by Julie Chase
“. . . so you see,” Bryce continued his pointless monologue, “I had to buy all those things for appearances’ sake. Annie Lane wouldn’t have been seen with an attorney driving a Chevy and dressed by Kohl’s. I had to play the part of a high-powered professional so she’d keep me on hand. The ruse was fun at first, but I couldn’t keep it up. She wanted me at her beck and call, flying around the world to meet her every time she had an emergency. I’ve borrowed money from my credit cards and bank so many times that they stopped lending. I asked Annie for a larger retainer because I couldn’t pay my bills.” He laughed humorlessly. “She told me I should hire a financial advisor. She was so caught up in herself, she didn’t see anyone else. The entire human population was a prop in her world. The kittens’ trust was the only answer I had left. That money would’ve fixed my life. It would’ve fixed everything.”
Got it. I pinched the clutch open with my thumb and first finger and felt around the contents. “Did you come to New Orleans to talk to her, or was there another emergency?”
“Both. Another former protégé is suing her. The usual.”
“Shannon Martin? What do you mean by ‘the usual’? Do you mean she stole designs more than once?”
He looked exasperated. “What have I been saying?”
Beats me. I powered my phone on and swiped the screen. How could I call for help without looking?
“What are you doing?” Bryce went on alert. He pointed the gun at my searching arm.
“Nothing.” I needed that arm. I imitated a statue. “Have you given any more thought to letting me go? I won’t tell anyone you abducted us.”
“No.” He turned away again.
I went back to poking blindly at my phone.
“It’s sad.” He laughed softly. “They really were Latherope’s kittens. He brought them home one day when he found them in a bag on the street. They were banged up and nearly starved. So small. I never thought they’d live, but he nursed them to health. He spent all his time with them, treating them as if they were the human children he wanted and Annie didn’t. She only took them in the divorce out of spite.”
“That’s awful.” My heroine had really turned out to be a bust. Were all people awful?
“That’s life,” he said. “The kittens were his based on the law of finders keepers, but that’s not a solid legal argument. Plus, Annie had the money and better legal representation.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Didn’t you say Latherope represented himself?”
His proud smile fell.
Don’t insult the man with the gun, dummy. I looked away. “Sorry. Head injury.” I needed a subject change. “So why did he and Annie break up? The tabloids never said.” He didn’t want to answer me before, but I figured attorney-client privilege went out the window once he’d confessed to her murder. He had no reason to pretend he hadn’t at this point.
“Dylan cheated on her.”
“Jeez.”
“He said she was never around. He was bored and lonely. Felt unwanted and deprived of her affections. Blah blah blah. Standard housewife syndrome.”
I made an ugly face at him.
“It’s true. I hear it all the time.”
“Isn’t anyone faithful anymore?” I asked, more to myself than the whackadoodle seated beside me with a gun. Maybe if we sat there long enough, Jack or Henri would find us. I doubted I could make a run for it with a bum leg and whiplash, not to mention hauling a cat in a carrier.
My phone vibrated against my fingertips. I swiped the screen in every direction, hoping to take the call and not accidentally reject it.
“No one’s faithful anymore,” Bryce said sadly. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eye. “Besides me.”
The weight of his words landed on me like a sack of bricks. He really didn’t care about the kittens’ trust. He wanted them because they were so important to her. “You loved her.”
He turned wide eyes on me. “She didn’t love anyone. She wasn’t capable.”
“But you loved her. That’s why it hurt so much that she didn’t appreciate everything you did for her. She didn’t even notice your efforts. That’s why you hated her ex-husband. He’d hurt her. I’ll bet you and Annie fought that day in her kitchen, and you reacted out of passion, not realizing how much damage one moment could cause.”
A tear fell over his cheek. “Her idiot brother caused her endless grief, and she covered for him. She fussed over him. I think she might’ve loved him, as much as she was capable. Though, more than anything, she worried about what might happen to her reputation if he was caught with those drugs. We’d discussed it a hundred times.”
