Tattooed

by Pamela Callow

  Phyllis, at her request, had placed the small jewelry box on her wheelchair tray. Frances could no longer lift her hand more than an inch or two, so she said, “Take it, Cameron.”

  Her son opened the box. A sapphire ring encircled with diamonds glinted in the morning sun. “This is your grandmother’s ring, isn’t it?”

  She forced the muscles of her face to smile. “From one redhead to another.”

  His mouth tightened. Obviously thinking of the redhead who had been in police custody yesterday. “Thank you. Lily will treasure this.”

  Her heart squeezed with the knowledge that she would never see Lily at the age of seventeen years. Not even the age of seventeen months, she was sure of that. The escalator moved too quickly.

  Her granddaughter would never know her. The worst thing was that she would believe that Frances was a coward and a murderer.

  It was a steep price for her daughter’s love.

  No regrets, Frances.

  Even if Kenzie still distrusted Frances’ motives, she would recognize eventually that Frances had acted out of love.

  And for the exquisite baby Lily, who had a loving mother at her beck and call, Frances would simply be a family ghost, spoken about in hushed whispers, who bequeathed an expensive piece of jewelry to her.

  Her son shifted. “You seem to have considerable public support for your assisted suicide lobby.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s going to happen next? Is Harry Owen going to take this to Parliament?”

  She held his gaze, although pain constricted her throat. Turning her back on the people who had responded to her campaign had been one of the toughest things she had ever done.

  Blood is thicker than water. Remember that, Frances.

  “No. He’s not. It’s over.”

  He clasped the box in his hands loosely between his knees. “I need to talk to you about Kenz—”

  “One more thing—” she said at the same time. And then she began to cough.

  Oh, God. She threw a panicked look at Cameron. She could not clear her throat of the mucus. Get Phyllis, her eyes said. She gagged, choking.

  “Phyllis!” Cameron roared.

  Phyllis ran into the room. She flicked on the suction machine, swishing the tube in the back of Frances’ mouth.

  She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe.

  Her lungs screamed for air.

  Pressure built inside her head, her eyes bulging with the effort to clear her throat. She imagined her hands clawing at her neck, her lungs forcing the dreaded mucus from her airway.

  But only a tube could save her.

  Eventually, it did.

  She gasped, a thin stream of air shooting into her oxygen-desperate lungs. She gasped again. And again.

  She became conscious of Cameron’s stricken face, of the panicked look he threw at Phyllis: Mom’s getting worse, isn’t she?

  Why did he think she’d asked him to come?

  She only hoped that the escalator would deposit her gently, smoothly, at her final destination. Wherever that was. It could be simple oblivion. And she welcomed it.

  Because she would be free.

  Instead of this useless, dilapidated structure that housed her soul, she would be weightless. Surrounded not by machines that beeped, metal that supported and tubes that transported fluids in and out of her body. Instead, she would be encased in…nothing.

  A few minutes later, her heart had stopped racing enough that she could attempt speech again. “I confessed to the murder of Heather Rigby.”

  Cameron sprang to his feet. The box tumbled to the floor. “What are you talking about?”

  “I did it.”

  “Mom, that’s crazy.” Suspicion narrowed his eyes. “Kenzie asked you to do this, didn’t she?”

  “No.”

  She met his gaze. His eyes, the same mosaic of hazel as his father’s, gazed at her with disbelief. “Why are you protecting her?” he asked, his voice low.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. She doesn’t deserve it, Mom.”

  I owe it to her.

  He must have read her mind, because he spat, “She is evil. She always has been. You are taking the fall. And now everything that you worked for will be tarnished by this. People will look at your buildings, and not see what a visionary you were—instead, they will see the mark of a murderer.”

  Her heart spasmed. God, take me now. Her skin grew clammy. He was right, she knew he was right, but what other choice did she have?

  Should Kenzie be forced to lose everything because of one terrible mistake?

  Don’t cry, Frances. Don’t.

