He scraped his hair off his forehead with both hands and stared down at her in bafflement. "I don't get it, Hayley. Time and again, you have managed to forgive the unforgivable. Why are you being so implacable now?"
"Maybe I am sick to death of you Olivets turning my life into a goldfish bowl. I don’t want to live center-stage any more."
"How many times do I have to apologize for what I did more than a dozen years ago? And let me remind you, petunia, all those journalists came to town without Kurstin's help."
"Right. She only made it worth their while."
Jon-Michael saw the spark of temper flickering in her eyes and tried to be encouraged. Anger beat hell out of her god-awful lethargy. He wanted to haul her into his arms and hold her safe. Another part of him wanted to shake her for her refusal to cut his sister any slack. He did neither. Instead, he swore under his breath and took a large step back.
He tried to distance himself not only physically but emotionally. "Listen, I've gotta get out of here before I say something I regret."
"Fine," she said flatly. "Run away. You are good at—"
He was suddenly there, with hard hands on her shoulders, pushing her back and holding her chair in the far rocked-back position while thrusting his face close to hers. "Don't. Say it," he warned through gritted teeth. “I’m not the one in this relationship who keeps dancing away from the truth. You can't even get off anymore unless I tell you I love you, but I have yet to hear those words in return."
Seeing the rage, the fear, that flashed in her eyes, he inhaled a deep breath and slowly expelled it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Dammit, I didn’t want to let this degenerate into the two of us saying things we don't really mean." He let her go and straightened, watching the set of her pointed little chin as she stubbornly refused to curb the furious rocking, which his release of the chair set in motion. He walked away, but paused at the top of the stairs.
"Please," he urged quietly, looking across the room at her and hoping like hell that if she would not return his gaze she would at least hear him with more than just her flayed emotions. "Try to look past your pain at this. Don’t throw away a lifelong friendship because of one mistake. Be a better friend than that."
He was downstairs with the front door open when he stopped to stare at his office space. Ah, hell.
Slowly, reluctantly, he closed the door again and walked back to the space. He flipped through the old-fashioned rolodex he kept his little-used phone numbers in until he came to the one he sought. If I want her to do something painfully difficult, I guess I better pony up the same.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and thumbed in the number.
"Mildred?" he said a moment later. "When is the next board meeting? Tomorrow?" He wrote a notation on his calendar, assuring himself it wasn't too soon. What the hell. Might as well get it over with. "Pencil me in, will you? I’m ready to make my presentation."
I had prepared for every eventuality with my usual attention to detail. Until Ty Holloway actually walked into the small clearing not far from the train trestle that crossed Big Bear Gap, however, I had not been entirely convinced I would be able to carry out my plan.
I do not look around at him, keeping my concentration focused on my bow's sight and the target. Still, I am fully aware of him standing at the clearing's edge, jiggling the change in his pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I let the arrow fly, then frown when it buries itself in the target slightly above the bulls-eye. I nock another arrow, certain I can do better. Even with these cheap-ass store-bought wooden ones.
Ty's patience with my slow, deliberate movements lasts maybe ten seconds beyond that. "Did you call me all the way out here to watch archery practice or do you have something you actually want to tell me?" he finally demands.
"Have a seat, Ty." I indicate a fallen log to my right.
He blows out a bad-tempered sigh but does as directed.
"Hayley likes archery practice," I inform him, sparing him a brief glance.
"Yeah? Well, hey. That certainly oughtta wow 'em on the five o'clock news."
I fire off another arrow but am unhappy to see it, too, go high. Damn. I am still letting the bow pull up when I release the arrow. Or maybe it is the cheap wood target arrows themselves. I only bought them because they are generic, with none of the identifying characteristics of arrows I fletch myself. Reaching into my quiver, I pull out another and nock it again. Finally, I look over at Ty. "Does that type of sarcasm pass for wit where you come from?" I inquire mildly. "Because I have to tell you it does not play all that well here." I shrug. "Then again, perhaps Kurstin enjoyed it."
His expression closes. "I am not discussing Kurstin with you."
