by Polly Iyer
Luke stopped, the catch in his throat a warning sign to her ears. Abby heard the pain but waited him out.
“My father didn’t understand her moods. He accused her of faking to buy sympathy. She tried. Oh, how she tried to be what he wanted, but she couldn’t. She apologized for everything when she did nothing wrong. He’d come home from work and she’d be sleeping. He’d have a fit, prodding her to get up and do whatever. The more she sank into her claustrophobic world, the worse he got, badgering her until she couldn’t think. Sometimes in the morning, her face or arms would be bruised and swollen from where he’d hit her, but she always said she walked into a door or fell. Always protecting him with some lame excuse.”
The room went silent, and Abby thought he wouldn’t finish.
“The day she left, she had a doctor’s appointment. Joey and I went to school and when we came home, she wasn’t there. We never saw her again.” He paused, caught his breath. “My father ordered us not to ask any questions. He told everyone she’d left him, walked out. Then he tore up all the photographs and carried on as if she’d never existed.
“Life changed after that. I told you before how he was. Joey and I survived by doing what he wanted. If we rebelled, he beat the crap out of us, especially me because I bucked his authority. My brother took it.” This time Luke paused longer. “Joey was more like her. Sensitive and fragile. He inherited her illness, I think. I never should have left him.”
Abby found the side of his face and stroked it. “Why did you?”
“My father pulled a knife on me. Sliced me across the arm. There’s a scar about four inches long. I’m surprised you haven’t felt it.” He took her hand and ran it across the indentation.
“I have. I meant to ask you about it a hundred times, but it never seemed to be the right time.”
“He kicked me out of the house. Next day I joined the Marines. I called to talk to Joey, but after a few months the bastard said Joey took off. That’s how he put it. When I came home on leave, I couldn’t find my brother. The old man insisted he left, exactly like my mother had.”
“And you didn’t believe him?”
“Not at first. But my next door neighbor saw Joey throw his smashed guitar in the trash, get in his car, and leave. My neighbor never saw him again. Joey must have felt everyone let him down, including me. My father must have broken his guitar. That was the only thing Joey cared about. He saved every cent for months to buy it. I guess he had enough.”
“So what did you do?”
“I faced my father about it. He said he broke Joey’s guitar, and that Joey was just like his mother. Then he came after me, but I wasn’t a kid anymore. He’d suffered a heart attack a year or two before and physically wasn’t the man I grew up with. Still mean as a snake, though. I pushed him away. Not hard, but enough to let him know that his days of pushing me around were over. Then he—” Luke quit in mid sentence.
“Then he what, Luke?” He didn’t answer. She moved closer to get his attention. “What happened, Luke?”
“He said he put my mother in an asylum, and he would have done the same to Joey if he hadn’t taken off. He said I belonged in one, too. That his wife spawned two mental deficients like her.”
Abby knew people who had taken that easy road when family members became too difficult. She’d also known others who took the responsibility of monitoring the right medications of their loved ones, and they went on to live productive lives. “How could he do such a thing?”
“That’s what I asked him, but he wouldn’t answer. Then I asked him where my mother was. He said that she was too weak to live in this ugly world, and she was better off where she was.”
Distressed, Abby drew a hand across her mouth. She started to speak, but Luke continued his story.
“I stood there, trying to assimilate his words. At first, I couldn’t believe anyone would do that. I thought there must be some other explanation. I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to me. I said I wanted to know where he’d put her. He cackled and said he’d never tell.”
Abby heard the pain in his voice, and she ached for him. But he needed to get this out to free himself. “What happened next?”
“I shook him and pleaded for him to tell me where she was, but he kept laughing. When he grabbed his left arm, he stopped laughing. He was having a heart attack. He told me to get his pills. I ran for them, but when I saw the pain on his face, I stood and watched. I thought of my mother and Joey; I thought of every vile thing he’d ever done. I clutched his survival in my hand—this little bottle of pills—and I couldn’t let them go, mesmerized by the son of a bitch struggling for air. He cursed me with his last breath, begging for his medication, but I had a white-knuckle grip on them. When I thought he was beyond help, I called for an ambulance. He was dead when they arrived. The autopsy showed a massive coronary.
“I felt nothing. I buried him and put the house up for sale. Before I rejoined my unit, I searched the house for any information about my mother and brother. I found the records of my mother in a state hospital. I followed up. She had died some years before. I can’t tell you how hard I cried. She didn’t deserve that end. But I couldn’t find Joey. I’ve run searches since. Nothing. It’s like he disappeared off the face of the planet.”
“Breaking this case in Charleston put your name on the front page. Maybe Joey will see it and get in touch.”
“I can only hope.” He pulled Abby close. “At first, I felt nothing about my father’s death. The guilt came later, in the middle of the night or in the daytime or whenever I let myself relive that afternoon or think about how I let Joey down by leaving him.”
Abby didn’t know what to say. How could she judge Luke when she felt relief after learning of Stewart’s death eight years before? And when she found out he was alive, wished him dead all over again.
