“Know it,” she said, once more pressing her cool lips against the warm, tanned skin on his ribcage, driving him deeper into his insanity. She looked up at him, and in her sweet smooth voice, said, “You really don’t know how hot you are.”
He gazed into her liquid green eyes and melted, felt his energy surge, the blood filling his lower extremities. She swept a finger gently across his lips and whispered, “Patrick Bannister, I do believe I’m falling…” She kissed his lips. “Madly…” Kissed them again. “Desperately.” Another kiss. “Hopelessly.” And another. “In love with you.”
The honking horns pulled him out of the reverie. Bullet barked. The light was green, and he was holding up traffic. Startled, he moved on, taking a deep breath, feeling the salty sea air cleanse away his bittersweet memories.
The Spanish-style villas came into view: red tile roofs, stucco walls, all wrapped up neatly with white picket fences, all seated at the foot of the shoreline. He pulled into the main office and requested Cottage 14, the same one he and Marybeth had shared. To his relief, it was available.
Patrick pushed the door open. Bullet ran ahead of him as he stepped inside. It hadn’t changed much: new furniture, new paint, but the memories remained, as real as the pictures on the walls, as the wood and mortar.
Slowly, he moved toward the window, and with each step, could feel anxiety coursing through him.
He reached for the curtains, pulled them back.
And saw it.
Barely visible beneath many layers of paint but still there. Patrick leaned in closer, studying it, running his fingers over the smooth grooves.
He hadn’t imagined her.
She was real.
Chapter Ten
Patrick was already feeling restless as he sat in Dr. Ready’s waiting room, but the clamor coming from inside the office jerked his nerves tighter: glass breaking and an angry shriek. As he jumped to his feet, the door flung wide open, and out stomped the woman with the scar across her face, raging with fury. When her eyes met Patrick’s, she shot him a red-eyed, heated glare.
He froze, watching her with caution.
“The fuck are you looking at?” she said, her voice striking like an acid-dipped lash, her face besieged by pink, blotchy anger.
Patrick held his hands up in surrender, carefully backing away. She stormed past him, slamming the waiting room door on her way out.
Dr. Ready appeared in her office doorway, clearly shaken despite her best attempt to remain professional.
“Are you okay?” Patrick asked, rushing toward her.
“Yes. I’m fine,” she said, eyeing the exit door, speaking through a weary sigh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“What happened?”
“She’s having a bad day. Come in, Patrick.”
As soon as he stepped into the office, he spotted broken pieces of porcelain at the foot of her bookcase. He walked to the mess and crouched, examining the shattered fragments.
“It’s okay, Patrick,” she said. “You really shouldn’t be touching anything sharp. I’ll get it later.”
Lifting a piece with care, he held it to the light and frowned. “It looks like it was very beautiful.”
“It went with that one.” She smiled sadly, pointing toward the shelf.
Patrick saw the other figurine: a toddler struggling to walk, arms stretched out, face stricken with fear.
“The broken one was his mother,” she said. “He was running to her… although, I suppose he’ll never find her now. It’s called ‘Learning to Love on Two Feet.’ ”
Patrick laid the broken piece gently across his palm, running a finger back and forth over the smooth spot, as if trying to heal irreparable wounds. “She shouldn’t have done this. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said, motioning toward the couch. “Please. Have a seat, and let’s get started.”
They sat. Dr. Ready observed him for a moment, then said, “You look much better today, Patrick.”
He ran a hand through his hair, trailed it forward across his cheek. “I got a shave and a haircut.”
“It does look great, but I was referring more to your demeanor. You seem happier, and your color’s returning. It’s nice to see.”
He extended both arms, glancing at his tanned skin. “I’ve been staying at the beach. At the cottage.”
“Which cottage is that?”
“I thought I’d mentioned it to you before. Where Marybeth and I stayed that one weekend. During college.”
“I see,” Dr. Ready said, raising her head, then lowering it into a single, contemplative nod. “And what made you decide to go there?”
“Marybeth carved a message on the windowsill. I wanted to see if it was still there.”
“What did it say?”
He eased back into his seat, smiling as the memory took over. “ ‘I will love you forever.’ ”
“It’s still there after all these years?”
“Barely. They’ve painted over it a lot. I had to look hard, but I could still make it out.”
“How did you feel seeing it?”
“Wonderful.”
She watched him for a moment with an imprecise, almost guarded expression, and then, “Patrick, I’m just wondering what made you decide to go there.”
“I told you. To see the message.”
“Yes, but why now?”
“I don’t know.” His shrug felt evasive. “I guess maybe I needed to see that she was real.”
“Had you doubted that?”
“No… not really, but a lot of information isn’t adding up, and I…” He blew out a long breath, shook his head. “I don’t know… I just wanted to connect with her like that.”
“Like how?”
He looked down at his feet, felt his muscles tighten under her gaze. Softly, he said, “I just wanted to sort through some things.”
“What things?”
“You know… feelings.”
“What were the feelings?”
He looked away, shook his head.
“Patrick?”
He looked back at her.
“What were the feelings?” she persisted.
“I’m not really sure.”
