by Lisa Jackson
“Your partner?” Wells repeated.
“Detective Delacroix. I need to talk to her.”
A beat.
In that instant Reed felt a new, unnamed dread.
“Detective Delacroix?” Austin said. “She was supposed to be here?”
“To discuss Owen Duval’s will.”
The attorney snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen anyone from the police department.”
The concerns Reed had been having about Delacroix congealed. Dear God.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Been here all evening. You all have got your wires crossed.”
“Thanks,” Reed said automatically, but his mind was racing, his jaw set, guts twisting. Where in God’s name was his partner?
And more importantly, why the hell had she lied to him?
* * *
A floorboard on the old porch squeaked loudly as Nikki reached a window on the back side of the lodge’s great room, a window that was open slightly, as if it didn’t seal correctly. When she dared peek over the sill, she saw the cavernous great room of the Marianne Inn. The ceilings soared two full stories with a balcony visible on the second floor. A rock fireplace dominated one end of the room and faced a staircase at the far wall. She was able to see all this because of a lantern set on the mantel, over a firebox large enough for a small child to stand inside. The unnatural light cast the Georgia pine walls in an unnatural glow and displayed the remains of a couch, its stuffing tumbling from ripped arms, the pillows scattered haphazardly on the dusty floorboards near the hearth. In the pool of that weird light, Ashley Jefferson squared off with Tyson Beaumont.
So he was behind it all.
Ashley’s boyfriend in high school.
Why was Nikki not surprised?
Tyson, the privileged only son of one of the most prestigious and wealthy families in the area. Tyson, born with a silver spoon delicately cemented in his mouth.
Now, they were obviously fighting and Ashley was even more disheveled than the last time Nikki had seen her on Tybee Island, her makeup nearly nonexistent, her hair mussed and falling into her eyes. While her dress was wrinkled, her eyes swollen, her face flushed, he, dressed in camo pants and a black T-shirt, looked military-sharp. He wore a belt, where a gun and what appeared to be a taser, flashlight and some kind of baton were anchored. A pair of night-vision goggles hung from a strap at his neck, and Tyson was as poised as Ashley was emotionally strung out.
Without making the slightest sound, Nikki hit the record button on her phone and gently placed it on the sill next to the open window while silently praying she would not only be able to hear their conversation but also record their every word.
“You crossed the line,” Ashley charged, obviously upset, her voice cracking, her eyes shedding tears, an accusing finger jabbing at Tyson’s chest. “Owen was off-limits,” she said, glowering. “We talked about this over and over.”
“And I made myself clear: No one is off-limits.” He eyed her harshly. “Admit it, Ash, you were always hung up on him.”
“He didn’t need to die!”
“Of course he did.”
And there it was. Nearly a confession. Nikki couldn’t believe it. Just like that.
“And you were always jealous,” Ashley accused. “Which was just . . . ridiculous. You know I was always in love with you. Owen was a friend. A gentle, sweet person. He liked poetry, for God’s sake! He didn’t deserve this.” She was advancing on Tyson, disbelief in her eyes.
“And you always had a thing for him,” Tyson charged.
“No, babe, that was the problem. I always had a thing for you. Always. And now look what a mess . . . Oh, God. Can it just stop?”
“Not yet. And Owen was a liability.”
“A liability?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Tyson, you are so fucked up. Owen didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He was a kind, gentle soul. Do you know how he beat himself up over his sisters? He blamed himself that they were gone!” She threw up her hands and turned her back on him. “And now he’s dead. You fucking murdered him.”
CHAPTER 32
Tyson’s nerves were jangled, every muscle taut. This dark, decrepit lodge with all of its bad memories had been a bad choice to meet, but Ashley had caught him off guard when she’d called him, all freaked out about that damned Duval. And now she’d decided to be a bitch, second-guessing all he’d done. For her. For them. He couldn’t believe she was fucking it up, again. He had to calm her down even as his own agitation was creeping up. “Look, babe. Chill. Okay? It had to be done,” he pointed out, trying to stay calm, trying not to think that everything he’d worked for was unraveling.