She moved into him and raised her hands to his face. “I love you, Luke. Nothing you told me makes any difference. You didn’t kill your father. Even if you gave him the pill, he was a dead man. Some force more powerful than you took him at his moment, and that moment waited until you learned what really happened all those years before. Your mother never left you. When she walked out the door, she loved you as much as I do.”
“I know that, but I let my father die in front of me, Abby, even if he didn’t deserve a place on this earth. I purposely stood there and watched a man die. But the worst part was Joey leaving and not wanting to be found. He never hurt anyone. I should’ve protected him. I should’ve—”
She covered his mouth with her hand. “You didn’t know. How could you? You’ve paid the penalty by hating yourself far too long. It was the only punishment that made sense to you. You can’t spend the rest of your life paying for something over which you had no control. This is no different than you convincing me I couldn’t have stopped Stewart from killing Macy by remembering something I wasn’t capable of remembering. No different.”
“Keep telling me that. I need you to say it, to know it, because I need to believe it.”
“I will, Luke. Every day until you do. You’ve released what you’ve held in so long. That’s the first step in ridding yourself of the guilt that’s consumed you. There’s no punishment for what you’ve done because you deserve none.” She put her arms around him. “I love you, Luke McCallister.
“And I need you.”
“What? Would you repeat that last sentence? I’m not sure I read you right.”
“You did. I said I need you.”
“Abigael Gallant, you’ve made my day. No, not my day. My life.”
Epilogue
Sunlight
Abby dug her feet into the warm sand, unplugged the audio book from her ears, and heard the ocean play its magical music. Her face absorbed the sun’s rays, making wrinkles she’d never see, but she didn’t care because every so often Luke’s hand brushed her arm to remind her he was still there. Like she didn’t know.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go for a swim.”
He pulled her up, and she wrapped her hand around his arm as they walked toward the water. Daisy followed close behind.
“Okay, take hold,” Luke said when they got to the water’s edge.
She put her hand in his and felt his strength. Felt the trust.
“At the count of three, run straight ahead. Ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“One.
“Two.
“Three."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Polly Iyer was born in a coastal city north of Boston, Massachusetts. After studying at Massachusetts College of Art and Design in Boston, she lived in Italy, Atlanta, and now resides in the beautiful Piedmont region of South Carolina in an empty nest house with her husband and family pets. Writing novels turned into her passion after careers in fashion, art, and business. Now she spends her time being quite the hermit in comfortable clothes she wouldn't be caught dead wearing on the outside, while she devises ways for life to be complicated for her characters. Better them than her.
Learn more about Polly and her books at
www.PollyIyer.com
Following is an excerpt from
Murder Déjà Vu
I hope you enjoy it
Murder Déjà Vu
Chapter One
A Meeting of the Minds
What did a man born rich and privileged look like after spending fifteen years in prison and another six hiding in these mountains? Dana parked her Jeep in the gravel driveway next to a rough-looking pickup and skirted around the house to the back. Reece Daughtry sat in an Adirondack chair on the dock, reading. A johnboat bobbed in the lake, complete with fishing rod and tackle box. After swiveling around to see his intruder, he turned back to his book.
A booming voice echoed over the water. “What do you want?”
“A fireplace.”
“I’m not working now.”
Undeterred, she kept going, waiting for him to tell her she was trespassing. He didn’t. A few well-fed cats poked their heads out of the greenery lining the rock stairs down to the lake. Another snuggled under his chair, and a three-legged mutt hobbled to greet her.
“Hey, pooch, how’ya doing?” She bent down to rub him, and the dog wiggled his excitement. “Nice dog.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I’m not building fireplaces right now.”
He finally turned, and she had her answer. Unshaven, leather-tanned, and lean, with dark blond hair heavily threaded with gray brushing his shoulders. Reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose. He struck Dana as more interesting looking than handsome, but he could be called that too.
“I heard you. Doesn’t make me want one less.”
“Come back in a year. Better yet, don’t.” He kept his nose in the book.
She couldn’t help noticing his long, knotty fingers. Laborer’s hands, with rough skin and short clipped nails. Sinewy forearms like twisted rope. “What are you reading?”
He glanced up. “You still here?”
“Yup.”
“Only a few people know where I live. Know why? So trespassers can’t come here and bother me. Let me guess who snitched. Old Harris big mouth.”
“Don’t blame Harris. I saw the article he wrote on the house that featured your fireplaces. He warned me not to come, but I blackmailed him into telling me where you lived.”
“You should’ve listened.”
She moved closer and offered her hand. “Dana Minette.”
He nailed her with a squinty glare. “Any relation to the prosecutor Minette?”
She pulled back. “Not anymore.”
“We had an ugly run-in years ago. He tried to stop the sale of this property to keep a convicted murderer out of his county. My attorney humiliated him; the judge ruled in my favor.”
“Yes, I know. Robert is always looking for ways to get his name in the papers. He picked on the wrong person that time.”
“He came here about a year ago. Said he had no hard feelings, and would I build him a fireplace. Can you beat that?”
“I take it you jumped at the chance.”
