The Runaway

by Lisa Childs

  But soon ... when the truth came out ... everything would be spoiled, not just the guests. The curse had struck again. Just nobody knew it yet ... but him.

  Chapter Five

  “You can go in now,” the young male secretary repeated. Or was he called a clerk? “His Honor said he’ll see you.”

  His Honor . . .

  There was nothing honorable about Whittaker Lawrence. How had he become a judge? And a district attorney before that?

  She’d moved away from Maine after college, so she hadn’t known then about his elections. She certainly wouldn’t have voted for him. She might have even ... done what she should have done all those years ago.

  But it was too late now for that ...

  Rosemary couldn’t make herself move toward the door. It was as if she had no control over her own muscles, over her own body, like that night so long ago. That night that haunted her so many years later . . .

  Like the man haunted her.

  “He said for you to show yourself in,” the clerk added.

  Shouldn’t he open his door? Shouldn’t he come out here

  to greet her—where there was a witness—someone to protect her if he tried anything again?

  Not that he would try. She wasn’t the stupid sixteen-year-old girl so besotted with puppy love that she hadn’t been able to see what kind of person he truly was. She was older now and wiser, thanks to him. She was in control now.

  She drew in a deep breath and forced her limbs to move, to walk across the reception area to that door. But when she reached out for the knob, her fingers trembled, and a chill raced down her spine despite the warmth of the office. And it was warm—with a fire burning low in the hearth of a fireplace between two couches on the end of the room across from the receptionist’s desk. She hadn’t sat down on the couches, though; she hadn’t warmed herself at that fire despite the chill in her bones.

  The chill she’d had since coming to Bane Island and Halcyon Hall. Because of the fog she’d barely been able to see the bridge she’d driven over to get back to the mainland. Then she’d had to drive three and a half more hours to get here, to his office, to him.

  But now that she was so close ...

  She couldn’t quite bring herself to turn that knob and push open the door. She closed her eyes, and instead of that nightmare, Genevieve’s face flashed through her mind. So young, so beautiful ...

  So vulnerable. Like Rosemary had once been. She’d had nobody to protect her.

  Genevieve had her, and Rosemary would not let her down.

  She gripped the knob, twirled it, and shoved open the door. The inner office was nearly as expansive as the reception area, so much so that the man behind the desk didn’t look that big. Until he stood ...

  He was even taller than she remembered. Taller than he’d been at eighteen at least. He was broader now, too, his shoulders stretching the seams of his tailored suit. “Rosemary . . .” he murmured. “I didn’t expect—”

  “Expect or hope that you’d never see me again?” she interjected; the anger coursing through her chased away the chill and the fear she’d momentarily felt. She wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

  “It has been a long time,” he said, and his gaze traveled over her.

  Revulsion coursed through her like that chill had moments ago. Not fear. And definitely not attraction. It had to be revulsion. She didn’t find him attractive anymore—not like she had when she’d been a kid. But he was probably even more handsome than he’d been as a teenager, his features even more chiseled. His hair was a darker gold than it had been, but it was thick and full with a lock falling over his brow, emphasizing the deep green of his eyes.

  “It hasn’t been long enough,” she said. “I would have never come to you—if I’d had any other choice.” Her mother had taken away the last option Rosemary had when Abigail hadn’t put her name on that damn list.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, and he stepped around his desk as if to approach her.

  She instinctively stepped back and glanced at the door. It was closed now. She hadn’t done that; his clerk must have.

  “Did he lock that?” she asked, her heart pounding fast and frantically in her chest. “Did you have him lock that?”

  “What?” Whit asked.

  “The door,” she said. “Did you have him lock me in here? Is that part of his job description to lock women in with you?”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re the one who insisted on seeing me now.”

  She flinched. “I didn’t want to see you,” she said. “I never, ever wanted to see you again after that night. . . .”

  The color fled from his face, leaving it starkly pale—probably like hers.

  “But I do,” she said. “So often in my nightmares, I see your face as you’re carrying me up to my room.” She shuddered. “I hate what you did ... I hate you for that ... but I can’t hate . . .”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken—because she had to get it out. She had to confess what she’d never admitted to anyone. “But I can’t hate our daughter. In fact I love her so much that I would ask anyone to help me rescue her—even my rapist.”

  His eyes widened with shock.

  Feigned shock. It had to be; he couldn’t actually be surprised. Maybe he’d thought, because of whatever he’d slipped in her drink, that she wouldn’t remember. He’d probably been counting on it, or he wouldn’t have gone into politics.

  All it would take was a DNA test to prove what he really was. The very thing he was known for prosecuting and now for sentencing—a criminal.

  Then she would have to tell Genevieve the truth. Rosemary had promised her mother that she would never reveal that she was actually Genevieve’s mother. Not her sister. Abigail had made her a promise in return, after putting her and Bobby’s names on Genevieve’s birth certificate as her parents, that she would take care of Genevieve, that she would protect her from all harm.

  She’d broken that promise when she’d sent her to Halcyon Hall. Rosemary had to get her out of it.