“What? You had to kill Owen? Is that what you’re saying? God, that’s nuts!”
“Don’t worry about it. I covered my tracks. The cops will think he killed himself.”
Why was she turning on him? Why now? After all this time, all they’d been through together. Didn’t she know that everything he’d done, including the murders, he’d done for her? Weren’t they in this together? Her reaction to Duval’s death was over the top. But then he shouldn’t be surprised and he felt his old jealousy rise to the surface. The fact was, he didn’t trust her. Not completely. She’d always had a weird fascination with Owen. The truth was that Tyson had only gone along with her idea of giving Owen Duval an alibi because it gave her one, too. It took the heat off her when she was in this up to her pretty neck. Sure, she hadn’t known that he’d killed the girls, but so what?
“You don’t know what the cops will think,” she said, glaring at him, defending Duval even in death.
The muscles at the back of his neck tightened and he fought the rage he’d always battled when it came to Duval. “Face it, Ash. Owen was becoming dangerous. To us.”
“Dangerous?” she spat out. “Are you serious?”
“The cops interviewed him.”
“Of course they did. He was their number one suspect. Dangerous like Bronco? Jesus, Tyson, why?” Beneath her anger, she seemed genuinely perplexed. “Why kill them? Owen and Bronco?”
“He saw me.”
“What?” She was staring at him as if she thought he was mad.
“That day that he discovered where we stashed the bodies, he saw me in the boat.”
“Whoa—whoa. The day ‘we’ stashed the bodies? That wasn’t my idea. You didn’t need to kill those girls, Tyson. The plan was that you were going to abduct Rose from the theater, just Rose, right?”
Oh. Fuck! She was really going off. Trying to absolve herself, just like she did way back when by marrying that loser Ryan Jefferson. Tyson should have put his foot down then, but at the time, they’d cooled it, trying not to look suspicious, letting people think they’d broken up, but she’d taken it too far.
“We’ve been over this, Ash. You knew what happened.”
“Afterwards. After the mess-up at the theater. You were supposed to abduct Rose—that was the plan. You said you had someone who would take her and so while I was keeping Owen busy, you killed two innocent girls.”
“Not so innocent,” he reminded her, but he felt a well of satisfaction when he remembered the terror in Holly’s eyes just before he choked the life from her, after he’d done the same to her sister.
“You’re sick!” Ashley charged. “And besides that, Rose got away.”
“Because of Owen Duval. He came back before he was supposed to and found the kid.”
“No, Tyson. It wasn’t because of Owen. He came back after the movie. We knew he’d do that. It all happened because you messed up. You messed up big-time. And I never agreed to any killing. That was all you.”
That much was true. She was never supposed to have known what his true plans were. He’d taken the girls to the mansion, and there in the basement, choked them before placing their limp bodies together, lacing their fingers together in Beulah’s old hiding spot, room for a third when he caught h
er. And only he knew about the secret latch as he’d watched his grandmother open the hidden door in the bricks on more than one occasion. It had been the perfect crypt. Except one of his victims—the important one—had gotten away.
Unfortunately, he’d admitted as much to Ashley years later when he’d had too much to drink at Ashley’s fucking wedding reception, an event he’d attended as his family had been invited. It still galled him that she’d gone so far as to marry Jefferson and on the day she’d said her vows, Tyson had made a point of taking her hand at the reception and pulling her behind the vine-clad archway where she’d exchanged “I dos” less than an hour before.
“Just remember,” he’d reminded her as he’d brushed a kiss across her cheeks. “You’re mine. People have died so we can be together.”
“What?” she’d gasped, her eyes rounding in horror as she’d backed away from him, her arm scraping the latticework laden with white roses. The June day had been bright, sun not yet setting, the sky an unreal shade of blue as he’d dropped that particular bomb on her. “No one died,” she’d whispered, but the sudden horror in her gaze had told him believed him.