Daughtry pushed his reading glasses onto his forehead and focused on her for more than a split second. “You’re a smart-ass, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” Was that the beginning of a smile on his face?
“If he’s your ex-husband, you’re well rid of him. He’s an asshole.”
“He’s my ex, and you’re not the first person to describe Robert in those exact words.” She plunked down on the dock, crossed her legs, Indian style. “You’re all excellent judges of character.”
“He didn’t have nice things to say about you, which I thought rather ungentlemanly, since I didn’t ask. Said he was redoing his house after he dumped his ungrateful wife.”
“He said that? Ha!”
“Yup. His county, his house. Probably pissed you weren’t his wife anymore, even though it was his idea. Or so he said.”
“It’s a long story. Twenty years long.”
“Not interested.”
“Me either. Will you build me the goddamn fireplace? The two pictures I saw in the Regal Falls magazine were the most unique works of art I’ve ever seen.”
Daughtry stared at her a long time with the clearest, most intense blue eyes. “Your ex wanted a fireplace in the worst way. Said he’d double whatever I charged.”
“I bet when you held out, he doubled the amount again.”
His smile was unmistakable now. “How would your ex feel if I built one for you?”
“Talk about being pissed off.”
Chapter Two
Beware of Trouble
Reece went into the house as soon as Dana Minette left. She was a piece of work. A very nice-looking piece of work. He could go for a woman like her, but a woman’s what got him twenty to life, and he sure as hell didn’t need any more trouble. Whenever he felt the urge, he drove to one of the larger cities within a hundred-mile radius—Asheville or Charlotte—put up in a motel, and found someone to satisfy his sexual needs. No entanglements. No emotional attachments. He could do it by himself—he had years of practice—but he never found that a satisfying substitute for the warmth of a woman’s body or the touch of soft skin. That was the way it had been for the six years since he got out of prison and how it would be from now on. He’d even adapted to the loneliness. Had plenty of practice with that too.
The three-legged dog nuzzled his leg. Reece never named any of the dogs or cats roaming his property. They were there, and he fed them. “Hey, Pooch. She gave you a good name, didn’t she?” He leaned down and rubbed the dog’s neck, some kind of beagle cross. He’d found it lying on the side of the road, near death, took it to his vet, and had it treated and fixed. He did that with every abused or emaciated animal he came across. Electronic fencing and collars kept them inside his property so they couldn’t wander off and wind up like Pooch, or worse. Reece debated whether he was imprisoning them, but dead was more of a prison than contained, though he disliked the thought of either.
The phone rang. He let it go to the answering machine. When he heard the voice, he picked up. “Hey, Carl.”
“Deciding whether you feel like answering your phone, big brother?”
“I couldn’t check the number in time.” Sometimes Reece answered; sometimes he didn’t, depending on his mood. Carl knew that.
His brother laughed.
“What’s up?” Reece noted the hesitation. “Carl?”
“Dad’s in the hospital. He had another heart attack.”
Reece stiffened at the mention of his father, a reaction over which he had no control. “What do the doctors say?”
“It doesn’t look good. He’s conscious but weak. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Well, keep me informed.”
“Jesus, Reece. That’s cold. Your father is dying and all you can say is ‘keep me informed’?”
“We’ve gone over this a hundred times. Sorry, but I can’t fake that I care
. Wish I could, but that’s not my style.” He pulled a beer from the fridge.
“You’re still his son.”
Reece wanted to laugh, but the humor eluded him. “He should have thought about that twenty-one years ago.” He took a long draft from the bottle. It did nothing to cool his heat.
“He could have handled it differently, I agree, but―”
“Look, I’ve gotta go. Let me know when it’s over.”
Reece clicked the off button before Carl could argue. He finished the beer, then took another. He’d worked hard over the years to control his anger and sense of betrayal, but times like these brought them back like a knife twisting in his belly. How could he forget? One day he and Carl were drawing up plans to expand the family’s home-building business—Reece, the architect, designing a new type of energy efficient structure; Carl the business head, making them affordable. The next day he was locked in a cement cell with the echoing sound of steel doors clanging shut to keep him rotting inside. One day he had dozens of friends; the next only Carl and his mother stood in his corner. When he saw the toll it took on his mother to sneak away and visit, he asked her not to come any more. That, more than anything had torn him up.
Now she was gone, and he hoped the old bastard would soon follow, freeing him of at least part of the rage that consumed him and, yes, the hatred for the old man he carried in his chest like one of his stones. How could he feel anything for a man who believed his son capable of slicing a woman’s throat, almost severing her head from her body? Who probably still believed it with his dying breath?
Reece looked around the house he built with his own two hands. Stone and wood and glass. It fit the new life he’d made for himself. A life he liked. He wasn’t designing the buildings he’d envisioned all those years ago, except for his own, but he was creating something he considered beautiful. Others thought so too, which gave him pleasure. He worked when the spirit moved him, nourished his passion for reading, fished, and ran the mountain roads—all the things he couldn’t do inside, except for the reading, which had saved his sanity.
