The snub didn’t even hurt, Kylie realized as she watched him go. She was totally numb inside, thanks to Jake. She didn’t feel a damn thing besides the occasional urge to curl into a ball and cry her heart out.
“Where is he going?”
What Alberto thought of the senator’s behavior didn’t show on his face. “Oklahoma City. He’s having dinner at the governor’s mansion tonight.”
Ordinarily he invited her to accompany him to such functions. He probably felt he couldn’t trust himself to be civil—or trust her to keep her mouth shut. “When will he be back?”
“Sometime tomorrow.” Alberto’s old gaze softened as he studied her. “Is everything all right, Miss Kylie?”
She smiled. Her perfectly ordered life had fallen into chaos. If she relaxed her control, her heart would break. For all practical purposes, she’d lost her father—the respect, the admiration, the affection. Apparently she’d lost Jake, as well. She felt betrayed, bewildered. She knew she had to make big changes but had no clue what kind of changes or how to start.
“Everything’s fine, Alberto,” she said with a big phony smile. If life got any finer, she’d give in to the curl-up-and-cry impulse and never stop.
The house was quiet and empty. She showered, ate a bagel for breakfast and pondered what to do with the rest of her day—with the rest of her life. For starters, she sat down at the computer in her small office, typed a letter of resignation, effective immediately, and sealed it in an envelope with the senator’s name on it.
That small act eased the tightness in her chest. Finding a new job would be no problem; she’d rejected offers from various cronies of the senator’s over the years. If she found politics no longer to her liking, she could change careers. She was a great fund-raiser, organizer and hostess. She had a degree in marketing. She didn’t even need a job, thanks to her mother. She could do volunteer work.
Surely she could find something to help ease the emptiness inside her.
Before she could entertain second thoughts—not likely—she left the house, letter in hand, and let herself into the mansion. She saw no sign of Rosalie as she made her way to the second-floor study.
The door was unlocked. She’d been taught since she was a small child that the room was off-limits to her without an invitation. She’d abided by that rule her entire life; her father saw no reason to believe she wouldn’t now. He was arrogant. He still believed that when push came to shove, loyalty to him would trump everything else.
He was wrong.
Her fingers trembled when she opened the door. A shiver danced down her spine as she crossed the threshold. The mixed scents of aged wood, leather and the senator’s cologne perfumed the air on which tiny motes of dust drifted. She crossed the Persian rug, laid the envelope on the leather desk pad and started to turn away before spotting a photograph on the desk.
The leaded-crystal frame was ornate and heavy and it held a photo of the freshman senator and his family. Kylie was about twelve at the time, and her mother hadn’t yet been diagnosed with the cancer that would kill her. The two of them looked adoringly at the senator, while he looked adoringly at the camera. It was eerily similar to their other family pictures.
I loved your mother, he’d said, but not once had the camera ever caught him looking at her adoringly, not even in their wedding portrait that hung in the master bedroom. Usually he just looked satisfied, as if everything was happening exactly the way he wanted.
I loved your mother, but that hadn’t stopped him from being unfaithful to her with Jillian Franklin. Kylie couldn’t prove it—that look in his eyes when she’d asked the day before wouldn’t count as proof to anyone besides her—but she knew it as surely as…
Her gaze slowly shifted to the door tucked between two tall bookcases. It led into a storeroom containing shelves of supplies, liquor for the bar near the fireplace and file cabinets filled with every pertinent record of James and Phyllis Riordan’s lives.
Including bank records.
Her mouth went dry, making it hard to swallow. Though it wouldn’t answer all her questions, a few answers were better than none. But moving took strength, and she was just about out of that for the time being. She could always look later.
And the senator could always destroy any incriminating information, if he hadn’t already done so.
How arrogant was he? Enough to leave confirmation of his blackmail payments in file cabinets in her own house? Enough to believe, as he’d said the day before, I tell you what to think and you think it?
Lungs tight, she took the few steps that brought her to the door. Wrapped her fingers around the marble-and-brass knob. Turned. Pushed the door open.
The storeroom was actually two rooms—one for items frequently used and a smaller, dustier space that the senator laughingly called “the archives.” That was where twenty-two-year-old records would be. She reached for a second marble-and-brass knob and—
“Kylie?”
With a startled cry, she jerked her hand from the knob and whirled around. Jake stood in the doorway, looking about as miserable as she felt. For an instant, pleasure bubbled inside her, then she remembered and the pain returned. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you.”
She understood that need—shared it. But it had been his decision not to trust her, to push her away, to deceive her about his identity, to punish her because of her father’s actions.
He shifted awkwardly, then dragged his hand through his hair. “I ran into an elderly gentleman outside. He said you were in the house. He said to come on in and give a holler. I did, but you didn’t answer.”
It was a big house, and she’d been distracted. Since meeting him, she was so easily distracted.
“I—I wanted to talk.” He tugged at his hair again, then gestured toward her. “Why were you so startled?”
She must look guilty, standing rigidly, both hands tucked behind her back, as if she had something to hide. Logical, since she did. “I’m not supposed to be in here.”