He’d smiled then, knowing it was an evil, drunken leer, but not caring as he’d teased her. “Oh, come on, Ash. What do you think happened to those girls?” He hadn’t explained anything more and avoided her during the rest of the reception, but he’d felt her appalled gaze on him as she’d stood with her new husband, a smile pasted onto her perfect pink-tinged lips. There had been horror beneath her supposed happiness, a darkness hidden deep behind her pure white dress and veil.
He’d loved it.
And he’d felt a greater sense of satisfaction when not a month later, she’d called and demanded answers. Tanned from a honeymoon in the Bahamas, she’d feigned fury and outrage as they’d met in this very lodge, where he’d admitted that two of the Duval girls were dead, but Rose, their intended target, had somehow escaped, probably, he assumed, due to Owen fucking Duval, who had put it together that his youngest sister was still in danger.
Tyson didn’t know for certain but believed somehow, probably inadvertently, Ashley had tipped Owen off.
In many ways, she was a liability.
As much as Holly and Poppy Duval had been.
And now she was acting all high and mighty. Noble. Well, it wasn’t flying. Not with him.
“Well, you’re in it now, aren’t you?” He felt the old rage flare up and as she stared at him he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he just grabbed her, pulled her close and let his hands circle her throat, his thumbs pressing hard, cutting off her air, hearing the tiniest of snaps as he choked her like he’d done with that stupid spying Holly Duval and her sister.
Tyson felt a sudden rush of adrenaline in his bloodstream, the anticipation as tempting as sex. Maybe more so. He felt himself growing hard, itching for release of a different kind. He licked his lips and rubbed the tips of his fingers as he fantasized.
But a noise brought him up short. A loud creak that was more than the old lodge settling on its ancient foundation.
“You hear that?” he asked suddenly, his cock shrinking, his gaze narrowing on the window.
“Hear what?”
He strode to the French doors and peered out at the night, to the darkness and a faint ribbon of moonlight seeming to float on the restless water of the river. His eyes narrowed. His ears strained. He felt it then . . . unseen eyes. Boring into him. He held his pistol tight and strode to the window. “I’m telling you, Ash, someone’s out there.”
* * *
Nikki gasped.
She flattened herself to the old floorboards as she heard footsteps approaching the window. Biting her lip, she inched her body sideways and caught a glimpse of Tyson staring out into the night; she didn’t dare breathe. She’d heard enough, she could leave now. If she risked retrieving her phone from the ledge.
That would be tricky.
Sweat from the heat of the day and her raw case of nerves trickled down her forehead and nose.
She felt the seconds of the night ticking away with each of her heartbeats, smelled the scent of cigarette smoke and dust flowing out of the small opening beneath the window. And something more. The musky scent of male sweat. Tyson was anxious, worried and now, she knew, had a hair-trigger temper and a lust for killing.
Her throat closed.
The realization that she had drawn her husband into danger struck a terrifying chord in her. What had she written him in her text?
At the Marianne Inn. Settler’s Road. Get here fast. Be careful!
But she hadn’t said anything about danger, that she was chasing down a psychopath. Reed would be careful, wouldn’t he? He was a cop, a detective, and had been in tight places before. He’d know what to do. His instincts were razor sharp, his intuition spot-on.
Inadvertently she crossed her fingers. Despite trying to tell herself otherwise, she couldn’t fight the overwhelming sense of dread that she’d lured her husband into desperate, fatal danger.
* * *
Tyson glared through the dirty glass to the sultry August night and saw nothing out of the ordinary. But there was someone out there. He was sure of it. He could feel the unseen eyes watching his every move. He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead.
“You’re paranoid,” Ashley said from in front of the charred, oversize fireplace, where he’d seen his damned father and that whore fucking like damned rabbits so many years ago.
“What?”
“I said, ‘You’re paranoid.’ No one followed me!”
He whipped around, his eyes focused on the woman he’d loved for so long, too long. “Don’t,” he warned, and he listened hard, still thinking someone was out there, someone intending to ruin all he’d worked so damned hard for.
“You called me out here,” he reminded her. “After that reporter bitch rattled your cage. You could have been followed.”
“What? By whom?”
“Nikki Gillette. Face it, Ash. You were played.”
