by Ana Barrons
She closed her eyes and focused on tensing her muscles and then relaxing them, tensing, relaxing, over and over. She came awake with a start, and discovered that the car still hadn’t moved.
“What’s going on?” she asked in a voice gravelly with fatigue.
He trained bloodshot eyes on her. “There’s something else I need to ask you to do. I didn’t think of it until you remembered the argument between your parents. Now I realize it’s a missing piece that could be important.”
“What is it?”
John reached out and stroked his knuckles gently over her cheek. “We need to pay a visit to your father.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
John watched Hannah out of the corner of his eye as he turned down a block lined with huge, stately homes. There it was on the mailbox, 4725 Valley Creek Road. The house wasn’t visible from the street, so he turned into the driveway and followed it through the trees directly up to a large, federal-style colonial with white columns lining the front porch. He parked on the circular drive, cut the engine and turned to Hannah. She hadn’t said a word the whole way from Marblehead.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay? I told you I’d do most of the talking.”
She turned haunted eyes to him, and he badly wanted to start up the car and get the hell out of there just to make that look go away. But he couldn’t. The thought of his father sitting in that prison cell wouldn’t allow him to spare her, or himself. He had gone into this crusade of his fully intending to use Hannah as ruthlessly as necessary to get what he wanted, and he was doing just that. There was no use pretending differently. She was his sacrificial lamb. Collateral damage.
He turned away for a moment and took a long, slow breath. Guilt was a useless emotion, but one with which he was intimately familiar. He hadn’t planned on caring about her at all, much less with this intensity. Somehow he would make it all up to her.
Sure you will, John. Just like you made it up to the women you used for the bureau and threw away.
God help him, he wanted to keep this one.
He took Hannah’s cold hand and rubbed it between both of his. “One thing you should be prepared for. I’m going to introduce myself as John Samuels. I mean, you never know. I’m in enough trouble with the FBI without your father checking up on me and finding out I’m a special agent. Or was. And I don’t want him making the connection between me and his late wife’s lover.”
“What’s one more lie?” she said, but there was no sarcasm in her tone.
He could see she was nervous. He squeezed her hands and let them go, then got out and came around to open her door. She sat there for a moment, lifted her sunglasses from the top of her head and put them on. After another few moments, she stepped out of the car. He reached for her hand, but she ran it through her hair instead, then straightened her sweater, smoothed her palms over her jeans and cleared her throat. The poignancy of her primping for the father who had abandoned her all those years ago made his chest ache.
He led the way up the steps to the porch and rang the bell. Behind him, Hannah cleared her throat again. A few seconds later, a young girl with curly brown hair and a turned-up nose opened the door. He guessed she was eleven or so.
“Hi,” John said. “Is this the Duncan residence?”
The girl glanced between them. “Yes?”
“Is Dr. Duncan at home?”
“Um, yeah. Can you hang on?” She turned away and shouted, “Mom! Somebody’s here to see Daddy.”
Hannah gasped. When John turned to her she was holding one hand over her mouth and had an arm wrapped around her middle. He pulled her to his side.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, kissing her temple. How must she feel to discover she’d had a half-sister all these years? “We’ll do this and leave as soon as possible.”
Hannah pulled her hand off her mouth and wrapped her other arm around her middle. She said nothing, but she was struggling for control.
“Can I help you?”
John let go of her and turned back to the door. A slightly overweight, middle-aged blonde with rimless glasses frowned at him. He gave her his most charming smile.
“Hi, are you Mrs. Duncan?”
“Yes?” The frown was gone now.
“I’m John Samuels, and this is my wife, Hannah.” He stepped aside for a second and was relieved to hear Hannah murmur a greeting. “I hope we haven’t come at a bad time, but we’re staying at an inn in the area and I figured this was a good time to pay a visit to your husband. My dad was at Harvard at the same time as Dr. Duncan, and he told me about his work in neurosurgery. It’s Sunday, so I thought we’d take a chance that he’d be home.”
The woman’s face softened. “Let me go get him, Mr.—”
“Samuels. John and Hannah Samuels. From Philadelphia.”
“I’ll go get him, Mom,” the girl said from behind the door.
After an awkward moment in which the woman obviously couldn’t decide whether it was safe to let a couple of strangers into the house, she stepped back and said, “Please. Come in.”
John took Hannah’s elbow and moved aside so she could pass. She hesitated for half a second and stepped into the foyer.
Mrs. Duncan eyed the sunglasses curiously. “It must be brighter out than I thought.”
Hannah gave a weak smile. “I thought it seemed a little dark in here.” Lowering her head, she pulled off the sunglasses and took her time putting them in her purse. At the sound of heavy footsteps she froze. John laid a protective hand on her shoulder and swallowed hard. They were about to come face-to-face with the bastard who had caused Hannah so much pain.
Martin Duncan strode into the foyer with glasses perched halfway down his nose and a book in his hand. His white hair was receding, revealing more of his deeply tanned forehead than he probably liked. John could tell the man’s smile didn’t come easily. He held out his hand and John took it. Duncan’s grip was firm. Hard. Like the man’s heart.