  “I need your help,” she said, the plea sticking in her throat, making her voice gruff with emotion. “I need you to help me find our daughter.”

  He shook his head. “You’re crazy,” he said.

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m determined to do what’s right for our daughter—even if I have to threaten you to do it.”

  “You’re going to threaten me?”

  “I’ll go to the press,” she warned him. “I’ll let them know what kind of man you really are.”

  “What you don’t have is proof, Rosemary. You have nothing to back up your wild accusations. Nothing. You’ll make a damn fool of yourself.”

  “A DNA test will prove it,” she said, “will prove that you’re my daughter’s biological father.”

  He arched a dark blond brow as he chuckled again. “Really? Bring it on, then. What do you need? A cheek swab?”

  She tensed. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you know so much about paternity tests. Not with the kind of man you are.”

  He snorted. “A well-informed one? One who’s watched television? Just because I know how it works doesn’t mean I’ve ever had one. But I’ll take one now if you want. And your daughter . . . ?”

  The chill rushed through her again as she realized why he had agreed to the test so quickly. “You know . . .” She gasped. “You know that I can’t get to her. You know she’s being held in that place. . . .”

  “What place?” he asked, his brow furrowing again.

  “Halcyon Hall,” she murmured. “Bainesworth Manor. Who told you? My mother?” Abigail was the only other person who knew who Genevieve’s father was. Or at least that was what Rosemary had thought.

  But had her mother told Whit all those years ago? Had he learned he’d gotten her pregnant? Was that why he’d stayed away? Her mother had probably threatened him. What she should have done was have him prose
cuted. But she’d talked Rosemary out of calling the police, had said that it would be too hard on her to relive that night.

  Hell, Rosemary had relived that night so many times without going to the police that a few more times wouldn’t have made much difference to her. But justice ...

  She should have gone after justice then. For herself . . .

  For Genevieve. But then Genevieve would have known that she’d been conceived of a rape, and Rosemary hadn’t wanted her baby to bear that stigma. Abigail certainly hadn’t wanted that either—for herself more than for her grandbaby. She’d convinced Rosemary that everybody would have blamed her—like she’d blamed her—for hosting that party while they were gone, for being so besotted that she would have done anything Whittaker Lawrence had asked her to do.

  Heat rushed to her face with embarrassment that she’d once been such a fool. Even though she’d acted rashly, she hadn’t deserved what had happened to her. She hadn’t deserved what he’d done. And then the hypocrite had become a prosecutor and now a judge when he’d eluded justice himself for so long.

  He stared at her; his brow furrowed yet. Then he spoke to her softly and slowly as if she was as crazy as he’d accused her of being, “What is Halcyon Hall or Bainesworth Manor? What are you talking about?”

  The heat suffusing her now was rage. “You know what I’m talking about!”

  Didn’t he?

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  Tears stung her eyes now, but she had resolved long ago to stop crying over him. “You better remember,” she warned him. “I kept your dirty secret long enough. You owe me.”

  “You want money?” he asked. “That’s why you’re here. You’re shaking me down.”

  “No!” she shouted back in his face. “I don’t need or want your money.”

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked.

  She hadn’t come here expecting an apology or even an admission. “I just want your help,” she said. “I need to rescue Genevieve from that place.”

  “Have you tried the police?”

  She blew out a breath of frustration. First he’d treated her like she was crazy, now like an idiot. “Of course I did. The Bane sheriff’s department refused to help me.”

  “Why?” he asked. “Why wouldn’t they help you rescue your daughter?”

  “They don’t know she’s mine,” she said. “Nobody does. I let my mother list herself as her birth mother.”

  “So if you can’t help her, how do you think I can?” he asked. His handsome features twisted with a grimace of disgust. “Am I listed as her father?”

  She hesitated for a long moment before admitting, “No.”

  “Then how do you think I could help you?” he asked.

  Her frustration and fury receded, deflating her. She could only shake her head and murmur, “I should have known better. I should have known. . . .”

  He wouldn’t help her.

  She turned and headed toward the door through which she’d entered. She closed her hand around the knob and drew in a breath, bracing herself in case it was locked, but it turned easily.

  It was his voice that stopped her from walking out. “Rosemary . . .”

  She tensed, but she didn’t turn back. After that night, she hadn’t ever wanted to see him again. Coming here had been a mistake. It hadn’t helped Genevieve at all. But maybe it had helped her. She wasn’t afraid of him anymore, so maybe the nightmares would stop. At least the nightmares about him . . .

  Ignoring his calling her name, she started walking again, and she didn’t stop until she stood in front of the elevators. When she reached for the down button, her hand was steady. She knew what she had to do.

  * * *

  Whit reached up to brush his hair off his forehead, and his hand shook. He was shaking ... with fury. She had accused him of being the very thing he hated most: a rapist. He couldn’t believe it....

  Rosemary Tulle ...

  He hadn’t seen her in so long. She’d been such a pretty girl all those years ago. She was a beautiful woman now—despite the dark circles beneath her eyes, even with her long black hair tangled around her shoulders. Why had she been so disheveled with her once pale skin chafed from the cold?

