by Lisa Childs
She had to be stopped.
Permanently.
Chapter Fourteen
“Tell me about Rosemary Tulle,” Edie Stone said the minute he closed the passenger door on her Jeep. She started the car.
A surge of protectiveness rushed over him. “Rosemary Tulle is none of your business.”
“Why is she yours?” she asked.
He sighed. “Good question.”
“How well did you know her in school?”
He repeated, “Rosemary is none of your business.”
“But I’m interviewing you,” she reminded him. “You agreed to that.”
“And then I shut down the interview because all you want to report is a scandal.”
“Is Rosemary a scandal for you?”
He groaned. “If you’re looking for a scandal, look into Halcyon Hall,” he suggested. “That is why she came to see me—about the hall.”
“What about the hall?” Edie asked.
“They won’t let her see . . .” Her daughter. Rosemary had a daughter that she thought was his. What the hell had happened that night after he’d left her house? “Drive me back to the diner,” he said, “so I can get my vehicle.”
“I’m driving to the boardinghouse,” she said as she steered away from the wreckage of Rosemary’s vehicle.
She was lucky she’d survived the crash. But how badly was she injured? He should have gone to the hospital instead; he should have gone with her in the ambulance like the sheriff had. But he had no right—no rights at all where Rosemary was concerned. No right to open her life up to a reporter who’d only been given permission to interview him.
“Bring me to the diner,” he ordered her.
But she was already pulling her Jeep up to the curb in front of a Victorian house with a sign out front offering rooms for rent. “We’re already here. But it’s not far to town if you want to walk back to the diner.” She shut off the ignition and pushed open her door.
And he cursed. He didn’t want her here. But she blithely walked across the porch to the front door and rang the bell before he could stop her.
Everything else passed in a blur as he met the Pierce sisters and was shown into their parlor.
What had Rosemary told everyone about him?
The sheriff had treated him with suspicion. Now the ladies at the boardinghouse eyed him with that same suspicion. He and Edie sat in the front parlor—where visitors were received—according to the one who spoke. The other woman just stared at him—until he looked back at her; then she quickly cast her gaze down at her lap where she clutched a small, crocheted baby’s blanket.
He and Edie Stone sat on one faded rose-colored sofa while the sisters sat across a polished mahogany coffee table from them on another faded rose-colored sofa. The legs of the thing were so spindly that he was surprised they held up under his weight. The whole place reminded him of a bedraggled Victorian dollhouse. At least a fire glowed in the hearth near the end of the couch where Edie sat, trying to warm up.
He doubted even a fire could warm him up. He was chilled to the bone—over what had happened to Rosemary. She could have been killed. And even though she’d been talking after they’d extracted her from the wreckage, she could still be seriously injured. Perhaps fatally so . . .
It had been a while, and she hadn’t returned like she’d told him she would. “I need to go to the hospital,” he said.
Edie leaped up from the sofa. “I’ll go—”
“If you’re going back to the mainland, you should leave soon,” Ms. Pierce advised the reporter. “The bridge is dangerous to travel at night. Miss Tulle will attest to that. This isn’t the first accident she’s had on the island.”
“What?” Whit asked. “She’s been in another?”
“Not sure how much of an accident it was,” the older woman continued. “Another vehicle struck hers. She’s lucky it didn’t push her right through the railing and into the ocean.”
Tension gripped Whit. She wasn’t lucky. She was in danger.
“The person didn’t even stop,” she continued, and she eyed him with open suspicion now.
“I’m sure the sheriff is investigating,” Edie said as she sent Whit a sidelong glance. She was suspicious of him, too. “He will investigate this accident as well.”
“He better,” Whit said. But the sheriff had already been of no help to Rosemary, and he was one of the islanders, maybe on the hall’s payroll. She hadn’t reached out to Whit for help for the right reasons, but he wanted to help her anyway. “What do you know about the hall?” Whit asked Ms. Pierce. “About Halcyon Hall?”
“Cursed . . .” The word escaped in a whisper from the other woman, who clutched that bedraggled blanket. “Cursed . . .” she whispered.
“Cursed?” Edie asked, the reporter’s interest obviously piqued. “What is she talking about?”
“The manor,” Miss Pierce replied.
“Manor?”
“We all know it as the manor. Bainesworth Manor.”
“How is it cursed?” Edie asked.
Before either sister could answer her question, a door creaked open, and heels clicked on the wood floor of the foyer. “Sheriff, you don’t need to see me inside,” Rosemary said. “I’m fine. The doctor said I’m fine.”
His heart pounding, Whit leaped up from the sofa and rushed out to the foyer. Rosemary didn’t look fine; in fact when she turned toward him, her eyes widened with shock or fear. Didn’t she remember telling him to meet her here? How badly was she hurt? Her skin was pale except for the bruise on her forehead and what looked like bruises beneath her eyes but were probably just dark circles of exhaustion. While she stood, she seemed unsteady, like she might have stumbled if not for the sheriff ’s big hand cupping her elbow. But instead of being grateful for the sheriff finally supporting her, Whit felt something else—something to which he had no right: jealousy.