“She knew.” I wasn’t sure if that surprised me or what it would take to surprise me anymore.
“He grew more reckless by the day. A public arrest was inevitable. When I pressed her to turn him in and put some space between her brand and his crimes, she fired me.”
I held my breath. Oh, that was bad.
“She fired me!” he screamed. “I did everything for her. I saved her legally on a continuous basis. I kept her kittens when she traveled. I dropped everything to run to her, all around the world, whenever she called. I loved her, and she couldn’t be bothered to notice.”
“I’m sorry.”
He gave me a sad smile. “When she didn’t wake up, I realized I’d made the whole thing worse. Ryan was the beneficiary of her entire estate. I’d helped her make it that way when she and her family had a rift over him two years ago. They wanted to put him in rehab then, but he begged her, and she took his side. She always took Ryan’s side.”
“Her parents were cut from her will?” That’s why they weren’t at her televised memorial; they were estranged from her. That was probably why they’d had it in the first place. Someone paid them for the rights to air it. Reality television. I scoffed, recalling the giant painting of Annie propped in the corner.
“Yep.”
“That’s why you put me onto Josie’s trail. You wanted her to get thrown in jail so Ryan would follow. He can still inherit her estate from jail, you know.”
His face turned red.
“You know that. Sorry.” I pretended to lock my mouth again.
“Stop doing that,” he yapped. “It didn’t work last time.” Bryce powered our windows down. “Why is it so freaking hot down here? It’s November. No wonder you people are so wound up. This heat is unbearable.”
I tried to roll my eyes, but it hurt. Scents of dirt and oil leaking from beater cars filtered up my nose and ratcheted my head pain by ten thousand.
He popped the driver’s side door open. “Do you hear that?”
“I hear my ears ringing from when you smashed my head on the dashboard.”
“You should’ve been wearing your seat belt. It’s the law.” He climbed out and stood poker straight, listening.
I jerked my phone onto my lap and flipped it around. I swiped the sleeping screen back to life. The headache had done a number on my vision, but I recognized Jack’s blurry face beneath my fingers.
“Clear.” An unfamiliar voice sounded softly through my phone. The word simultaneously echoed off the parking deck walls.
Bryce ducked inside and released my seat belt. “Get out. They’re here. How the hell did they find us?” His gaze landed on my phone, then swept upward to meet my eyes. A devastating look of betrayal changed his features from panic to anger. “You!”
I swung my door open and jumped out the passenger side, ready to run toward whoever was clearing the deck floor by floor. Whoever they were, Jack wasn’t far from them. My foot hit the cement, and I crumbled. Pain shot through my busted leg, sending me tail over teakettles onto the filthy garage floor. I wailed. Could a slamming car door have broken my leg? I wrapped both hands around my calf. The bruising was worse. Black-and-purple waves had crept over my skin until I barely recognized the appendage as my own. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even stand, and now that I’d tried, the pain was all I could think of.
&n
bsp; Bryce skulked around the car and slammed my door. He winced at his mistake and stilled to listen for the cavalry. “Get up,” he hissed.
“I can’t.” My gorgeous, scarlet Annie Lane original was streaked in dirt, motor oil, and I didn’t want to think about what else. The rosette-lined hem was frayed and torn where I’d landed on it. My knees were raw and bleeding.
He kicked my phone away from me and crushed it under his foot. “Get up!”
“I can’t.” The tears came hard and fast. “I think you broke my leg.”
Bryce’s narrow eyes widened as he stared at my injured calf. I could nearly hear the wheels turning in his bat-filled head. I was dead weight for him. Immobile. The worst kind of hostage.
“Clear.” The word echoed up the curving ramp, setting my heart rate to hyperdrive. A steady cadence of footfalls moved toward us.
Bryce crouched beside me, hidden partially by my car. He scanned the scene, looked at me, then took off running toward the elevator.