“John Samuels?” Duncan said.
“Yes, sir. I was hoping we could have a few minutes of your time. There’s something very important we need to discuss with you.”
Duncan and his wife exchanged looks. “I don’t remember a Samuels from Harvard. What was your father’s first name?”
John pulled his hand back and had the urge to wipe it on his jacket. He wrapped his arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “Actually, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Hannah raised her head slowly. Duncan’s eyes widened, and the blood left his face. He gripped the edge of the open door, frozen.
“Martin?” Mrs. Duncan glanced nervously between her husband and Hannah. Then she stopped and fixed on Hannah’s face. Several seconds passed before she understood.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
The girl who had answered the door sidled up to her father and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Daddy?” she said, looking up at his face. “What’s going on?”
Duncan patted his daughter on the shoulder and said, “It’s okay, honey. I just need to talk to these people privately for a few minutes. You and your mother go on.”
The girl squeezed closer to her father. “Who are they?”
“No one important,” he said, his eyes still on Hannah.
John felt Hannah’s shoulders sag and wanted nothing more than to beat the living shit out of Duncan for saying that. The man was a first-class shithead.
The girl turned to them, her expression angry. “Who are you?”
“Avery,” her mother said, grabbing her daughter’s arm. “Let go of your father, now. He needs to talk to these people.”
Avery yanked her arm back. “Who are you?” she asked again, her tone more strident than before.
“Don’t worry, Avery,” Hannah said. John knew that gentle tone well. He’d heard her use it to reassure the kids at school more times than he could count. “Your father’s just surprised to see me. I’m…a distant relative, from a part of the family he’s no longer i
n touch with. That’s all.”
Avery looked up at her father. “Is that true, Daddy?”
“This has nothing to do with you. Go with your mother. We’ll be in my office, and I don’t want to be disturbed.” He turned and walked out of the foyer.
Hannah turned to Mrs. Duncan. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
Mrs. Duncan had tears in her eyes. “It’s okay,” she whispered, then pulled her daughter into her arms.
John nudged Hannah forward, and they followed her father through the living room, across a covered breezeway and into a large office with lots of windows. She held herself tall, just like she did at school, and John felt a surge of respect and affection for this proud woman who had lost so much, yet had so much to give. If he had ever doubted his feelings for Hannah, witnessing her compassion for the family that had, literally, replaced her, affirmed what his heart had known all along.
Duncan walked around a large oak desk and sat down in a high-backed leather desk chair. He didn’t offer them seats, but Hannah perched on the sofa anyway. He fixed his gaze on John. “What do you want from me?”
“Answers.”
“It’s very awkward, having you show up now. My daughter doesn’t know anything about that business twenty-odd years ago, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
John could barely contain his fury. “You have another daughter. And this other daughter is being stalked. Just like her mother was twenty-three years ago.”
Duncan stared at him. “There was no stalker. I went through this at the time with that cop, that rookie.” He waved his hand dismissively. “For some reason he chose to believe Daly’s story, even though no one else did. I told him then and I’m telling you now, there was no stalker.”
John looked over at Hannah, her hands folded between her knees, probably to keep them from shaking. He ached to hold her and take the pain away.
“No?” John said. “Well, I have information that says there was a stalker, and there’s a very good chance it’s the same man who is now stalking Hannah.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
You piece of shit. “What kinds of gifts were left at the house?”
Duncan leaned forward. “Look, Samuels. I’m telling you there was no stalker. The man who killed Sharon is rotting in a prison cell, which is exactly what he deserves.”
John walked up to the desk, laid his fists on the edge and leaned across until Duncan sat back. “Fine. We’ll play it your way. What kinds of gifts did your wife’s lover leave at your house?”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t remember.”
John leaned closer. “Try.”
“I don’t know,” Duncan said angrily. “Flowers. That sort of thing.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“Roses. Lots of roses. Now will you leave?”
John shook his head slowly. “You’re unbelievable. You haven’t seen your daughter in what, sixteen years?” He extended an arm toward Hannah. “Look at her, Duncan. Pull your head out of your ass for a second and take a good look at her. She’s a beautiful woman. She’s funny and warm and smart as hell. And the most generous, empathetic person I know. Did you know that she runs that school you abandoned her at? You know, the one where she tried to commit suicide? The Grange?” John was shouting now, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Do you know a goddamn thing about her?”
Duncan slammed his hand on the desk. “I don’t want to know about her! She’s nothing but a carbon copy of her mother. And I want you out of here, now. Both of you.” He stood.
“We’ll leave,” Hannah said from the couch. John turned to her and was instantly ashamed that he’d lost control. Her chin was raised, her back straight as she stared down her father with the most dispassionate expression he’d ever seen on her face. “But not until you tell us what we came to find out. If the person who’s been stalking me was stalking my mother, then damn it, I want to know.”