“In a storeroom?”
She freed one hand to wave. “In the study. It’s always been the senator’s private domain. Even my mother wasn’t allowed to come in here without permission.”
“He prohibited her from entering a room in her own house?”
It sounded better the way her mother had put it. Everyone needs their private space, Kylie. Yours is your bedroom. Your father’s is his study. But even as a child she recalled thinking that her space wasn’t nearly as private as his.
“What are you looking for?”
She was about to answer when the ache in her chest twinged again. “That’s none of your business.” It made her feel better to say it, though, of course, if she found anything of interest, she would see to it that he got a copy.
She would use the original to see that the senator got justice.
Folding her arms across her chest, she scowled. “What do you want to talk about?”
Instantly his discomfort returned. He picked up a bottle of port from the shelf beside him, scanned the label, then set it down and did the same with a bottle of sherry. Finally, though, he shoved his hands in his hip pockets and looked at her instead. “Can we do it someplace else?”
“Sure. Call my office tomorrow and make an appointment.” Not that she technically had an office anymore, other than the tiny space in her house.
His face flushed. “Kylie, please—”
“Please what? Behave? Mind your manners? Don’t make a scene? Remember who you are? Do what I tell you to do? Think what I tell you to think?”
“I don’t give a damn about your manners or who you are and I damn sure wouldn’t try to tell you what to do or how to think.”
Slowly she shook her head. “Not true, Jake. You don’t trust me because of who I am.”
“If it was just me, I’d trust you with my life, but it’s not just me and it’s not my life. It’s my father’s.”
“And a chance to clear his name i
s too important to risk with James Riordan’s daughter.” She snorted. “Do you realize how that sounds—a convicted murderer’s son telling me I’m not trustworthy because my father used to be a prosecuting attorney?”
His features turned hard and cold, giving her a glimpse of the ten-year-old who’d been beaten for standing up for Charley. “My father is innocent.”
“And my father’s guilty.” Maybe not of murder—please, God!—but of various other crimes. “But I’m not.”
“I know.” The words were soft, miserable. “But I can’t take a chance.”
She shifted her gaze away. She wanted to stay angry and hostile, but the hell of it was, she could understand his reasoning. It wasn’t fair to her, but if the situation were reversed, would she do anything differently? Would she trust him with her father’s life? She couldn’t say.
“I’m going to talk to a few more people,” Jake went on quietly, “and then I’m going home and I’m going to find the best damn lawyer in the country for Charley. When all this is done, when the witnesses have gone on record and the evidence has been documented…can we try again?”
The small hope inside her flared, then was extinguished by scorn. He was pushing her out of his life after turning her own life upside down, but once it was all over, once there was nothing she could do to cause a problem, he wanted to pick up where they’d left off. He wanted her to just forget that he hadn’t trusted her, that he’d caused her more pain and heartache than any man alive, and go back to life as usual.
Some part of her—the part that had indulged in fantasies of a future with him—wanted to say yes. The rational part that understood why he had to put his father first wanted that, too. But her pride said doubtful, and the realistic part of her agreed. His lack of trust in her had shaken her trust in him.
“I don’t know, Jake.” They were the hardest words she’d said in a long time. “Faith is a critical part of any relationship, and you’ve shown a total lack of faith in me.”
Disappointment swept over his face, turning his brown eyes even darker. “Kylie—”
“Please leave, Jake.” She’d been wrong earlier, she realized. Those were the hardest words she’d said.
Quivering inside, she hugged herself tightly as he struggled for something to say. He didn’t find it, though, and after a long, painful moment he turned and left. His steps echoed on the marble, were muted on the rug, then grew fainter as he walked down the hall. They echoed in her ears long after they’d faded. Then even the echo was gone.
The trembling subsided, and her heart rate slowly returned to a sluggish version of normal. She should leave, too. Should forget Jake. Forget Charley. Forget everything that had happened in the past few days. She had her own life to worry about, her own upheaval to set straight.
But this was no longer about Jake or Charley. She needed to know the truth for her own peace of mind. Turning, she opened the door to the second file room, found the right drawer and began searching through the financial records.
Between them, her parents had had more accounts than anyone needed. The one that ended her search was in her father’s name only, an investment account set up to make a single payout every month in the amount of four thousand dollars to an account at First Security Bank. The deposits had begun a few months after Therese Franklin’s birth and had continued, though with a change in the receiving account, until the month she’d turned twenty-one.
Weak in the knees, Kylie leaned against the file cabinet. The senator had paid nearly a million dollars over the course of Therese’s life. That was how her grandparents had managed to provide so well for her without touching her inheritance. Had they continued Jillian’s blackmail? Or had he felt an obligation to support the child who might be his daughter?
Dear God, Therese could be Kylie’s half sister. The idea was overwhelming. She’d always wanted a brother or a sister to ease the loneliness of being an only child. Summoning Therese’s image to mind, she couldn’t identify any resemblance, but that meant nothing. No one in town had seen a resemblance between Jake and his—
Deliberately she forced away the thought of him.