She kept silent, kept her eyes on him.
“It was just…” He hesitated. “It was the first time in my life I ever felt like anyone cared about me.”
Her face seemed to change: joy and sadness playing beneath professional neutrality. She said, “It must have been wonderful to finally feel that.”
He nodded and frowned.
“So why does it make you sad?”
He shrugged.
“Patrick, what were you hoping to find when you returned there?”
“I just wanted to feel it again.”
“Feel what?”
“Loved.”
Chapter Eleven
He woke the next morning to the sensation of hot air on his face. It sure as hell wasn’t the ocean breeze, so it had to be Bullet Breath. Patrick opened his eyes: suspicion confirmed. The dog was just inches from his face, panting, an eager expression telling him that staying in bed was no longer an option.
Staying at the cottage, however, was, and Patrick had decided to take it. His physical connections to Marybeth had seemingly vanished, but this cottage still remained, the only tangible reminder left of his time with her. Records didn’t lie, but neither had his memories, and the inscription beneath the windowsill told Patrick all he needed to know. He would figure out the why in time, but for now, knowing what was would be enough.
He tugged a T-shirt over his head and moved toward the window. He parted the drapes and gazed out. Blue-green swells leaped over one another like acrobatic tumblers. On the boardwalk, people walked or rode bikes. Others lingered, enjoying the view and the moment. Patrick lowered his focus to the windowsill. He smoothed a finger over the words as if he could somehow mend the broken wire and reconnect with Marybeth.
In his mind’s eye, he c
ould see her walking toward the cottage after her morning swim and looking positively stunning, her hair still wet, her face glowing from the sun. He remembered not being able to take his eyes off of her, mesmerized by her beauty. And her voice…
“Hey, good-looking,” she shouted out to him, making her way up the path, flip-flops in one hand, damp towel in the other. When she reached the doorway, she threw her arms around him. He kissed her neck, savoring the smell and taste of her skin, a combination of her and salty water.
She pulled back, gazed into his eyes, and smiled. “I think I’m in love.”
Patrick grinned. “Hope he’s worth it.”
Marybeth ran a hand up and down the inside of his arm, keeping her eyes fixed there. She pressed her lips against his bicep for a long moment, then looked up and winked at him. “Oh, I think he is.”
A rush of warmth traveled through every part of his body. Even his toes tingled.
She said, “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you in love?”
“I am.”
Marybeth stretched her hands around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, whispering into his lips as she kissed them, “I’m so glad to hear it.”
He turned from the window. She was gone, really gone. But thinking about Marybeth was like lighting a fire, and once he did, Patrick knew there was no way to put it out.
Second chances, he thought. As far as the magazine was concerned, he’d blown his. No doubt about it. No big surprise. That was fine. He’d pay the price but wouldn’t let it stop him. He’d find another way to tell his story, to get himself in the running again. Even if National Monthly didn’t want it, surely someone else would. But first he needed to find the story.
The newspaper article had said Lilliana DeFrancisco was Charlene Clark’s best friend. The two were supposed to have met for lunch the day after the Clarks disappeared. She could potentially be a wealth of information.
Patrick coughed up thirty-five bucks and snagged her personal info through one of the basic online background searches. He also saw she was married to Chet DeFrancisco, a prominent malpractice attorney.
He dialed her number several times, but it appeared she wasn’t taking calls: each went straight to voicemail. He left a message, then turned his attention to searching for a more clever way to track her down.
He was almost surprised when the call came back about five minutes later—until he answered and found himself talking not to Lilliana, but to Chet the Attorney.
“I’m afraid Lill’s declining all interviews at the moment,” Chet said briskly. It sounded like he’d been repeating the same phrase all day long.
“How come?” Patrick said.
“Because we feel it would be in the Clarks’ best interest at the moment. We don’t want to do anything to impede the investigation.”
The words came out clearly, but all Patrick heard was the sound of feet shuffling to the cadence of a lawyerly sidestep. He’d been doing this far too long to put up with it. “Mrs. Clark is dead. I hardly think that talking about her will do her any harm at this point.”
“We appreciate your concern, Mr. Bannister, but the answer’s still no.”
“Mr. DeFrancisco, I’d like to hear that from your wife—”
“If we change our minds, we’ll let you know.”
Click.
An attorney who refused to answer questions, Patrick thought. He didn’t run into those very often. Unfortunately for Chet, Patrick’s tolerance for them was minimal, even less so for overbearing husbands who stood in his way. If he’d learned anything during his years as a reporter, it was that people who declined interviews deserved closer scrutiny. Often their reasons were good, but sometimes they were red flags, and Chet the Attorney was waving his proudly at the front of the parade. Patrick had also learned never to take no for an answer; if a subject was still breathing, she was fair game.
The couple lived near the top of Mount Soledad, in well-to-do La Jolla—in fact, after Rancho Santa Fe, probably some of the priciest real estate in town. Patrick grabbed his car keys off the counter.
“I was in the neighborhood anyway,” he said, heading for the door. “Just thought I’d ambush you.”
