empty. “He took them. I can’t believe this. How did he know where to find them?”
Joe was beside her in an instant. “What did he take?”
“The invitation and the other note, from the party.” She straightened her arms against the dresser and hung her head between them. “He’s been through my things,” she whispered. She was afraid to check the underwear drawer or the closet.
“Throw some stuff into a bag and we’ll head to my house for the night,” Joe said, a hint of anger in his voice. “Tomorrow we’ll get some new locks installed and decide where to go from there.”
“Your house?” Bad idea. “No, that’s not necessary. We’ll just call the police, like we should have done in the first place, and then—”
“Who else knows you’re
here, Catherine?” He sounded very impatient all of a sudden. “Other than the people you met at Betsy’s. Who knows?”
“Why are you asking me this? I told you everybody I could—”
“Sadler knows you’re here. Is that who you want me to call? The man we both think is lying about the investigation? Or don’t you think your mysterious visitor has anything to do with your sister’s case?”
She went still. “You think the police are behind this?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Can you honestly rule them out?” She shook her head slowly. “That’s why I didn’t call the police. Satisfied?”
She took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know what to think or who to trust. Nothing about this adds up.”
He leaned back against the dresser so she was facing him. “Do you trust me?”
She shifted her gaze. “Let’s not go there, okay?”
“We have to go there. Because there’s no point in working together if we can’t trust each other.”
“Obviously I trusted you to help me out tonight. I don’t think you would deliberately put me in harm’s way.”
“On the other hand, you didn’t tell me about the invitation or the notes.”
She sighed. “I should have mentioned all that at lunch the other day. I don’t know why I didn’t. And then...” She shrugged. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“No, we didn’t. Which was why I kept trying to call you.”
She peered around the room again, sat on the bed and realized she was exhausted. She thought about spending the night there, alone, and felt a ripple of fear move all the way down her body. Not only did she not want to sleep there, she didn’t want to be in the apartment for another minute. She stood, rubbing her arms against her fear.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
He held his hand out to her, and once again she took it.
Chapter Fifteen
Joe discovered she was barefoot about fifty yards from where he had parked his Honda on Connecticut Avenue. She gasped loudly, yelled, “Shit!” and nearly fell. Luckily, he grabbed her before she hit the ground.
“I think I twisted my ankle,” she said hoarsely. “The sidewalk is really uneven.”
“This is not your lucky day, Miss Morrissey.” If that wasn’t a goddamn understatement. Who the hell had broken into Blair’s apartment?
He picked her up and carried her the rest of the way to the car. God, she weighed nothing. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, and he was loving the way she looked and felt in that thin little tank top and those boxers that hung off her hips.
He slid her onto the front seat and went around to the driver’s side. She nixed his emergency room idea almost as soon as the words left his mouth.
“So where were you while this guy was writing on your mirror?” he asked as they turned off Connecticut onto M Street.
She hesitated. “With a couple of your old college buddies.”
He hadn’t expected that answer. “Who?”
“Ned Campbell and Suzannah Mitchell,” she said blithely. “Oh, yeah, and the vice president.”
He frowned. How in hell had she ended up with that crew? And why the edge to her voice? “Powerful company. I suppose Ned invited you?”
“Suzannah specifically asked him to bring me.”
Suzy was definitely up to something. “Did she want to talk about your sister?”
“She offered to call the chief of police for me. And she said women can be incredibly stupid about men and sex. Oh, and she talked about how close you two are.”
He glanced at her. “In front of—” He stopped, realizing how that would sound. The look she shot him was cool.
“We were alone,” she said. “And don’t worry, I can keep a secret.”
What could he say to that? Don’t believe anything Suzannah says about me? That would make it sound like he had something to hide. He remembered how Suzannah had pumped him about Catherine the last time they met, which was the same night he had found Catherine in his bed. Was Suzy reckless enough to talk to another woman about their relationship because she was jealous?
“We’re old friends,” he said lamely.
“So I gather.” If it weren’t eighty degrees outside he would swear there were icicles hanging off her tongue.
When they arrived, he carried her into the house and sat her down at the kitchen table. “I’m home, Mrs. Z,” he called into the living room.
Mrs. Z walked slowly into the kitchen in her tent dress and yawned a hello at Catherine. Joe handed her a wad of bills and walked her through the backyard to her door. By the time he got back a couple of minutes later, Catherine had managed to wrap some ice cubes in a dishtowel, which she was now holding to her ankle.