Duncan seemed shocked to hear her speak, and just stood there for a moment, staring down at his desk. Then he crossed to the window, shoved his hands in his pockets and gazed out at his garden. “He left her roses at first. A scarf, once. And a hand mirror. Little painted boxes. A necklace. That kind of thing.”
“Her lover wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave presents at her house,” Hannah said. “Sam Daly was a professor, not a moron. Did you ever see the guy who left the stuff?”
Duncan stood stiffly, unwilling to even glance at his own flesh and blood. “I don’t know who I saw. One morning, I heard a sound and looked out the window on the landing. I saw someone walking away from the house, and when I went down there were red roses sitting on the kitchen table.” He paused. “I’d sensed your mother had someone on the side. That was proof, as far as I was concerned.”
“I guess she was looking for a little warmth,” John said.
Duncan whirled on him. “What do you know about it? I gave that woman everything. Everything. And she humiliated me. Do you know what that feels like?” He pointed at Hannah. “Oh sure, she’s beautiful. Just like her mother. When I saw her standing there—” He faltered for a moment. “For a fraction of a second, I believed Sharon had come back from the dead. You think I want to look at that face? You think I want to be reminded of Sharon? Of what she did to me?”
“Jesus Christ,” John said. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”
“Did you call the police when you saw the man leaving your house?” Hannah’s voice was calm.
Her father ran a hand over his hair. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Try to remember. It’s very important.”
“I can’t remember. Do you want me to make something up?”
“It’s hard for me to believe you wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to report your wife’s lover to the police for breaking and entering,” John said.
“For all I know Sharon left the back door unlocked so he could slip inside.”
Hannah stood and walked slowly toward her father. “That’s not true and you know it. You went downstairs every night and checked all the doors and windows. I remember you doing it. I was terrified of being alone in my room. Mom always looked in the closet and under my bed before she tucked me in, and you would come upstairs and tell me no monsters could get into the house because you had locked them all out.”
Duncan seemed to shrink from her. “Well, someone got in, and I don’t think it was some mysterious stalker who’s now stalking you down in Virginia. That’s just crazy.”
“Did you report it?”
“No! Why would I? So the locals would know my wife was having an affair?”
“Let me get this straight, Duncan,” John said. “Someone broke into your house, left flowers for your wife, and you didn’t report it because you were afraid of gossip? Did it ever occur to you that your wife and your daughter could be in danger?”
“No! If the guy was her lover, why would he come into the house, leave flowers and then kill—” He stopped.
The room was silent for several beats.
“Did you really believe Sam Daly killed her?” Hannah asked. “At the time?”
“What does it matter what I believed?” Duncan was visibly shaken. “The police found the letters, all the evidence pointed to him, he was convicted. Case closed.”
“When did the person come into the house?” John asked. “What was the date?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“Think, goddamn it! If Sam Daly had an alibi for when someone broke into your house the police might reopen the investigation. Your wife’s killer could still be out there. He could be stalking your other daughter.”
Duncan stared at John like he had two heads. “Do you honestly believe I would lift a finger to help the bastard who fucked my wife and tried to convince her to leave me?”
“Sharon’s not your wife anymore, Martin.” Mrs. Duncan stood in the doorway, the pain in her pale green eyes belying the ice
in her tone. “I am. And it’s time you did the right thing.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time they got in the Taurus and headed back to Marblehead, it was nearly dark. John insisted that they stop at a diner to grab a bite to eat, but Hannah had no appetite, so she drank more coffee and pushed the scrambled eggs around on her plate. The afternoon had been tortuous for all of them, including her father’s new wife, Angela, who had seen her husband with new eyes. Once he realized Angela had heard the whole conversation, her father had been much more forthcoming with information.
Even though neither of her parents reported the break-in all those years ago, a rookie cop named Ronald Geer came back after her mother’s murder to follow up on Sam Daly’s claim that a man had been following her around for months. Hannah’s father had insisted it wasn’t true, that Sharon would have told him if she was being followed. Clearly, the grieving husband, a prominent neurosurgeon, had a whole lot more credibility than the man accused of his wife’s murder. Her father also admitted that the psychiatrist who had worked with Hannah, Dr. Naguchi, was a friend of his, and that Naguchi had “guided” her through the trial. When the judge asked Hannah if she knew the man in the bedroom, she had been told to say, “The man who loved Mommy.”
Hannah thought about the dream she’d had, that night John had held her while she slept, in which she heard the man’s voice saying I love you, I love you, I love you while her mother’s blood dripped onto the white carpet. If that was a real memory—and she had no way of knowing that now—then Dr. Naguchi must have interpreted it the way her father wanted him to, the truth be damned. Her father had wanted his revenge on his wife’s lover, and the police had wanted the case solved quickly. Sam Daly had no alibi for the time the murder took place. He was convicted on a preponderance of evidence, all of it circumstantial except for the sworn testimony of a six-year-old girl who was hiding under the bed, where she’d gone to sneak a peek at her Christmas presents.