Chapter Twelve
While nowhere near as large or extravagant as the Clark compound, the DeFrancisco house was nothing to sneeze at. Beyond ample by most people’s standards, it sat high in the hills, with a killer view of the Pacific. Patrick shook his head at the obnoxious shrubs fronting the place, each trimmed into odd, blockish shapes, each perfectly symmetrical. He wondered why people felt compelled to force nature into acts of extreme abnormality, then he thought about Lilliana’s control-freak-of-a-husband, and decided that at least in this case, the shrubs actually made sense. The guy probably used a ruler to fold towels.
He parked a few houses down. He adjusted his side-view mirror. He waited.
And kept waiting.
Several hours passed. Patrick glanced down at his watch for about the hundredth time and sighed. It was nearly noon. He conducted an inner debate, impatience telling him time wasn’t exactly a luxury, determination telling him that if he left now, he’d just have to return tomorrow.
Determination won; he stayed put.
About twenty minutes later, his investment paid off. The garage door swung up, and out came a red Mercedes SL63 Roadster. Patrick leaned in toward the mirror and saw a female driver. Unless the help had a sweet ride, this was Lilliana.
The vehicle slid down the driveway and out onto the road. Patrick started his engine, gunned the pedal, and chased it down the hill, trying to keep some distance.
But it wasn’t easy. Lilliana was quite the speed demon, and she liked taking corners on two wheels. Unfortunately, Patrick’s Jeep was hardly capable of doing the same; he tried his best to keep her in his line of sight, but she disappeared from view a few times. Once they hit a straightaway, however, he spotted her a few cars ahead, moving toward the freeway.
He managed to catch up on the I-5, but keeping her in view presented a challenge. For the most part she stayed in the left lane, traveling in excess of 90 mph, and that was when she was going slow. Patrick figured the woman was either running late or just enjoyed racing at the speed of light.
She continued on her fast track, merging onto the 52 connector, San Clemente Canyon becoming nothing more than a fleeting memory. On the 163, she tore up gravel, speeding through as if Armageddon were coming up her backside. Moments later, she hooked onto the Fashion Valley exit, turned in by the mall, and peeled into the parking lot. A huge banner draped across Nordstrom announced their half-yearly sale. Lilliana hitched her hot rod out front and strode toward the store. Apparently the woman had a shopping emergency.
She was extremely attractive and much younger than he’d expected, probably in her late twenties. Slender and well dressed, she wore a beige skirt, high above the knee, six-inch heels that didn’t look cheap, and a sheer, lavender silk blouse. Platinum blonde hair, flat-ironed pin straight. Pouty, well-formed lips beneath a pair of huge Chanel sunglasses that looked like monster goggles.
“Ms. DeFrancisco?” Patrick said from behind as she reached for the door.
She spun around, pulled the gawks down. Gave him a slightly curious but mostly flat gaze.
“I apologize for bothering you. My name is Patrick Bannister, and I work for National Monthly.” Just don’t ask my ex-boss.
Her expression fell flatter, and her silence showed no signs of lifting. Patrick couldn’t tell if she was surprised, frightened, or just plain annoyed. He went with the latter.
“I’d like to talk to you about Charlene Clark, if you have a moment.”
“I don’t,” she shot back, then turned around and entered the store.
Patrick followed.
“Can I ask why?” he said, working to keep up with her. She moved as fast in her heels as she did in her dragster.
“Because I don’t want to, that’s why. Now get los
t, asshole, before I call security.” She quickened her pace, kept her focus forward. Apparently, losing him had taken precedence over shopping, because she bypassed Nordstrom and headed right for the mall.
“Look,” he said, still trailing her, “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Lilliana screwed her lips into a scowl, abruptly changed direction, and headed straight for the exit door.
But he wasn’t about to let her go, not after he’d worked so hard to find her, and not when she might be holding on to information he needed. All at once, he lost his cool, gained some nerve, and something else took hold of him, something that felt like heartache and reckless desperation slamming together. “She’s dead! DEAD! Don’t you even give a damn?”
Lilliana stopped in her tracks. She turned around. She wasn’t pleased. In fact, she was downright pissed. Patrick backed away a bit, fully aware he’d pushed the envelope but still managing to keep his gaze and mind steady.
“Of course I give a damn!” she said, pushing the words out beneath a tightly curled upper lip. “Why the hell do you think I went to her goddamned house to check on her? And why do you think I then called the sheriff, you stupid twerp? Fuck you.” She spun on her heel and was off and running again.
Patrick followed doggedly. “Nobody has to know you spoke to me, not even your husband if you don’t want. I can offer complete confidentiality.”
“A scumbag hack like you has nothing to offer me. Now get the hell away!”
He pulled to an abrupt halt. Now he was pissed. Name-calling rolled off his back—he was used to that after all these years—but insulting his work and his competence was crossing the line. He knew the filter was about to come off, his words slinging heedlessly. He let her have it.
“Then let me offer you this, Ms. DeFrancisco. Your best friend’s body was dumped in Mexico like a pile of stinking refuse. Maybe shot up full of holes, maybe with her head bashed in, maybe even raped with her throat slashed. And you could help find out why, but apparently shopping for a pair of goddamned shoes means more to you!”
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