The sheriff ignored him and corrected her. “The doctor said that you should stay for observation, just in case . . .”
“In case of what?” she asked. “It’s only bumps and bruises—”
“A concussion—”
“A slight one,” she said. “I’m fine. And you have work to do.”
The sheriff expelled a ragged sigh. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Rosemary.”
“About the accident?” Whit asked.
“It wasn’t an accident,” the sheriff said. “Her brake line was cut. Know anything about that?”
“Absolutely not,” Whit said.
“What about you?” Sheriff Howell asked, and Whit turned to see Edie standing behind him.
“I don’t know Miss Tulle,” she replied. “The first time I saw her was when we followed you to the accident site.”
“I know you,” Rosemary remarked as if just now recognizing Edie. If they’d been conspiring together, she would have recognized her right away. “You’re a reporter.” She looked at Whit again, but now confusion replaced her fear. “You brought a reporter here? Why?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t bring her. She was already here.” But now he doubted that Rosemary had been meeting with her.
“Why?” the sheriff asked Edie.
“I’m working on a story.”
Rosemary gasped. “About Genevieve?”
Edie’s brow furrowed. “Genevieve? Is that who the hall won’t let you see?”
Whit shook his head. “No. You’re not going to interrogate her.”
“No, you’re not,” the sheriff agreed. “I’m going to interrogate the two of you. Where were you two nights ago?”
According to the boardinghouse landlady, two nights ago would have been when Rosemary had been nearly forced off the bridge, probably after leaving his chambers. Edie had been at his office when Rosemary had arrived. Had that just been a coincidence?
“I can provide an alibi,” Whit said. “But you don’t need it.”
The sheriff snorted. “I don’t. You do. Everything that’s happene
d to Rosemary has happened after she contacted you.”
“It’s happened here,” Whit pointed out. “Just as she’s looking for her daughter.”
Rosemary gripped the sheriff’s arm. “Please,” she implored him. “Please find Genevieve.”
The sheriff sighed. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” he said. “You need some rest.” Over her head, he stared down Whit. “You need to let her rest.”
Whit detected a trace of jealousy in the other man, or maybe he was just projecting his own feelings onto the sheriff. The familiarity between the lawman and Rosemary had something churning in his gut. When the sheriff stepped out of the house and closed the door behind himself, Whit breathed a slight sigh of relief.
The older women rushed forward now, one on each side of Rosemary. “Are you all right, dear?” the older one asked—at least she looked older.
The younger one smiled. “Evelyn made cookies. I put some on your pillow, so you could have a bedtime snack.”
“That was very sweet of you, Bonita,” Rosemary told her with a big smile. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”
The woman smiled brightly back at her.
“We’re not taking very good care of you,” Evelyn said, “since you keep getting in accidents.”
“Those accidents have nothing to do with the two of you,” Rosemary assured them.
The women looked at him now—with suspicion again. Ignoring them, he said, “I would like to talk to you, Rosemary.”
She sucked in a shaky-sounding breath, and fear flickered in her blue eyes. Rosemary really believed that he’d raped her. He’d never felt as sick as he did right now, not even when his mother had admitted the truth of his existence. “We can talk here,” he offered. Then he remembered the reporter. He did not want her to be part of their conversation. “We can talk in the parlor while Ms. Stone helps the Pierce sisters get you something to eat.”
Edie narrowed her dark eyes at him in a glare while the older-looking Pierce sister remarked, “Yes, you must be starved. You left so early this morning. I have some of that crab chowder you like so much.” She headed off toward the kitchen.
Before Bonita trailed after her, she touched Rosemary’s hand. “You’re cold. Go by the fire.”
But Rosemary hesitated before walking through the double doors to the parlor.
“You’re safe,” Whit assured her.
Edie nodded. “You are. The judge is too smart to harm you with witnesses in the house.”
Rosemary stared at her for a moment before stepping into the parlor.
“Thanks,” Whit sarcastically told the reporter. “But this is a private conversation.”
“I know,” she acknowledged although it might have been begrudgingly. Then she added, “Be careful with her. It sounds like she’s been through a lot.”
It did. All those years ago when he’d left her alone in that house that night and now, since coming to Bane Island.
Once Edie headed down the hallway after the sisters, Whit stepped back into the parlor. When he pulled the doors closed behind him, Rosemary tensed and sucked in another shaky breath.
“I won’t hurt you,” he promised. “Despite what you and the sheriff think, I have nothing to do with your accidents. And I have nothing to do with Genevieve either.”
Would she believe him? Could he make her believe him?
He hoped like hell that he could and not just because of his career. He couldn’t bear her thinking that he was like all the animals he’d prosecuted as a DA and sentenced now as a judge. He couldn’t bear her thinking he was anything like the man who’d fathered him.
* * *
Liar! Rosemary wanted to shout at him. But she didn’t have the energy to rage at him right now, not like she wanted. Instead she asked, “If, as you claim, you have nothing to do with anything or anyone, why are you here?”
“I have something to do with you, Rosemary,” he said, and he crossed the room to stand beside her at the hearth.