I arch a brow. "No? Given the way you used, then dumped her, I did not realize you harbored soft feelings for her. But forgive me if I am mistaken. Love is undoubtedly treated as differently back east as humor is."
He shoots me a thunderous glare, but I turn my attention back to the target. "Rumor has it she is crushed. Hayley will not have anything to do with her and Kurstin is trailing around town looking like a whipped puppy." I had rather enjoyed that when I saw her on the street yesterday. Served her right for betraying Hayley the way she did.
"I suggest you tell me whatever the hell it is you called me out here for," Ty says through gritted teeth. "Otherwise I'm out of here. I've still got some packing to do."
"Leaving town?"
"Yes."
"And going where?"
"New York. I have a job interview at the NYT."
"Why, how nice for you. And you only had to destroy two women to get it, too."
"That's it." He rises to his feet but then freezes when I swing to face him, my steel-tipped arrow pointing straight at his heart. "Jesus. Put that down."
"I do not care you messed up Kurstin's life," I say in a conversational tone. "Serves her right for breaking Hayley's confidence." Then my voice goes hard. "You made a huge mistake, however, when you went public with Hayley's private pain. Yes, she has inconsistent feelings when it comes to the death penalty. But you should not have made them public, Ty. She never wanted to talk about her conflicted feelings over capital punishment, but you went and told the world."
"And what bothers you most, Patsy? That I aired her conflict—or that she didn't confide it to you?"
My bow dips slightly. "What?"
"She never talked to you about them, either, did she? What happened, did you learn her feelings right along with everyone else who read the news?"
"Do not be ridiculous.” Okay, that sounds defensive and I hurry to add, “Of course not."
He knows I am lying. "Kurstin is her best friend and Hayley didn’t want to tell her, but Jon-Michael dragged it out of her. I don't think she told you at all."
"In a pig's eye she would tell Jon-Michael anything," I scoff. For a second there he had me going. Clearly, however, it was just a ploy to distract me.
"Why wouldn't she?" Ty looks at me as if I am a simpleton and my fingers tighten on the bow. Stupid, unnatural girl, Mother's voice whispers.
Yet it is Ty's voice that says, "They have been living together ever since the first reporters blew into town."
"Liar!" Rage at the very idea fills me and it is all I can do to stand still. Look calm.
I do not think I am doing a great job of it because he raises his hands in a gesture of mollification. ”Yeah, yeah, okay. You are absolutely right." The jerk takes a step back, but his calves bump against the log he has been sitting on, bringing him up short. "Hey, I’m just blowing smoke." But his expression is pitying.
He pities me.
He probably thinks I’m stupid.
I release the line, letting the arrow fly.
For an action so fast, so explosive and violent, it is conducted with surprising quietness. The arrow strikes him, its velocity lifting him off his feet. Then his heels smack against the log behind him and he tumbles over onto his back. Breathing heavily, h
eart thundering, I creep up to the fallen log and peer over.
He has fallen almost squarely into the tarp-lined shallow depression I dug with the little camp shovel I found in the garage. Looking down at him I whimper a little.
It is not at all like killing a deer. There is very little blood, which is good since it means I hit him squarely in the heart as I had intended. I lean over, grip the arrow just above his chest and yank it out.
Now there is blood and I look around until I see a patch of moss. I gather up a handful and press it against the wound to stop the flow. His heart is no longer pumping and he is lying on his back, so what I disturbed removing the arrow is bound to be all there is. Gravity will take care of it.
Still, it is imperative fresh blood be kept to a minimum. The last thing I need is to attract wild animals before I can get back to dig a deeper grave. Then, flipping the edge of the tarp over him so I do not have to look at my handiwork, I squat on my heels and tug, dragging him the couple essential inches to bring him fully into the depression. "Oh my God. Oh my God," I croon and grab for the shovel.
Moments later his body is covered and I have gathered up armfuls of needles and leaves to scatter over the raw mound. I am sweaty and disheveled when I finally straighten and I slap at the bits of leaves and needles clinging to my hands, my clothing, my arms and legs.
