False Facades (Best Sellers: Best Romance/Humor )

by Martha Greenwood

  "We wouldn't be arguing if you two didn't forbid us from picking up our phones. What's wrong with telling Danielle and Carrie what's going on?"

  Vincent retorted, "We'll tell them after we get Sammy back. There's no use risking them following us. They might get hurt."

  "You do realize they're going to hurt us after we get back, right?"

  "Beg for mercy."

  "That's it," Tristan suddenly spoke up.

  "Huh?"

  "There. That's where he lives. That's the address, isn't it?"

  The car slowed down in front of a large Victorian house painted in sienna red. The lawn was well kept with stylishly shaped shrubbery and the neighborhood was quiet.

  William blinked. "Weird. I pictured a huge mansion with tall, pointy gates, menacing Rottweilers, and a security guard holding a rifle and barking at us in this Southern twang: Y'all git off this private property, ye hear! Else I blow your brains out through the buttocks!"

  Vincent stared at him.

  "Sorry."

  "Okay, so what's the plan? How are we going to do this?" Jack whispered.

  Everyone thought. As they kept their eyes trained on the front door, the house seemed suddenly far more foreboding. It now felt like it radiated a sense of gloom and oppression. Vincent's heart clenched. Sammy. You there? Behind those walls?

  "I mean, it's not like we could just walk up to the front door and ring the stupid doorbell. Right?"

  * * *

  "I need you, Samantha. It's inevitable."

  She slumped against the wall and curled up, pressing her eyes against her knees until spots of color danced before her vision. "I feel sick. I don't want to hear anymore. Just leave me alone."

  "Why won't you just listen to me? Why must you be so stubborn?"

  "I don't care anymore. Just lock me up. I'm going to die sooner or later. You can't do anything to me anymore. I'm not going to eat. I'm not going to drink. You can smack me around until I throw up blood. You can crush all the bones in my body. I'm going to die and I sincerely hope you go to hell."

  He twisted his fist in her hair again and jerked back. Despite her determination to stop feeling anymore, tears of pain welled up and her cracked lips were quivering.

  He enunciated slowly. "You aren't listening to me. I need you."

  She retorted just as tightly. "And you aren't listening to me either. I don't care."

  He slapped her across the face with an almost casual flick of his hand. "You would think that you would care, especially since destiny seemed to have deigned to let you escape the same fate as your parents and your brat of a brother."

  "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Her heart was suddenly pounding too fast, too loud.

  "It has everything to do with it." A slow, languid smile lit up his face and he spread his arms wide like a performer taking one final bow. "Dear Samantha, you must understand. It was the only way."

  She couldn't speak. She clutched at her neck, making an indescribable sound in the pit of her throat. Please – no - please – please –

  "It was the only way to get what should have been mine in the first place." His grin widened. "The people in my way must go."

  * * *

  James Westlane pecked Samantha on the cheek. "We'll be right back, princess. Just grab some rest, 'kay?"

  Samantha smiled wanly. "Give Grandpa my greetings and tell him I'm sorry I couldn't go to see him myself."

  Terry grinned, "No worries. He wouldn't have wanted to see you anyway in the messed up condition you're in."

  Samantha scowled back. "Brat." She started coughing again and her mother steered her away from the door.

  Claire Westlane pointed up the stairs. "Bed. Now. You're going to strain yourself and your fever will pick up again."

  "Yes, Mom." Samantha started to head back up to her room, but halfway up the steps, she turned and opened her mouth. "Don't forget –"

  "Chicken soup with rice. I know. I know. As soon as we get back, I'll run to the store for the ingredients and I'll make a nice big pot for you to gorge yourself on, alright?" Claire smiled fondly as she leaned against her husband. The light shimmered against the fire red tresses that came to a short bob right below her chin.

  Samantha laughed. "Don't forget. Your poor daughter will be lounging all alone in bed, nursing her cold, while she waits with bated breath for nourishment." She waved before disappearing around the corridor.

  Claire turned to her husband. "She makes it sound as if we don't feed her."