  Was she homeless?

  Her jacket and jeans had been clean, though. So had her hair, so clean that it had shimmered in the glow of the lights. She was so very beautiful. And so distraught ...

  Was she going through some kind of psychotic break? Or maybe she’d been mentally unstable for years.

  All he knew of Rosemary Tulle was the sweet sixteen-year-old girl she’d once been. She wasn’t sweet anymore. She was possibly in collusion with the scandal-seeking reporter or using his campaign to extort money from him.

  What other reason would have compelled her to come see him now—after all these years? It had to be money.

  She couldn’t actually expect him to help her break some girl out of what?

  What the hell was Halcyon Hall?

  And why did he care?

  He couldn’t afford a distraction like her—not right now. Not when he was just getting ready to run for governor in the next election. He needed to make sure that Edie Stone wasn’t going to publicize this crazy story. Maybe the two of them were working for one of his political rivals to discredit him. That was going to prove dangerous and not just for his campaign.

  * * *

  Rosemary Tulle was a danger to herself and to others. She kept running her big mouth, kept causing trouble about the manor. And about Genevieve.

  She had to be stopped before she ruined everything.

  Thick leather gloves gripped the steering wheel, turning the truck onto the same street onto which her rental car had turned. The street that led to the bridge back to Bane Island.

  Only Rosemary Tulle wouldn’t be making it back to the island. Now or ever again ...

  Chapter Six

  The fog hadn’t lifted from the island. Not that Rosemary could see the island. She could barely see the bridge as she steered the rental vehicle toward it. The fog was thicker now as night began to fall along with some fat, white snowflakes that obscured the visibility even more.

  Once she hit the metal of the bridge, the tires skidded across the slick surface, and she cursed.

  She’d already been gone too long. She needed to get back to the island, back to Genevieve. Even though she couldn’t see her—yet—at least she could be close to her.

  But not if she landed into the waves crashing against the rocks below the bridge. She couldn’t see those now either, though. She could only see the small holes her headlights bore into the fog and snow in front of her vehicle and the lights in the back, burning through her frosted back window and casting a glare on her rearview mirror. She squinted and looked away, blinded by the light and the snow.

  And the fear ...

  That blinded her, too, blinded her to the dangers of driving under the current conditions. Warnings emanated from the radio. Weather advisories. Authorities warning against traveling unless it was an emergency.

  This was an emergency—getting back to her daughter, getting her out of that damn place. Cursed ...

  That was what it was. But it wasn’t just the building that was cursed. Rosemary was as well.

  Why had she been so stupid as to think that her mother or Whittaker Lawrence would help her when they hadn’t before?

  She’d wasted time. Precious time that she could have spent trying to get to her daughter. Her daughter . . .

  Not her sister.

  She wanted everyone to know that—most especially Genevieve.

  What would the teenager say? How would she react? Would she hate Rosemary for giving her up—for giving her to them?

  She hated herself for doing that. But she hadn’t thought she’d had any other options then. She’d been so young and dependent on her mom and stepdad. Hopefully, Genevieve would understand.

  Needing to see her, needing to explain, Rosemary pressed harder o
n the accelerator. But the tires skidded again, the steering wheel twisting in her tight grasp. The rental careened close to the flimsy metal side rail of the bridge. Gritting her teeth, she held on and willed the vehicle to straighten up as she eased her foot from the gas pedal.

  She had to slow down, had to be careful, or she wouldn’t make it back to the island. Unfortunately, the vehicle behind her didn’t slow down; the lights got even closer. From the height of them, it must have been a truck or an SUV. She couldn’t see anything beyond the light.

  Why the hell didn’t he slow down? Whoever was driving must have been in even more of a hurry to get back to the island than she was. Why? And why had he or she started across the bridge the same time she had?

  She’d already been chilled from the cold that the weak trickle of heat from the vents couldn’t dispel. But now her teeth began to chatter, with fear, as that vehicle drew closer yet.

  The front bumper touched the rear bumper of the rental, sending her car and her body jolting forward. The seat belt caught her shoulder, holding her back from striking the steering wheel. But there was nothing to hold back the car as it lurched forward—toward that flimsy guard rail.

  A scream escaped her lips, but she tamped down her panic. She needed to speed up—to get the hell away from that truck. But once again when she pressed on the accelerator, the tires skidded and the car swerved, zigzagging across the two-lane bridge.

  Rosemary gripped the wheel as tightly as she could, her knuckles aching from her effort to keep the car from crashing into that rail. From the other times she’d crossed the bridge, she knew the metal was old and rusted—maybe rusted enough to break.

  Then the truck struck again, sending her into a spin. She screamed as the vehicle bounced off one railing and then into the other lane of traffic. Lights shone brightly in her windshield. Had she spun around to face the truck?

  A horn blared. And she swerved back into her lane so far that the passenger’s side scraped along that rail. As the vehicle passed, she noticed it was a car.