  If she cried, her sinuses would drain down the back of her throat and cause another coughing jag.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Cameron stared at the ring box that had tumbled by his feet. “Your grandchildren will think you are a killer,” he said. “Lily will want to change her middle name.”

  Are you trying to hurt me deliberately? Do you think I love you any less for what I am doing for Kenzie?

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “It’s not too late, Mom. You can tell the police the truth.”

  But I don’t know what the truth is anymore.

  All I know is my truth. That I cannot die without my daughter knowing that I loved her enough to do this for her.

  “It’s done.”

  “Mom, please, she doesn’t deserve it. She never loved you. She never loved any of us.”

  Tears ran down her son’s cheeks. The only time she had seen him cry as a grown man was at the birth of his children.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “How could you do this to us? You are dragging us all down into her muck.”

  That hurt. It was true. Cameron and his family would be affected by this. But they had each other. He had a career. They would weather this storm.

  “I love you.”

  His eyes pleaded with her. She remembered him as a small boy, those big hazel eyes begging her to help him fix his electric car. She had helped him.

  She had always helped him.

  Because he was the easy one. It was easy to help him, easy to love him.

  Kenzie had been the difficult one.

  It was easy to get frustrated, easy to wash her hands of her.

  It would be easy to wash her hands of Kenzie before her death, too.

  But she would not, could not, take the easy way.

  Not this time.

  “Always remember I love you.”

  Her son leaned down and kissed her goodbye. A tear dropped onto her cheek.

  She sat in the afternoon sun, her eyes closed, her son’s tear absorbing into her skin until there was no evidence it had ever been shed at all.

  And waited for her lawyer to call.

  42

  “I need to speak to Detective Ethan Drake,” Kate told the police officer at the front desk of the police station. “Please tell him Kate Lange is here to see him.” She sat on the wooden bench and placed the legal-sized envelope containing the affidavit next to her. It would not have surprised her to hear it ticking.

  The security door opened. Ethan strode toward her. He looked exhausted. She knew he had been involved in questioning Kenzie Sloane through the night.

  “Kate! Are you okay?” His eyes scanned her face, concern softening them, pleasure warming them.

  “I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “I’m here on official business.”

  He glanced at the envelope on the bench. “Come on upstairs.”

  Kate followed him through the security door and up the stairs, unable to stop her eyes from staring at his long frame.

  What was the state of the Ethan nation?

  “We’ll talk in my office. One of the perks of being in Cold Case.” Ethan used to be in the bullpen, Kate remembered. He led her to a room with the standard office furnishings: file cabinet, desk, computer, chairs. Kate sat down opposite his desk. She placed the envelope on her
knee.

  He sank into his chair, and leaned back. She knew he only revealed his fatigue because he felt comfortable with her.

  She shifted on the chair. This was going to be a difficult conversation.

  She slid the affidavit from the envelope and placed it on the desk in front of him. “My client asked me to draft this today, Ethan.”

  A muscle in his eyelid twitched as he scanned the first paragraph.

  I, Frances Sloane, do hereby confess to the murder of Heather Catherine Rigby—

  He flipped through the statement. Then he glanced up. His mouth was tight.

  She sensed his anger.

  He believes Kenzie did it.

  She wanted to tell him he was right, that Kenzie was capable of the crime that her mother had confessed to committing, but ethics forced her to keep her mouth shut.

  “Are you kidding me?” he finally said.

  “No.” Her gaze was level.

  “Goddamn it.”

  “Precisely.” She couldn’t meet his gaze. This was eating her up. It really was. But she couldn’t let Ethan see it. “I’m sorry.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Your client needs to come in. Now.”

  “I know. I’ll call her.” Kate stood. “You know she’s dying, right?”

  “Yes.”

  She left Ethan’s office.

  When she reached the sidewalk outside the station, she pulled out her phone and dialed her client’s number.

  She fought to keep the anger out of her voice. Frances had jeopardized Ethan’s opportunity to find Heather’s true killer. And she had to hold his feet to the fire with her client’s confession.