After climbing back over the log I pry the target from the tree and stuff it into my backpack. Then I pull out the canteen and dribble water over my fingers. I scrub the dirt free of my hands and scrape it from beneath my immaculate manicure, pouring more water over each hand to rinse away the mess. I wet a handkerchief and scrub at the spots that dot my arms, my legs. Then I carefully rinse the shovel and pack it away. I pick up the backpack and swing it onto my back, retrieve my bow and quiver of arrows, then take another look around the clearing. My breathing is rapid and jerky and I am trembling like an aspen in a high wind.
OhGod, ohGod, what have I done? I feel so—Oh, God, I feel so…
Powerful.
In command of the situation.
I draw myself erect and my breathing evens out. I run a final organized, assessing gaze over the clearing to make sure I have left nothing behind.
I killed a man today. Me, the woman who abhors socially incorrect behavior, killed a man. And, oh, God help me.
I liked it.
Hayley sat and simmered in the rocking chair long after Jon-Michael left. How dare he berate her for feeling betrayed by her ex-best-friend's failure to keep her secrets. “Don't hold it against her, Hayley,” she mimicked bitterly. “She is hurting, too, Hayley.”
Blood certainly was thicker than water.
Fine. She did not give a great big rip. Let him defend his darling sister, attack her, then walk away. Talk about typical. Once again Hayley Granger Prescott was left to face her screwed up life all on her own. Jon-Michael didn’t stick around when the going got rough.
Like that was a big surprise. She’d known going in this relationship was based on one thing and one thing only. When it came to the bottom line it was about the sex. Good sex, great sex even, but when all was said and done, theirs was merely a physical connection.
I am not the one in this relationship who has been dancing around the truth.
Okay, the past two nights their physical connection had been nonexistent. They hadn’t made love. Jon-Michael had simply wrapped her in his arms and held her. He’d called Bluey and told him she couldn't come in when she had shown no inclination to get dressed and face the outside world. And the only time he’d left her side was to go to work himself. Even then he had come straight back home again.
Yeah, well, big deal. He was probably softening her up for the big pitch about poor, pitiful Kurstin. Kurstin, who had always been Hayley’s one reliable haven when she desperately needed her. Kurstin who had ripped Hayley's heart out and handed it to her sleazy, lowlife boyfriend to feed to the wolves. Her sleazy, lowlife boyfriend who—
Ripped Kurstie's heart out, too.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room as she slowly climbed to her feet. “Good God.”
She studied the reflection of her dull skin, looked down at her wrinkled shirt. She was a mess. Running a hand through her stringy hair, she crossed to the phone to call Bluey.
Then she went to take a shower.
Kurstin sat on the dock and stared blindly out at the lake. The sun was hot on her shoulders but she felt frozen inside. Thighs hugged to her chest, her arms wrapped around her shins, she rocked in silent misery.
She had messed up in the worst way and was afraid she would never be allowed to atone for her abysmal lack of judgment. How had everything fallen apart so damn fast? One minute she’d it all. Then the next…poof! Everything was gone.
She’d fallen for Ty like Lucifer from heaven—and had been exposed for the dumb shit she was before the entire town. He’d left her with nothing: no pride, no faith in her own judgment and certainly no love. The public nature of her humiliation hurt; she didn't deny it. It was nothing, however, next to the very real fear haunting her every waking moment.
Since her mom’s death, only her brother and Hayley had loved her unconditionally. It was their good opinion she valued. She knew Jon-Michael already forgave her. But what if Hayley wouldn't? If she couldn't?
What if she left town and never talked to her again?
Seriously? She infused a touch of steel back in her spine. If your guilt doesn't kill you first, your melodramatic, overwrought what-ifs probably will.
But if Hayley didn’t forgive her, if she did pack up and leave rather than remain in the same town with her, then damn Ty Holloway's black soul to everlasting hell.
For he truly would have taken from her one of the few things of value she had left.
