Besides, why bother? Home never had been home, not in a traditional sense. Home conjured pictures of leisurely family dinners. Doing chores together. Parents putting together bicycles on Christmas Eve so Santa wouldn’t disappoint.
All that was as foreign to Karlyn as a homeless orphan from Harlem being adopted by a doting billionaire and thrust into life in Beverly Hills.
Dinners in the Campbell home consisted of a tray in her room. Her father was always in his study writing, the unspoken Do Not Disturb sign keeping him from meals. That or book tours and the lecture circuit all added up to no time spent together.
Besides, Martha Campbell didn’t cook, so Karlyn’s dinner usually consisted of a sandwich she made herself.
And vacations? Unheard of. Her classmates went from the Grand Canyon to the Grand Caymans, New York City to Disney World. But Broderick Campbell was too famous to go anywhere. He’d be recognized, and he hated that. He cherished privacy over riding on Space Mountain with his only child.
So when she twirled her baton at a football game or danced a ballet solo, no loving adult in the audience cheered her on.
Just like no one cheered on her fast-rising career in publishing.
Her father remained critical of her writing. Karlyn stopped showing him anything by the time she turned fourteen. When she actually published her first historical romance novel, she flew to Georgia with the first copy off the press, signed and dedicated to her parents. Her father swiped the paperback from her hands, vanished into his study, and emerged three hours later uttering one word.
Rubbish.
Nothing but that one, scathing word of criticism.
At that, something broke inside her. All the hurt and anger built up from childhood crashed. And then the void arose, a black hole as vast as the Bermuda Triangle. Karlyn felt absolutely nothing for the two people that supposedly raised her.
She’d raised herself—and hadn’t done a bad job. She graduated from a prestigious Ivy League university. Landed a job within a month of graduation. Published her first novel at twenty-three. Everything seemed to be golden in her life as her writing career took off faster than a Triple Crown winner.
Except when it came to men. Total strikeouts in that area. From unrequited love to broken love affairs and now the huge disaster of divorce. Men were the oil to Karlyn’s water. They just didn’t mix.
As she cruised down the highway, she spoke aloud a vow she intended to keep.
“I, Karlyn Campbell, do solemnly swear I will not get involved with a man for the next ten years. Minimum. Look briefly at a good ass—maybe—but that’s as far as it will go.”
She glanced into her rearview mirror and saw the determination on her features. If anything, her stubbornness would allow her to keep the promise to herself.
And then she remembered the one good man in her life.
She added an addendum. “All except the amazing Matt Collins, of course. And any other interesting, fictional man I can create and have total control over.”
She brusquely nodded for good measure. “I promise I will create good men who will make even better women happy. Furthermore, I swear to kill off any man that is mean, unfaithful, or uninteresting.”
Karlyn chuckled at her resolve. She supposed a shrink would say she was killing her father over and over again in her suspense novels. If she were, it was certainly fun. And profitable.
She glimpsed the sign for Our Lady of Mercy Hospital and exited the freeway, following the blue signs rather than her mother’s vague directions. She parked and found the information desk in the lobby.
“Hi. I’m here to visit my father, Broderick Campbell, but I don’t have the room number.” Thanks to her mother, who hadn’t bothered with details.
The slender receptionist stared at her open-mouthed. “You’re . . . you’re . . . Karlyn Campbell! Oh, my god, you’re like my favorite author ever. And I saw on E! News where Matt Collins is going to be a movie. That is so awesome!” She hesitated. “Uh, can I have your autograph? No one is going to believe I met you. You’re like . . . a goddess.”
Karlyn smiled and took the offered pen and memo pad. “Only if you give me my father’s room number.”
“Sorry.” The young woman’s fingers flew over the keys. She frowned. “He’s in ICU. That’s the sixth floor. Room 638.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ava.”
Karlyn scribbled a moment and handed over the pen and paper. “Thank you, Ava. I appreciate your kind words. I enjoy meeting my fans.”
“Hey, would you use my name in your next book? That would be so cool.”
Karlyn pursed her lips and thought a moment. “Ava. Sounds like a woman with a past. And a juicy secret. You’re on, Ava. Keep buying my books. You’ll see your name one of these days. I can’t promise if I’ll keep you alive. Dead seems to work better for me.”
She walked away as the receptionist squealed. Karlyn pulled out her phone to make a note about it. She did like the name. It was old-fashioned and yet sexy. Maybe Ava could be the heroine in her next romantic suspense, but that would have to wait. Completing the screenplay loomed over her, as well as trying to finish the novel she’d begun a few months ago. And now this thing with her father had come up. Karlyn didn’t know how long she’d be in Walton Springs, much less why he wanted to see her after so many years of silence.
She made her way to the bank of elevators. She gritted her teeth as she stepped inside. She liked being in control of a situation, and she had no idea what she was about to walk into.
The doors opened, and a bedraggled Martha Campbell appeared in front of her.