Panic rushed up, stealing her breath away. “Not anymore. . .” She shook her head. “Not since that night . . .”
“Nothing happened that night,” he insisted.
“You son of a bitch,” she murmured. “How the hell can you say that? I got pregnant that night.”
“Not by me,” he said. “Genevieve is not my daughter.”
“What are you suggesting?” she asked. “Immaculate conception?”
He pushed a hand through his thick blond hair. “I don’t know what happened after I left.” His voice gruff with what sounded like guilt, he added, “I shouldn’t have left.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “You carried me up to my room. I remember that.” She cringed as the nightmare played through her mind again. “I remember the dark and the feeling of helplessness and the pain . . .”
He flinched as if he was feeling the pain, too. “Damn it. I shouldn’t have left you. . . .”
Tears stung her eyes, so she squeezed them shut, blocking his face. She saw him way too often—in her nightmares. “I see you all the time,” she murmured. “I know it was you.”
“I carried you up the stairs,” he admitted. “After you passed out, after those stupid prep school assholes drugged you.”
She opened her eyes and narrowed them to glare at him. “You did it.”
He shook his head. “They did it. Said it was the only way someone like you—like them with money and class—would sleep with the bastard son of a maid.”
She gasped with shock, not that she hadn’t heard what others had said about him back then. She’d hated how he’d been treated, but he’d been so strong that he’d never seemed to let it bother him. He’d always held his head high, always had so much class—so much more class than any of those spoiled bastards they’d gone to school with. That class had been another of the many reasons she’d thought she’d loved him.
“I didn’t hurt you,” he said. “I swear it. I would never hurt someone like that. . . .”
She heard the conviction in his deep voice, but she also heard that guilt. “Then why did I never see you again after that night? Why did you dump me with no explanation?”
He sucked in a breath. “Dump you? I wasn’t given a choice. Your mother didn’t give me a choice.”
“My mother?”
“She and your stepfather showed up that night,” he said. “They threw me and everybody else out of your house. She didn’t believe that it was the other guys that drugged you, and she threatened to call the police on me if she ever saw me around you again. She swore she would ruin my life.”
Rosemary shook her head. “No. She and Bobby came the next morning.”
She remembered her mother pulling open the blinds, demanding to know what the hell had happened the night before. And Rosemary crying . . .
Crying so many tears . . .
She’d cried that night. She’d cried out in pain, and nobody had come to her aid. Nobody . . .
“I don’t know why she’s lying, but she is,” Whit insisted. “I can prove I’m not your daughter’s father. I’ll do that DNA test.”
“Genevieve is gone,” she said.
His brow furrowed. “She’s in that hall you’ve talked about, the one where you were before the crash today.” His green eyes darkened with anger. “That must have been where your brake line was cut.”
If it was, it couldn’t have been Whit—unless he’d done what she hadn’t been able to do, and he’d somehow gotten inside those tall wrought iron gates without being on the damn list.
She drew in a breath of the wood smoke from the fireplace and a faint trace of his cologne, something fresh smelling like rain. “According to the director, she ran away.”
“You don’t believe that?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“That’s why you were asking the sheriff to find her.”
“He won’t look,” she said, as she tensed with frustration. “He believes she ran away and thinks she’s already left the is
land.”
“You don’t?”
“She’s here,” Rosemary insisted. She just knew it. “She’s here.” But was she still alive?
Whit stepped closer to her. “You’re scared.”
She nodded. “Damn scared.”
“Of me?” he asked with such dread.
She studied his handsome face, with the sincerity in his deep green eyes, and admitted, “I don’t know anymore. . . .”
“I would never hurt you,” he vowed. “Not then. Not now.”
“But you left ... and you never contacted me again.”
He flinched and closed his eyes. “I am so sorry. I thought you would be safe with your parents there. I thought everybody else was gone. But when I told your mom that the other guys put something in your drink, she didn’t believe they did it.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “She said it had to be me who did it because I was trash. Then she threatened to call the police on me. I thought they would believe her over me, so I left.”
She gasped. But she didn’t doubt her mother had said those things to him; she’d said it many times to Rosemary.
He’s not our kind of people. He’s a maid’s bastard. He’s trash.
“I cared about you,” he said. “When I saw that car today and knew you were in it . . .” His breath shuddered out. “I realized I still care about you.”
Maybe the sheriff was right. Maybe she’d hit her head harder than she’d thought; harder even than the ER doctor had thought. Because she was starting to believe him . . .
* * *
The sisters were quiet, as if they were listening intently for any hint their boarder needed them. They cared about Rosemary.
So did Whittaker Lawrence ...
Why the hell else had he risked his career coming here? Too many people had seen him, could talk to the press ...
To her . . .
Not that these people were all that damn talkative.
“So tell me about this Bainesworth Manor,” Edie said.
Evelyn gasped. And the other one—Bonita—dropped the bowl she’d been taking down from the cupboard. It fell onto the counter, rolled off the butcher block, and crashed against the wood floor, breaking into brightly colored ceramic pieces.