I swung my legs around with a whimper and grabbed my clutch, still wedged inside the car. I freed the most important gift I’d ever been given and pressed it to my lips. I blew into Jack’s little daisy-covered whistle until I thought my lungs would explode, and then I blew some more.
Who would care for Penelope if I didn’t make it? She didn’t have a trust. Did I need a will? A lawyer? My heart pounded, and blood rushed in my ears. Sweat gathered on my brow. Hot tears scorched jagged paths over both cheeks. Poor Penelope. I refilled my lungs and blew again.
Booted feet appeared everywhere, on the ramp, around my car.
I kept blowing until Jack stopped me. His strong hand cupped the whistle and moved it away. He pulled my head to his chest and muttered something unintelligible beneath my ugly sobs. “Are you okay?” His gaze found my wrecked leg before I could answer. “We need a medic on level five,” he informed someone on the other end of his walkie-talkie. He tugged my eyelids open. “Extensive bruising on the head and right lower leg. Possible broken tibia. Possible concussion.”
“The elevator.” I pointed in the direction where Bryce had taken his exit. “He was headed to the elevator.”
Jack hooked an arm under my knees and wrapped the other around my back. In a moment, we were moving in large rocking strides back down the parking deck’s narrow ramp. I buried my face in the curve of his neck and cried. A burst of fresh horror struck at my heart. “Penelope!”
“We’ve got her,” he whispered. “She’s okay. You need a medic.”
I settled my head against his chest and concentrated on the steady rhythm of his breathing. The sweet, predictable cadence of his footballs lowered my heart rate to something near normal.
A man’s cry opened my eyes. When had I closed them? Sunlight sent bullets of pain through my head. We were on the ground floor, moving quickly onto the sidewalk.
Bryce lay outside the elevator, cheek pinned to the ground, screaming about his rights. His arms were twisted to the spot behind him where Henri’s knee was wedged.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .” Henri’s thick southern-Louisiana accent loosened the pain in my chest.
I was safe.
A sob broke from my lips, and I wept openly for about a million reasons and also for just one.
I’d survived.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Furry Godmother and all of New Orleans agrees: Everyone loves a parade.
Thanksgiving morning was pure chaos. Two weeks had passed since my abduction, and I was working on a sunnier disposition. Penelope and I were resilient. We’d spent a few days licking wounds, and I’d eaten my weight in Ben & Jerry’s, but we came out on top. Chins up. Shoulders back. Tails high.
The local support system was as vast and dedicated as it was loopy. Mom’s friends had dropped by to check on me often during the days when I was housebound with painkillers and a terrible attitude. They’d brought casseroles and cakes, then pretended to use the restroom or get me water from the kitchen, only to clean those rooms before leaving. Some asked how serious things were between Chase and me, then left a business card or photograph of their most eligible son, grandson, nephew, neighbor, etc.
Imogene had chauffeured me around all week, including a ride to the shop this morning. I wanted to gather last-minute supplies before the parade. Furry Godmother was closed for the holiday, but I had new designs on my mind, and Imogene was good company. She didn’t ask a lot of questions.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Mom’s number lit the screen. Again. She and the Jazzy Chicks were in position at the start of the parade route, riding the last float. “Mom wants to know if we’re outside yet,” I told Imogene. I sent a quick response to let her know I’d be there in a second. That was only a partial fib.
Scarlet’s family had claimed their spots along the route after breakfast and invited Imogene and me to join them. So my spot was saved, but it took me more than a second to get anywhere these days. I wrapped a soft pink scarf around my neck and buttoned my vanilla wool swing coat to my collarbone. The temperatures had dropped into the fifties this week, but my winter wardrobe was on point, thanks to the time I’d spent in Arlington.
“Ready?” Imogene asked. Her black poncho hung to her knees. She hefted my purse over one shoulder, lifted two flattened pop-up chairs under her arms, and gripped a snack bag with her left palm. “Come on.” She hooked my elbow with her free hand. “Let’s go, Hop-a-long.”