“Oh, Karlyn.” Her mother rushed into the elevator and clutched her tightly, her body shaking.
“It’s okay, Mother.”
“He’s going to die, Karlyn, I know it.”
The doors started to close.
“Let’s get out.”
She maneuvered her mother out of the small box and tried to put on a brave face, which was hard because her mother was a mess. Karlyn was used to Martha being the most put-together woman in any room, but she looked as if she’d slept in her clothes. Her hair was flat, and most of her make-up had worn off. Martha Campbell without make-up spelled the end of time.
“What do I need to know before I see him?”
Her mother’s face crumpled. She dissolved into tears again. Karlyn pulled a tissue from her purse and handed it over. Martha dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose at a surprisingly loud, unladylike level.
“Let’s get some of that bad coffee hospitals are famous for, and you can catch me up.”
She led them down the quiet corridor until they reached a small lounge with vending machines.
“Nothing for me, dear,” her mother said. “I’ve had enough coffee to float to China. I doubt I’ll sleep a wink tonight. Not that I did here last night.”
Karlyn put in some change and pressed a few buttons. Her coffee with milk and some kind of sweetener appeared. She probably wouldn’t drink it, but she needed something to keep her hands busy.
Martha led them over to a couple of empty chairs, and they sat. Neither spoke.
Karlyn refused to be the first to continue the conversation. She’d flown in from New York, she’d asked about her father’s condition, and her mother had fluttered around and told her nothing.
“He had another stroke, you know. Before this one,” Martha finally offered.
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her mother toyed with the wadded up tissue. “He didn’t want you to know. It was three years ago. He didn’t want anyone to know.”
Martha Campbell stood. “It was mild. The doctor said if you had to have one, this was the one to have. Broderick bounced back almost immediately. Began walking again in the morn
ings. It never affected his speech or his coordination. Pretty soon he was writing as if nothing had happened. He finished his next novel on schedule. Even his agent was none the wiser.”
She frowned. “I wish you would’ve told me.”
Martha waved her hands helplessly. “I couldn’t go against his wishes. You know how he can be.”
Her temper flared. “That’s great, Mother. My own father breaks off all contact with me, and you go right along with him, punishing me for who knows what.”
Karlyn stood and began pacing to hide how upset she was. She should have never come in the fragile emotional state she was in. This trip to Georgia had mistake written all over it.
“Well, I do call you when I get a chance. I’ve never told Broderick. I can’t believe I do it, but I need to see how you are every now and then.”
“Right now, Mother, I’m not too great. I signed my divorce papers yesterday.”
“Oh, no. Poor Mario.”
Anger sizzled inside her. “Poor Mario? That is the story of my life with you, Mother. You think about anyone but your own daughter, and I’m burning up with hurt over it all.”
Martha looked startled. “Oh, Karlyn. You’ve always seemed so self-sufficient. Like you didn’t need me or anyone else. I thought you must have initiated the divorce. I felt sorry for Mario losing you. He’s such a handsome, sweet boy.”
“He’s a grown man, Mother, and he’s no angel.” She clammed up, determined not to describe her ex’s temper tantrums and affairs. She doubted her mother saw any rumors printed in the tabloids. Her father would expressly keep that kind of trash out of their house. Since she knew they had a housekeeper who did their marketing, Martha Campbell never set foot inside a supermarket where she could peruse the screaming headlines while in the check-out line.
Besides, Martha would be in denial about anything concerning Mario. His dark, Spanish looks and impeccable manners had charmed her mother from their first meeting.
“Well, I’m sorry, dear. At least you have that lovely apartment with its wonderful views.”
No sense in getting into that. Karlyn waited for her mother to continue.
“I suppose you want to hear about your father’s condition. He had the stroke yesterday morning. Two nice policemen found him and called an ambulance, and they brought me here.”
“So you’ve been here since yesterday morning? Have you eaten anything?”
Martha looked blank for a moment. “I don’t remember.”
“Have you called anyone?”
“No. Broderick wouldn’t want anyone to know. Like before.” She turned tear-filled eyes to Karlyn.
“Except you, dear. One of the detectives said your father specifically asked for you to be called. So that’s what I did.”
“Then let’s get this over with.” She took her mother’s arm and helped her out of the chair.
They walked down the hall, both pausing a moment when they reached the room. Karlyn could see through the window that her father was hooked up to a couple of machines, his eyes closed.
“You can only go in for the first few minutes at the top of the hour,” her mother informed her. “ICU rules.”
Karlyn glanced at her watch. “It’s five till two. I think we can bend the rules a little and go on in.”
Martha put on the brakes. “No. They only let one at a time see him. You go. I’ll wait.” With that, Martha turned and retreated down the hall.
Karlyn steeled herself. She stepped into the dim room and paused. The beeping monitor sounded at regular intervals. The only other sound beyond it was her father’s slow, even breathing. That had to be a good sign.