Hayley ran the gauntlet of journalists to reach her car. They were as pushy, loud, and intrusive as ever, but taking a page from Jon-Michael's book, she stripped off the kid gloves in her dealings with them. She kept her head up, her mouth shut, and looked neither right nor left as she plowed a path through the crowd to the Pontiac. She used her elbows when they did not move quickly enough and slammed her fist down on the fingers of the opportunist who curled his hand over the driver's door to detain her. Ripping a microphone out of another's hands when it was shoved in her face, she aimed for maximum damage when she hurled the sensitive piece of electronics to the ground.
The Pontiac, cranky from its lack of use the past several days, groaned and complained when she turned the ignition. Finally, and with grudging ill will, the engine turned over, coughed, then caught. Hayley reached for the radio dial and cranked up the volume. The Shins helped drown out the cacophony of voices yelling questions at her. Questions echoing Hayley's most deeply held doubts.
"Hayley, I need to talk to you!"
How she picked up on one voice when so many were competing for her attention, she didn’t know, but her head swung around and she scanned the street. "Patsy?"
Then she spotted her friend parked down the block waving a beckoning arm at her. The other woman leaned out her car window and Hayley reached for the volume knob on the radio to turn it down.
The moment Patsy saw she had her attention, she called again, "I need to talk to you!"
For crying out loud, Patsy, now? Right here? Her old schoolmate's obliviousness to anything unconnected to her own agenda astounded her. It shouldn't, she supposed; it was the new Patsy’s standard operating procedure. Hey, Pats wanted a tete a tete? Why let a little thing like a dozen glory-hungry reporters get in the way?
Swallowing her exasperation, she yelled, "Go to the Devil," and put the car in gear, moving it inexorably forward through the crowd surrounding her.
Her determination must have shown, for the journalists fell back. See me work my magic on the Red Sea, she thought with self-deprecating humor. Moses’s got nothing on this girl.
After all, he did not have a deteriorating drop-top Pontiac.
It was the first sm
all tug of amusement she had experienced in what felt like eons.
She pulled onto the outlook at Devil's Outcrop ten minutes later. When Patsy pulled her car to a stop alongside her moments later Hayley was perched on the car's hood, her feet on the front bumper.
She watched Patsy climb out of the car and slam the door. She looks different. There was a glow to Patsy’s cheeks, a brightness to her eyes, Hayley had never noticed before. "You look like you have a secret, Pats," she said and then winced. That was not her favorite word of the moment. But a marvelous thought occurred to her and it perked her right up. "Omigawd, are you pregnant?"
"Pregnant?" the other woman blinked, clearly blindsided by the question. "Why would you think that?"
"Because you look so, I don't know, radiant or something."
Patsy's fingers came up to brush her hair away from her temple. "I do?"
"You definitely do. I noticed it right away."
I can not help myself, I preen a little. Lately, it has seemed almost as if Hayley does not really want to be my friend anymore. Yet here she is telling me I look radiant. Maybe I should re-think some of the dark thoughts I have been entertaining.
"So are you?" Palms pressed flat against the hood, her heels lightly drumming the grill, Hayley narrows her eyes, subjecting me to a closer inspection. "You have that glow about you, which means you have either spent the afternoon with your husband screwing your brains out, or you’re pregnant." She smiled. "It's gotta be one or the other."
There actually is a third possibility. I enjoy my secret but keep the identity of that possibility to myself. "I do not think I am pregnant," is all I reply. It is sure as hell true.
Hayley shoots me a crooked smile. "The other is always good, too."
I stare at her expectantly. Any moment now Hayley will apologize for choosing the wrong friend to confide her secrets to. She will tell me I am a much better friend than Kurstin could ever dream of being.
But Hayley simply sits there, staring out at the lake and maintaining her silence. My feeling of well-being starts to fade, replaced by a surge of dissatisfaction spreading like ink spilled upon a blotter. Until it ultimately absorbs every last vestige of light-heartedness. The sun has not really dimmed, has it? I try to drag a calming breath past the tightness in my chest. No, surely not. It is simply an illusion that things are suddenly darker.
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