  James looped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her neck. "I think she just gets her melodramatic side from you."

  "Me? So I'm melodramatic, am I? Then what, pray tell, does she get from you, husband of mine?" Claire arched her eyebrow.

  "Good sense, of course."

  "Good sense?"

  "Yeah. I mean, I did have good enough sense to snatch you up, didn't I? Huh? Didn't I?" He leaned down to press his lips against her and she giggled, swatting his arm.

  Terry coughed. "Uh, still here. Your son's still here. Please. It's getting to be borderline traumatic."

  They headed out of the door and James locked up while Claire fussed over Terry and his length of his hair. "No, Mom. I don't need a haircut again. It's fine."

  "Your bangs are hanging in your eyes. It can't be comfortable –"

  "It's fine, Mom. Mom, don't touch. You're messing up my hair. Mom!"

  James wrapped an arm around Claire's shoulders and they laughed as they headed down the steps to their car. The winter air was biting and cloudy puffs of their breath wafted in front of their faces.

  Just as they drew close to their old, beat up sedan, someone suddenly stepped out from the shadows of the trees and they jumped. Claire clapped a gloved hand to her lips, startled, while Terry muttered, "Jesus –"

  James squinted, "Frank? Is that you?"

  Frank Westlane's lips stretched in a taut smile.

  "It is you!" James grinned. "It's been too long. Claire, do you remember Frank?" He smiled down at his wife and she nodded haltingly.

  "Yes, of course. Hello, Frank. How've you been?" She wrapped an arm around James' waist. "We haven't heard from you in a while."

  Frank jerked his head in a short nod, his eyes fixated on Claire. She looked away.

  James cocked his head. "What's the matter, bro?" Frank winced. "You don't look too good there. A tad pale. Maybe you're coming down with a flu –"

  "I'm not coming down with anything! Don't worry yourself on my behalf," Frank interrupted. He shifted uneasily. "Where – where are you all heading to?"

  "Just going to visit Dad's grave. Claire's bringing his and Mom's favorite flowers."

  "Still trying to grab some extra brownie points there?" Frank quipped, his eyes turning cold and his fingers clenching.

  "What?"

  Frank forced a loud laugh. "Kidding. Kidding. As a matter of fact, I was just in the neighborhood and thought to come see you while I had some time free. I haven't visited Dad in a while either. It's still so hard to believe that he just passed away a year ago. At times, I still feel he's here, watching out for all of us – appraising us." His jaw tightened. "Mind if I come with?"

  James blinked. "Sure. Of course you can come. The car still has room – especially now that Sammy's too sick to come."

  "Samantha's not coming?" For a second there, Frank looked stricken, staring up at the second floor windows. Then, as a huge gust of wind scattered leaves across the lawn, he nodded and smiled. "I see. Okay. You guys go ahead. I have my own car. I'll follow you."

  "Oh. Well, alright. Sure." James nodded and opened the passenger door for his wife. "See you there."

  "Yes, see you." Frank echoed before walking away.

  As James pulled his car out of the driveway, they could see Frank's car pull up behind them. James looked up at the rearview mirror and his lips quirked. "I'm sure Dad will be happy seeing us two brothers together again."

  Claire was silent.

  "What's
the matter, honey?" He reached over and took her head. "Jeez, your hands are ice cold. What's wrong? Is the heat not enough? Do you want my jacket?"

  She shook her head. "No. Nothing's wrong." She lifted his hand to press her lips against his knuckles. "It's just – your brother creeps me out sometimes."

  "I know! Uncle Frank is so weird, right? He always looks so psychotic," Terry piped up from the backseat.

  James chuckled. "Oh, come on. He's not that bad."

  "Dad, he looks like he's a drug addict. He was all pale and he was shaking. Who sweats like that in the middle of winter?"

  James shook his head. "Alright, I admit it. Frank's always been a bit – zany – but he's okay. He's never done anything –"

  Frank's car sped up past their car then and James frowned. "What is he doing? I thought he was going to follow us."