She moved closer and sat in the chair next to the bed. Should she take his hand? She’d never held it before. Never received a hug or a kiss from him, not upon graduation, not even when she left for college. She had even pushed Mario to elope because she couldn’t see herself on her father’s arm coming down the aisle on her wedding day. They went to Mexico and were married barefoot on the beach instead of in a church with her parents looking on. That is, if they would have come. Karlyn thought of the excuses they’d made at other momentous occasions in her life. Even her wedding wouldn’t have guaranteed their attendance.
She leaned closer and studied the great Broderick Campbell. He seemed smaller somehow, not the intimidating giant of her childhood. Reluctantly, Karlyn reached out and placed her hand over his. It was cool to the touch.
His eyes opened. “You . . . came.”
She noticed the slur in his speech. Awake, she also could see the downward tilt of his mouth. She wondered if he’d suffered any paralysis from the stroke.
“You asked for me.” She paused a moment. “I wondered why.”
“Tell you . . . how proud I am. Of . . . you.”
Karlyn froze. Her father was a man of few words. And he’d said he was proud of her.
“Is this your idea of a deathbed confession that’ll make you look good to God and get you into heaven?”
Broderick Campbell snorted. “Never one . . . mince words.”
She shrugged. “I guess since I’ve never received a compliment from you, it’s a little hard to buy it now.”
“I . . . read . . . it all.”
Even slurred, she understood the words perfectly.
“You’ve read all my published works? All the rubbish?”
A pained look crossed his face. “Jealous,” he croaked.
They sat in silence a few minutes, her hand still atop his, his words turning in her mind.
Finally, he spoke again. “I like . . . Matt. He’s tough . . . but . . . good. Your plots . . . good. Make readers . . . think.”
His breathing seemed more labored to her. His words became harder to understand.
“Not good father. Never . . . wanted. You . . . stand on own. Make success. You . . . good.”
Karlyn squeezed his hand. Words of love might have been what other daughters wanted, but for the amazing Broderick Campbell to praise her writing meant more to her than any other declaration.
“I’m glad you like my work, Father.”
His eyelids fluttered a few times. “Better . . . me. Take care . . . Martha.”
The monitor screeched wildly.
Chapter 7
Logan awoke to the smells of bacon frying in the diner below. His stomach growled in response. He glanced at the clock and smiled. He’d made it past six-thirty today. That was a good sign. Too many nights over the last few years had been long and sleepless. Cases he worked kept him up all hours of the night, second-guessing who the perp was, what he might be up to, and how to stop him.
Then endless nights came calling when no cases simmered on the front burner. Those nights wore him out. They always involved images of the twins. Or replaying the bitter arguments with Felicity in the months after the funeral.
Logan threw the covers back and hit the shower. He intended to enjoy this off-duty Saturday. Taking his motorcycle out and roaming the countryside topped his agenda.
As he dressed, he wondered how Broderick Campbell had fared. Maybe he would zip by the hospital. He chuckled at his mom trying to rope Mrs. Campbell into book club. Maybe she didn’t join because the group never read any books. They paid a retired schoolteacher to give book talks once a month on the latest bestsellers so they wouldn’t have to read. Instead, after their guest speaker did her thing, the women shared a potluck dinner and gossiped like fishwives about the thickening plots surrounding the Springs—rumors about possibly affairs, cheating businessmen, and disrespectful teens.
His mom and Nelda spilled the beans regarding everything they’d heard at book club, whether real or imagined. And women thought men were bad with their poker nights.
Logan debated on toasting some English muffins and firing up
the coffeemaker but decided it would be quicker to eat downstairs. Some mornings he liked privacy and chose to make his own breakfast. Today he was ready to eat and escape on his bike.
He lifted a leather bomber jacket from the coat rack and slung it over his shoulder as he made his way downstairs. The place only had a handful of customers. He climbed onto a barstool, and Nelda poured him a cup of coffee.
“Eggs? Pancakes?”
“I’ll take French toast and bacon. Tall OJ with it.”
“You got it.” She turned the order in to Leon, the morning fry cook. Leon worked the A.M. shift because he only knew how to cook breakfast foods. He could whip up omelets and hash browns and the finest eggs over-easy around, but diner staples such as fried chicken and meatloaf baffled him.
Logan waved at Leon and sweetened his coffee. Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. Chief Risedale stood behind him.
“Morning, Chief.”
Risedale grabbed a stool. “We gotta talk.” His tone was quiet but urgent. The policeman turned to Nelda. “Two sunny side ups, sausage, biscuits and gravy, please. And coffee.”
Risedale made small talk till both men had their meals in front of them.
“Okay, Logan. I’m officially out of the race. If I want to stay married to Louise, I’m not running.” He glared at Logan’s grin. “And no, I’m not pussy-whupped. I tend to agree with my wife in order to keep the peace. You’ll need to declare by the Wednesday after next at noon. Get a petition with a minimum of five hundred registered voter names on it. Once someone signs one, he can’t sign for another candidate in the same race.”
Illusions of Death Page 4