I stuffed crutches under my arms and imitated a penguin all the way to the shop door. I leaned my weight against the glass, pushing it wide and holding it for Imogene to pass.
“Thank you, Miss,” she said.
I locked up and followed Imogene into the crowd, swinging a giant cast-covered leg.
People of every age group and demographic had lined Magazine Street, fizzing excitedly in anticipation of the parade. They snacked and chatted as cool autumn air pinked their cheeks and nipped their red noses. Scents of coffee and beignets hovered overhead. I bounced my chin to the sounds of a lively marching band pumping several blocks away.
“Finally!” Scarlet ran to meet us. Her skinny jeans belied the fact she’d had a baby a few short months ago. Her hunter-green sweater and matching headband made her look ten years younger. The freckles helped. “We’re over here.”
We squeezed between bodies to a large section of concrete that the Hawthorne children had claimed with sidewalk chalk. Two lines of pop-up chairs faced the road. Pint-sized versions in front of large ones. A red wagon filled with canvas totes stood between the last big chair and a lamppost. Blankets, toys, bubbles, chalk, and snacks spilled from the pillaged bags. Three small Hawthornes drew excitedly on the ground at our feet.
Imogene set up our chairs and motioned me into one.
“Where’s Poppet?” I asked Scarlet.
“Fussing.” She took her seat and smiled. “Carter and Chase took her for a walk to settle her down. I’m hoping she’ll fall asleep.”
“Poppet can sleep through a parade?”
Scarlet pointed to her boys, squealing and rubbing chalk sticks in one another’s hair.
“Right.”
“You’re adjusting well.” She ogled my cast. “Nice crutches, huh?”
“Do you like it?” I’d covered the light-pink cast with butterflies in every shade of sharpie I owned. I’d started the project out of boredom. Too much time on my backside with too many painkillers in my system. Eventually I fell into a rhythm and looked forward to seeing the final result. “I’m thinking of marketing a pet line to local vets.”
“Cute.”
Imogene dropped a ball of yarn onto her lap and put the business ends of two red knitting needles to work. “She’s supposed to keep it raised, but she’s stubborn.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got a broken leg,” she argued.
“It’s only fractured. And it’s a clean fracture. Barely significant.” I gave Scarlet a pleading expression. “Really.”
Sc
arlet looked skeptical. “How long do you have to wear the cast?”
“Another couple weeks. Thank you for everything you’ve done, by the way. I’ve deeply appreciated it, but I think it’s time you set your minions free.”
Thanks to Scarlet’s social connections, my doorbell had rung at precisely seven every evening, when a woman with a casserole dish appeared on the porch. It was crazy but also endlessly delicious and unexpectedly moving to see so many people rally for my recovery.
I had a stack of thank-you notes to write.
She narrowed her eyes. “Let them feed you for another couple weeks.”
“No, thank you. It’s only a fracture. I don’t need all the fussing.”
Imogene performed a stage sigh. She fed fresh yellow yarn to her needles. “Stubborn.”
“I’m fine.”
Even Chase had fallen into the circus. Stopping at my place on his way home from the office every night. He’d strip off his jacket and tie, unbutton his dress shirt, and tell me animated stories from his days at the office. He helped me with anything I needed—just last weekend, he had stuffed a dozen incredibly ugly felt pins for Mrs. Hams. He administered my pain meds, refilled my water glass, and made me laugh until my sides ached. He also told me that he’d changed his mind and come after me the night Bryce kidnapped Penelope and me. He saw us wheeling away and called 9-1-1. He saw Jack chase our car down the street. He said it was the most frightening moment of his life. I knew what he meant.
The first float rolled into view. People clapped and swayed to the music of a peppy swing band.
I bent over to drag my snack bag close enough to rest my cast on.
A pair of dark-blue jeans wedged their way into view. Jack’s face appeared a moment later when he crouched in front of me. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I cursed the tangle of emotions weaving their way to the surface. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah.” He lowered his head and raised his eyes. “I was chasing a lead on that thing we talked about. I hope you’re not mad.”
