by Joanne Fluke
“But . . . why?”
“Because we love each other.” His father seemed to have aged in the past few minutes, and that made Alan feel bad. But he’d promised Connie he’d tell him everything, so he had another blow to deliver. “Connie’s pregnant. We didn’t plan it, and she suggested abortion, but I wouldn’t agree. She only did it to please me. She wants this baby just as much as I do.”
Alan’s father swallowed hard. A vein in his forehead was throbbing as he leaned forward to put a hand on Alan’s arm. “Listen to me, son. You’re falling into the oldest trap in the world!”
Alan shook his head. “It’s not a trap. I’m the one who insisted that Connie marry me. She knew you wouldn’t approve, and she didn’t want to cause trouble in the family. She was willing to leave and raise the baby herself.”
* * *
As Ralph Stanford remained silent, Alan’s hopes rose. Was it possible he’d convinced his father? Would the family accept Connie and the baby?
The library was so quiet Alan could hear the individual flakes of snow as they blew against the windows. It was turning icy as the night approached; the temperature had fallen to single digits. Each gust of wind was followed by sounds like those of a snare drum as snow turned to sleet hit the glass panes.
At last Alan’s father nodded. “All right. The two of you will continue to live in the condo, where she’ll have every advantage. The family will support her, pay her medical bills, and provide any help she needs. When she gives birth, we’ll do a paternity test; then you’ll have our permission to marry.”
“What!” Alan was so shocked, he stood up. “A paternity test would be an insult to Connie—and to me! I’m telling you, Father, this baby is mine!”
“Perhaps. But we can’t take the chance that you’re wrong. Just remember, son, it’s a wise man who knows the father of his own child.”
“You’re crazy!” Alan was so upset, he found he was fumbling for words. “Listen to me, Connie would never . . . I can’t believe that you’d actually . . . ”
Alan’s father rose and took his arm. “Calm down. I’m not accusing her of anything. I’m just saying that before you commit yourself, it’s best to make certain. If it’ll make you feel better, we won’t even tell her about the paternity test. Our own doctor will do it in the hospital and will keep it strictly confidential.”
“There won’t be any paternity test.” Alan’s eyes were hard as he pulled away. “I’ll give you until this time tomorrow to make a decision. You’ll accept my wife and my child—welcome them into the family—or you’ll never see me again!”
* * *
Alan’s hands were shaking as he pulled out of the driveway. For the first time in his life, he’d taken a stand. He should feel proud that he hadn’t let his father browbeat him into submission, but he didn’t, not yet. He was too furious about his father’s accusation to experience any emotion but rage.
How dare his father suspect Connie of tricking him into marriage! What gall to say that the baby might not be his! Alan was so upset he took the curve a little too fast and his Porsche started to skid on the slippery pavement.
He knew better than to stomp on the brakes. He’d grown up in Minnesota and was accustomed to winter driving. He steered in the direction of the skid, gained control of the powerful car, and touched the brakes lightly to slow. The Stanford mansion was up in the hills, overlooking Lake Minnetonka. The downhill road was steep and curving, and the snow had turned to sleet. If he didn’t pay attention to his driving, he could skid through the guardrail on his way home.
Connie would be waiting for him at the condo. Thinking about her made Alan’s anger begin to subside. He wouldn’t tell her about his father’s reaction. He’d just say he’d given the family until tomorrow to work things out. And he certainly wouldn’t mention the accusations his father had made; Connie would be crushed. It was up to him to protect her from his family.
Alan switched on the car’s stereo. Connie’s favorite CD started to play, and he smiled. That was when he noticed the lights in his rearview mirror.
A truck was bearing down on him, following much too closely. The driver honked his air horn, several rapid blasts to signify that he wanted to pass, but there was no place to pull over on the narrow, two-lane road.
The truck driver hit his air horn again, one long blast that shattered the stillness of the night. His emergency lights were blinking on and off, and Alan knew what that meant. The driver had lost his brakes and was heading for the escape lane about a mile ahead.
Alan pressed down on the gas pedal. He had no other choice. If the driver had lost control of the truck, he’d be rear-ended.
The next few moments were tense. Alan screeched around the curves, hoping he could out distance the runaway truck. He came out of the curves much too fast for a road partially covered with icy snow, but the exit for the escape lane was just ahead.
Alan watched in his rearview mirror as the truck barreled onto the escape lane. This stretch of roadway climbed gradually uphill, with sand traps to slow the truck. At the end was an absorbent barrier, especially designed to stop a runaway truck with minimal damage.
“Thank God!” Alan reached up to wipe his forehead. Sweat was streaming into his eyes, and he was almost weak with relief. If the truck had rear-ended him, they’d both be dead. But he’d made it through the curves. Now everything was just fine.
There was a sound like a gunshot, and Alan’s Porsche swerved sharply, almost wrenching the wheel from his hands. His right front tire had blown. He was heading straight for the ditch!
He fought the wheel with all his strength, struggling to control the skid. It worked, and he was just thanking his lucky stars, when the unexpected happened again. There was another explosion, and his left front tire blew out.
Alan wore an expression of shocked disbelief as his Porsche swerved in the opposite direction. Then he was crashing through the guardrail, hurtling out into space, rolling end over end to the bottom of the hill.
When the Porsche hit the rocks at the bottom of the ravine, it flipped over several times, coming to rest on its back, its racing tires spinning uselessly in the air. Alan was trapped in the expensive shell of his luxury car. He didn’t hear a passing motorist call out to him, didn’t smell the stench of gasoline or experience the salty, slightly metallic taste of his own blood. He didn’t see the paramedics flip open his wallet to discover his organ donor card, didn’t feel careful hands pull him from the wreck. The quick action of the well-trained emergency team kept his heart pumping blood and his lungs taking in oxygen, but the brain of the man who had been Alan Stanford showed when checked at the hospital a flat, unending line on the graph—death.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by H.L. Swensen, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2015951110
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3216-4
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2016
ISBN-13: 978-1-61773-217-1
ISBN-10: 1-61773-217-6
First Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2016