  Claire bit her lip and her hand tightened around James before releasing it. "Maybe – maybe he knows the way –"

  Terry snorted, "Maybe he wants to show off his new car – you know, vroom vroom –"

  "What the hell?" James suddenly barked.

  Frank twisted his car around to block the road in front of them and they could see him staring at them through his window, his hands tight on the wheel. His eyes were dark and dispassionate and he blinked solemnly.

  Claire's eyes widened. "James, watch out!"

  Terry closed his eyes, grabbing hold of his mother's headrest as his father swerved. The tires screeched against the icy road, slipping and sliding. It reminded him of a roller coaster ride gone wrong. "James!" "Damn it!" The car hurtled into a tree in a sickening spray of glass and compressed metal before careening and flipping over. His head whipped back and forth and he opened his bleary eyes. "Mom. Dad."

  The silence horrified him and the pain surrounded him. His vision was upside down, his body still strapped in place by his seatbelt. Blood rushed to his brain. "Mom." He stared at the shock of familiar red hair in front of him. Blood even more crimson trickled down through those beautiful locks. "Mom."

  "Dad. Help Mom. Dad." His voice was hoarse and his neck hurt as he tried to look over at his father. The back of James Westlane's body dangled upside down in the same way as Terry's, but his neck seemed contorted in a way that was too unnatural. "Dad. Please."

  Spots swam in front of his eyes as he felt something liquid and sticky run down along his neck, around his ear. His vision darkened – but not before he listened to the sound of a car pulling away.

  Terry stared up at the ceiling again, but this time, his eyes were too blurred by tears to see the play of shadows.

  "Bastard."

  * * *

  "Bastard." Her voice shook, but she repeated herself until her words rang out. "Bastard. Bastard. Bastard!"

  Frank bared his teeth and he reached for her, but she fought, leaving three welts across his cheek and gouging the skin off the back of his hands. "Let go of me, you bastard. You killed your own brother. You killed my family!" She kicked and screamed, curling her fingers, trying to reach his eyeballs.

  "It had to be done," He said matter-of-factly. "It was the only way."

  "You were actually this sick? To want to imprison me so much, that you were willing to kill your own brother? My parents?"

  He snorted. "Oh Samantha, you're just too cute."

  She tried to skin him and he slammed her back against the wall.

  He hissed at her, "You're lovely, but not that great. You were just a nice gift that was thrown in along the side."

  Samantha gnashed her teeth. A very primitive desire to sink her teeth into his arm took hold of her.

  "No. It was more than that. It was your stupid dead grandfather."

  "What does Grandpa have to do with everything? He died a year before you murdered my parents!"

  "Yes, the old fart died, but the point is, he did me a great injustice."

  "Grandpa was nice, fair and if he could just see you now, he would throw you into jail and –"

  "Nice? Fair? Your grandfather upped and died, leaving practically all of his money to your idiotic dad. You think that's fair? I have always been the one who worked and slaved for him. What did your dad do, huh? He didn't lift a pinky for the company. No, he was too busy wooing your airhead of a mother and running off on little crusades for the poor and sickly. How was that fair?"

  His fingers had tightened around her throat and she coughed. "Grandpa didn't leave all of his money to us, idiot. He divided it equally between all of us –"

  "Yes! Equally, is it? Four portions for you happy little Brady Bunch – and one measly share for poor Uncle Frank. That's lovely, isn't it? What did you and your brother do? What did your mother and your father do? Did you really honestly think you deserve the money?"

  She tried to twist away from his grasp. "Then maybe you should have done what any normal person with common sense would have done instead of murdering my parents – find a lawyer and contest the freaking damn will!"

  His eyes darkened and his lips whitened. "Well, that's all of little importance now, isn't it, Samantha? It all worked out for the best. Everyone who was pesky has died and I now have you forever. Yes. A nice happy ending, isn't it?"

  Her breath caught in her throat in a harsh hiccupping sob. "Dad shouldn't have swerved. He should have just driven into you and ended your miserable life, you scum."

  Frank's lips curled and as he raised his rigid hand, she lifted her head in defiance –

  DING DONG!