“And you’re paranoid. This is out of control!”
“We’ve been through worse.”
“Have we?” she charged, and rubbed her arms as if she’d felt a sudden chill when the interior of this old forgotten inn was sweltering. When she fumbled for a cigarette and shook one from her pack, her hands were trembling.
“Of course we have! Just calm down. I told you the cops are going to think Owen offed himself, so we’re clear there.” Tyson was thinking. Second-guessing himself. And he hated that. “Everyone knew Duval was nuts, and they’ll take his suicide as a confession, that his guilt drove him to it.”
“You’re out of your mind. Do you think Margaret will let it go? No way.” She lit up, took a long drag, then blew out a long stream of smoke. “Not that woman. Did she ever once think to thank me for supplying Owen with an alibi? Hell, no! She twisted it all around and blamed me.” Another pull on the cigarette. Another cloud of smoke. “She made my life a living hell.”
“A living hell? Out on Tybee? Tennis? Golf? Boating?” He snorted. “If that’s hell, count me in!”
“Shut up! You know what I mean!”
“Hey, we’re in this together.”
“I don’t think so. I never signed up for murder. You were supposed to kidnap Rose and find a place for her, a home . . . that was the idea.” She squared her shoulders. “Holly and Poppy were never supposed to be a part of it.”
“Things evolved.” Tyson was calm for the moment, but he was sweating and he felt that small tell-tale tic developing beneath his left eye. He rubbed it with the back of his hand holding the gun, but it remained, a testament to his own tension. They needed to end this. He needed to end this. “If Gillette followed you . . . if she’s on to us? I’ll deal with her.”
“Deal with her?” Ashley repeated, obviously distressed as she looked up at the ceiling as if searching for strength or divine intervention. “Oh, God, Tyson. You mean kill her. Jesus, Tyson, listen to yourself. T
hat’s always your answer, isn’t it? But it has to stop!”
What was she not getting about this? “Ash, it has to be permanent. You know that.”
“No! No more!” Ashley’s voice was quavering. She took a final drag, then tossed the rest of her cigarette into the firebox, the cig’s red ember glowing in the charred remains of a long-ago fire. “There’s been too much killing.” She was shaking her head, her blond hair shimmering in the lantern’s light. “There’s been too much.” And she looked up at him with accusing eyes. “It all started with Nell, didn’t it?”
“Nell? What’s Nell got to do with any of this?”
“Didn’t it?” she demanded.
What the hell did Ashley know about his sister and how he’d let her drown? It was true Nell had been the first to die because of him, but no one knew about that. Not Jacob, who’d been there, not his parents and certainly not Ashley. She was driving blind. Had to be.
“How dumb do you think I am?” she said, getting to her feet and challenging him. “If you were going to ‘take care of Rose’ because of your father’s damned estate, then why wouldn’t you start with Nell?”
“Nell drowned,” he said simply, and silently kicked himself for explaining to Ashley years ago about his need to be Baxter’s only heir, that he felt the estate, the grounds, the rights, and everything with the name Beaumont in Savannah belonged to him. Now, with Ashley in such an agitated state, her eyes blazing with accusations, there was no reason to confess.
“You were there, Ty.” She walked closer, poked a finger at his chest.
“You’re crazy.”
“Am I?” She was only inches from him now, her face upturned, her lips tight, this woman he’d loved for decades, the girl he’d killed for so they could have a future together. And she was pissed as hell.
“I didn’t kill my sister,” he said, forcing a calm he didn’t feel.
“Bullshit!”
She wasn’t having it, so he lifted a shoulder. “Look, don’t make more of it than it was, okay? I just didn’t save her. And it happened years ago. So let it go, Ash. It’s over.”
He heard what sounded like a scrape outside. Fuck! He glared at the window. Was he going crazy? Or was there really someone out there? The hairs lifting on the back of his arms warned him of an unseen danger and he took a step toward the grimy panes only to spy a rat dart toward the fireplace, its tail slithering behind it as it scrambled into a crack in the mortar. He started for the window once more.