He squatted beside her. “How about I give you a piggyback ride up the stairs?”
“Upstairs? I thought I’d be on the couch.”
He shook his head. “I’m putting you in my bed, and I’m not going to argue with you about it so save your breath.” At the expression on her face he said, “Alone.”
“Okay. But I’m not riding on your back.”
“Fine.” He arranged one of her arms over his shoulder and held her firmly around the waist as they hobbled up the stairs and into his bedroom. When they got to the bed he sat her down, his arm still around her waist. She was braless, and the feel of her breasts against his arm had been driving him crazy. There was an electric pause, when neither of them moved or spoke, and he could tell she felt the current sizzling between them. The bare skin of her midriff was smooth and hot beneath his hand.
“Thank you,” she said with a quick sideways glance. “For everything. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t called when you did.”
“I left you three messages earlier, but I guess you didn’t get around to those.”
A few seconds ticked by. He lifted his free hand, hesitated, then smoothed the hair off her cheek. He heard the catch in her breath, tucked the hair behind her ear and ran his palm down the side of her neck. Her face moved in the direction of his hand. Oh, she was ripe for kissing, he could see it in the slight parting of her lips, could hear it in her ragged breathing. His own lips still remembered what it had felt like to cover her mouth. Oh, Christ.
“Catherine,” he whispered.
She sucked in a breath, and he knew she was catching herself before she let it happen, because, damn it, she knew as well as he did, another few seconds and his tongue would be in her mouth and he’d be all over her and there would be no going back. With a tremendous effort of will he moved away from her and stood up. Neither of them spoke right away.
“Good night,” she said finally. “And, um, thanks.”
* * *
“Joe, wake up.”
Joe opened one eye and found his little brother kneeling beside him on the foldout couch. It was still dark outside, thank God. Not time to get up.
“What’s up, squirt?” he rasped. It had taken him hours to fall asleep, he had been so turned on by Catherine.
“Catherine’s in your bed again,” Mike whispered.
Joe yawned. “I’m aware of that.”
“Aren’t you going up there?”
Joe chuckled sleepily. “Believe me, Mike, if I thought she’d let me, I’d be up there in a flash.”
Mike rolled one of the pillows under his head and pulled the covers over him. “So how come she’s here?”
Joe closed his eyes and laid an arm over Mike’s shoulder. “She was scared so I invited her to sleep over.”
“Oh.” Mike’s little body shook when he yawned. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“No. Go to sleep.”
“Don’t you want her to be?”
Joe sighed. “Yeah, sure. Now shut your yap and let me sleep.”
“She’d be a pretty girlfriend.” Joe poked him. “Okay, okay! I’ll go to sleep.”
Within a few minutes Mike was sound asleep, but Joe lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what a pretty girlfriend Catherine would be.
* * *
At 4:12 a.m. Catherine stood in the small bathroom attached to Joe’s bedroom holding four Advil and finding no cup for water. Her ankle throbbed and she was nauseous, and there was no way in hell she was going to swallow the suckers dry. As bad as she was at swallowing pills, only a tall glass of water—drunk in an upright position—would do. Okay, so she’d go downstairs and get a cup. If she put her weight only on the heel of her hurt foot, she could more or less walk, which she did until she reached the stairs and felt ready to pass out. She sat at the top of the stairs with her head between her knees.
“Somebody shoot me,” she whispered. A minute passed and she decided to go down on her bottom, quietly so she wouldn’t wake up Joe, and deal with getting into the kitchen when she got there. Halfway down the stairs the foldout couch came into view and she saw Mike nestled beside Joe’s large frame. Her chest tightened. Why did he have to be such a nice guy after all? In some ways he was the Joe she had fantasized about before Blair’s body was found, the sweet, funny guy who took in strays and comforted lonely women who lived six hundred miles away.
She focused on the steps. He was that Joe, but he was also Joe the ruthless reporter. “The evil twin,” she said under her breath. When she reached the bottom she grabbed onto the banister and pulled herself up, then hopped as quietly as she could into the kitchen, where she barely caught herself on the kitchen counter. Dizzy and sweating, she leaned over the sink and took some deep breaths. When she opened her hand she saw that the Advil had begun to dissolve on her palm. She groaned. Large, warm hands were suddenly at her waist—she stiffened at first, and then gave in with a sigh.
“I should have thought to bring you some water,” he said, his voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“It’s throbbing. I tried not to wake you up, but I wanted to take some Advil and there was no cup.”