There was only one thing to do: prove—or disprove—that Therese was the Senator’s daughter. There was no way he would willingly contribute a DNA sample, but his hairbrush would, and if that wasn’t enough, Kylie would, too. If they shared a father, it would show.
If she had a sister, she would never forgive the senator for hiding her all these years.
Chapter 11
After driving aimlessly for a while, Jake found himself on the road that led to his old house. He’d lost his tail at the city limits but picked up another before he reached the turnoff: Coy Roberts, driving his own vehicle. Watching the chief in his rearview mirror, Jake turned onto the dirt road, drove twenty yards, then stopped. Roberts turned, too, and stopped immediately, as if he had no desire to come any closer. But when Jake climbed out of the truck, the chief got out of his car, as well, and approached with a swagger.
“You know, trespassing’s a crime here in Oklahoma.”
“It’s not trespassing when you have the owner’s permission.” Jake held up the key Therese had given him, then quickly closed it within his fist when Roberts reached for it.
In a nod to his day off, Roberts was out of uniform, wearing indigo-blue jeans with a sharp crease and a white button-down shirt. In a nod to the fact that he was never truly off duty, he also wore a brown leather belt with a pistol holstered on the left.
In the dreams that had haunted Jake the day before, Charley had been holding the knife in his left hand. Strange, considering that he was right-handed and about as far from ambidextrous as a man could get. He’d injured his right hand on the job once when Jake was about eight and had been damn near helpless, unable to do much of anything for himself.
“What are you doing out here?”
Jake smiled. “None of your business.” The memory of the same words coming from Kylie that morning gave them an edge that sliced right through him. He shouldn’t have gone to see her, but he’d needed a little hope. Instead he’d lost what little he’d had.
“You’re wrong, Norris. Everything you do is my business. Anything that has to do with the Franklins, with the Riordans or with Charley Baker is my business. Or should I say ‘your daddy’?” His grin held the same smug arrogance the senator was so good at. Was that where he’d learned it?
Jake leaned against the bed of the truck, letting the metal warm his back. “Do you know who really killed them?”
“Baker.”
“He had an alibi.”
“The alibi’s a lie.”
“Why would Leonard Scott lie to provide an alibi for someone he hardly knew?”
Roberts shrugged. “People lie all the time. Bartenders. Killers.”
“Senators,” Jake supplied helpfully, then added, “Deputies who aspire to bigger jobs. How well did you know Jillian Franklin, Chief? You obviously weren’t a part of her social circle, but then, social status doesn’t matter much to some people.” Like Kylie. She couldn’t have cared less about Jake’s lack of privilege. But his lack of faith had meant the world to her.
“I hardly knew Jillian at all.”
“And yet you call her by her first name. Seems a little intimate, doesn’t it?”
“When you investigate someone’s brutal murder, when you spend time with her dead body and learn the details of her life, you tend to get a little intimate.” Without a break, Roberts asked, “Where’s Kylie?”
Jake made a show of looking around. “Not here.”
“You shouldn’t go too many places without her. She’s the best protection you’ve got around here.”
“Is that a threat, Chief?”
“I don’t make threats. I give one warning and then I act. And you’ve been warned.” Roberts raised his left hand, thumb and forefinger extended in a parody of a gun, then winked before walking away.
Jake remained where he was long after Roberts had
driven out of sight. The police chief was a lefty, and in Jake’s last dream, Charley had wielded the knife in his left hand. Coincidence? Or something he’d read in his research?
He was still standing alongside his truck when the sound of another vehicle broke the day’s stillness. It was approaching from the east—a black SUV with heavily tinted windows—and it slowed as it neared the turnoff. The driver stopped, blocking access to the road, and the passenger’s window glided down a few inches.
The hair on Jake’s neck stood on end as goose bumps raised on his arms. He was an easy target. The nearest house was out of sight down the road, and no one out here would pay attention to a distant gunshot. This guy could drop him where he stood, if that had been Riordan’s and Roberts’s order. They would win, Charley would lose and Kylie would never know how damned important she was to him.
Without turning his back to the SUV, he eased to the truck door, climbed inside and started the engine. The Fasten Seat Belt warning dinged as he drove up the hill, taking the turn to his old house and putting the hillside and thick woods between him and the SUV. There he turned in a wide circle so he would face incoming traffic, secured his seat belt and took a heavy breath. His hands started to shake so he gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Damn, he’d never been scared on the job before. A little uneasy—he dealt with criminals and lawyers; he expected uneasy. But this was the first time he’d been forced to face how simple it would be for the Franklins’ killer to kill him. Their lives had meant nothing to the killer; neither had Charley’s, and apparently neither did Jake’s.
When five minutes passed and the SUV hadn’t crested the hill, he took his foot from the brake and let the truck pick up speed as it rolled down the hill. Back in town, he stopped at Wal-Mart to buy a scanner and was on his way out the door when he bumped into a slight figure.
Therese looked as if she’d come straight from church—a flowery dress that passed her knees, heels, her hair in a braid like the one Kylie often wore. She glanced at the scanner. “Don’t you even take Sundays off?”
More Than a Hero Page 19