  Frank paused. "What the hell?"

  A low murmur of voices sounded from the hall downstairs and he growled. "Visitors?" His eyes narrowed at Sammy and she swallowed, glaring back. "Well then. Guess you're in luck. I shall have to tend to you later, Samantha." He released his hold and she pressed back against the wall. He turned around and took a step toward the door. "But until then –" He spun back around and drove his foot against her ribcage.

  Sammy wheezed as she doubled over. He calmly took her head within both his hands in a mockingly tender gesture before smashing it again and again against the wall.

  Frank deftly wiped his hands on her shirt before stepping away and letting her fall. Closing the door tight behind him, he left her collapsed in an unconscious, bloody heap on the floor.

  * * *

  DING DONG!

  The maid opened the door and blinked. William stood on the front step, grinning and waving. "Hi there. You look nice. May I come in?"

  "Are – are you looking for someone? Might I inquire who you might be?"

  "Yes. Will. So can I come in?"

  "Um, well, Mr. Westlane doesn't really like unannounced visitors."

  "That's okay. You can announce me to him when I'm inside."

  "I – don't think so."

  "Okay, look. Here's the real deal." He looked around before leaning in to whisper confidentially. "I'm actually an honorary member of the Boy Scouts and if I don't at least sell a batch of cookies here, I'm going to be, like, un-Scoutitized."

  The maid stared at him dubiously. "But you don't have any cookies."

  "I have to do my spiel first. Don't you know? Ad presentation before taking down the orders? Reel people's interest in first before bringing in the big money?"

  "I – don't think so."

  "Oh, come on. It's really important to me –"

  "What the hell's going on?"

  The maid paled and William's eyes turned icy as they looked up to find Frank heading down the steps.

  Frank narrowed his eyes at Will before blinking. "You?" He snapped at the maid. "Don't you know how to do your job? Close the door. He's not welcome."

  William declared, "Are you sure? It might be in your best interest to hear me out first."

  Frank rolled his eyes. "No. I really don't think so."

  The maid gave William an apologetic look before shutting the door – that is, it would have closed, had not a hand suddenly slammed against it, wedging it back open.

  Vincent seemed to have suddenly materialized in the door
way. The maid stumbled backward. His lips twisted in a wry, cold smirk as he lounged against the door with his eyes leveled at Frank. "Oh, but I insist."

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  "Oh, but I insist." Vincent remarked quietly as he leaned against the doorway. The fingers of one hand rubbed the knuckles of the other in an almost absentminded way.

  William beamed.

  Frank blanched.

  Tristan appeared next to Vincent. Smiling at the disturbed maid, he suggested, "My apologies, miss. You might want to excuse yourself for the moment. Something bad and possibly bloody might happen soon."

  The woman opened her mouth, blinked rapidly, took a step backward, then forward and finally glanced over at Frank. "Do – do you want me to call the police, sir?"

  "No. Mind your business and get back to work."

  "Oh. Well – well then, I see." She nodded. "Then I think I'm going to take sick leave for the rest of the day if you don't mind, sir. Goodbye and, uh, good luck, sir!" She clasped her hands in front of her, squeezed past Tristan and Vincent, and scurried away from the house before her employer could utter a word.

  Frank gaped. He coughed and straightened up, trying to recover his composure. "I'll have you know that she is still a witness. She'll know that you bunch were here, making trouble in my house."

  Vincent arched an eyebrow. "And what exactly would she be a witness for?"

  "I think he's thinking something along the lines of broken limbs, spurting blood, maybe sudden death?" A voice wafted in from outside the house.

  Tristan glanced over his shoulder. "Oh. Jack. Caine. You're still outside?"

  Jack grumbled, "Well, we wouldn't be if you two would stop blocking the damn door."

  Tristan smiled genially and stepped away, holding his hand out graciously. The two boys filed in and stepped over next to Will.

  Vincent didn't budge. Now that there was an opening next to him, his eyes dared Frank. Want to try running for it, old man?

  Frank curled his lips and looked away. Vincent smirked, stepped forward and kicked the door shut.