  “See you ASAP,” her client said with an unbecoming eagerness. “And don’t forget to call the media.”

  * * *

  Kenzie Sloane slumped in a chair. A half-empty water bottle rolled by her feet. Despite her obvious physical exhaustion, her eyes remained watchful as Ethan entered the room.

  He held open the door. “Ms. Sloane, you are free to go.”

  She stood. “You aren’t keeping me for the full twenty-four hours?”

  What the—?

  He shook his head. “You are free to go.”

  Triumph raced through her exhausted body. She had beaten the cops at their own game. And very soon she would beat McNally.

  She should thank Detective Drake for having her arrested. If he hadn’t done so, she would never have known that McNally had left the sketch for Kate. She now could set in motion the perfect plan.

  Detective Drake led her down the stairs to the main entrance.

  “Can you call a taxi for me, please?”

  The officer at the main desk called a cab. It was then she noticed the woman sitting on the bench.

  She stiffened.

  Kate Lange.

  Why was she here?

  * * *

  Those eyes were the same. Sky-blue and laser-sharp. The hair was longer, the teenage bangs grown out. Still that shade of deep coppery red, Kenzie’s trademark mane fell in sweeping layers past her shoulders.

  Her clothes underneath the leather bike jacket were rumpled. She walked toward Kate. Up close, Kate could see the circles under Kenzie’s eyes, the smudged makeup, the fatigue pulling at her face.

  A tattoo of a koi leapt from her cleavage and curled around her neck.

  Kate tried to not stare.

  Kenzie stopped several feet away. It was as if they both sensed an invisible line separating them. One that neither of them was yet ready to cross. It would be a fencing match, rather than hand-to-hand combat.

  But Kate sensed—no, she knew—that Kenzie wouldn’t hesitate to cross the line if she felt the need.

  “Kate.” There was no animosity in Kenzie’s voice—nor was there any warmth. She trod cautiously, aware that she was under surveillance by both Ethan and the constable at the main security desk.

  “How are you, Kenzie?”

  “Just great.” She brushed a lock of hair over her shoulder. The sleeve of her jacket rode up, exposing her wrist. Elaborately layered scales in shades of white, green, blue and black unfurled at the base of each wrist, and appeared to travel up her arm.

  Did she tattoo armor on herself?

  No, the design began with a nautilus at the base of each wrist. The scales of armor were actually ocean waves, presumably traveling up her arm. The tattoo was so vivid, so detailed, so full of movement and light and shadow that Kate had a hard time pulling her gaze back to Kenzie’s face.

  The ghost from Kate’s past had become a masterpiece of inked flesh.

  “I understand you’ve been acting as my mother’s lawyer,” Kenzie said, with the slightest edge to her voice. The first feint had been thrust.

  “Yes. I’m sorry about her illness.” Kate’s tone was bland.

  Kenzie threw a quick glance over at Ethan, but he remained several feet away. “So, why are you here?” She kept her voice low.

  Wouldn’t you like to know?

  “I’m sorry, Kenzie, but I can’t say. Why don’t you call your mother?”

  Kenzie’s mouth tightened. “I will.”

  A cab pulled up to the curb and honked. Kenzie headed for the door.

  “By the way,” she called over her shoulder, “Finn is a great guy.” Her gaze met Kate’s across the foyer of the police station. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

  Kate’s heart hammered. She knew what that look meant.

  Don’t hurt him, Kenzie.

  Kenzie strode out of the station without another glance.

  Kate knew that Kenzie didn’t know the reason she had been released, but she would soon enough.

  Kate tasted bile in her throat.

  The whole thing made her sick.

  Frances protecting Kenzie. Finn protecting Kenzie.

  They needed protection from Kenzie.

  Especially Finn. He knew nothing about her.

  Why had he allowed himself to be drawn into the persona of Kenzie Sloane, celebrity tattoo artist?