Faceless

by Alexandra Ivy

  She shut down her speculation. It happened twenty-five years ago. There was nothing she could do about it now. “It wasn’t your friend?” she instead asked.

  “No, it was the cops asking for your dad,” he said, something that might have been sympathy touching his sweat-dampened face. “I didn’t learn until later that they were looking for him because Laurel had been killed. That’s why I remember.”

  Wynter jerked. “Why wouldn’t they call him at home?”

  “They tried. When he didn’t answer they called the office.”

  Wynter swayed. She felt like someone had pulled the plug on her emotions and they were draining away, like water down a bathtub drain. It was the strangest sensation.

  “He wasn’t there?” she asked, her lips numb.

  “Nope.” A malicious smile touched the professor’s lips, as if realizing he’d managed to retaliate for Wynter’s implication he was involved in Laurel’s death. “I have no idea where he was, but I have plenty of eyewitnesses who know where I was. Is that all?”

  “Yeah, that’s all.” Wynter whirled on her heel and rigidly headed toward the door.

  She was vaguely aware of Noah following behind her, and the soft chatter of conversation combined with the strands of Mozart as she dashed through the gallery, but nothing mattered but getting out of there.

  She couldn’t breathe. She needed fresh air.

  She needed ...

  Tears streamed down her face as she ran.

  Chapter 21

  Noah was freaked out. One minute Wynter had been confronting Dr. Peyton like a prizefighter hoping for a knockout punch, and the next she was darting out of the gallery as if the devil was on her heels. Keeping pace, he waited until they were out of the building and crossing the quad before he lightly touched her shoulder to gain her attention.

  “Wynter. Wait,” he murmured. “Your father’s office is that way.” He pointed toward the sidewalk that would lead to the admin building.

  She continued her power walk toward the parking lot. “I can’t talk to him. Not now,” she muttered.

  “What’s going on?”

  She turned her head, allowing him to catch a glimpse of her pale face in the glow of the streetlights. Her eyes were wide, as if she was struggling not to cry, and her lips trembled.

  “I remember.”

  He frowned in confusion. “Remember what?”

  “Something about that night.”

  They reached the Jeep and he quickly unlocked the doors. “The night your mom died?”

  “Yeah.”

  He nodded, opening the passenger door. “We’ll go back to the cabin. We can talk there.”

  * * *

  Erika stood in the shadows, watching as the Jeep squealed out of the parking lot and disappeared from view.

  For several minutes she simply stood there, uncertain what to do.

  She’d come to the campus for her weekly group sessions. Despite having a private practice, she maintained a position as adjunct counselor. It not only gave her access to the college’s facilities and health clinic, but she enjoyed spending time with students. Tonight she’d just been strolling toward her car when she’d seen Wynter hurrying toward the humanities building. There’d been an urgency in the younger woman’s movements that had troubled her.

  Before she could halt her weird impulse, Erika found herself trailing behind Wynter. She was not only curious, but she had an instinctive need to make sure the younger woman was all right. Wynter, along with her companion, Noah, had, after all, been a patient. It didn’t matter how many years had passed; she would always care about their welfare.

  Telling herself that it had nothing to do with Laurel, or the guilt that still haunted her, she silently followed behind the two, into the art gallery, watching from a distance as Wynter confronted Dr. Peyton. What the hell was going on? Erika stepped into a shallow alcove as Wynter, Noah, and Dr. Peyton walked past her to enter a small office.

  Telling herself to leave, she instead hurried toward the stairs that led to the upper loft. She’d spent endless hours up there, surrounded by Laurel’s artwork. It was a painfully hollow reflection of the brilliant, vibrant woman who’d created the paintings, but it eased her loneliness.

  That was how she knew that any conversation in the downstairs office floated through the vent to the corner of the loft. Now she hurried there, shamelessly straining to hear the muffled voices. Erika was honest enough to admit that it wasn’t just her concern that compelled her to eavesdrop. She wanted to know what Wynter was asking Peyton. And why the old perv looked like he’d been punched in his fleshy gut.

  What she heard left her pale and shaking.

  Not because Peyton had admitted to an affair with Laurel. That had been common knowledge. Although he’d been less than honest about how it’d ended, she wryly acknowledged. The jerk had made a fool of himself trying to recapture Laurel’s elusive attention. Once Erika had seen him on his knees in the middle of the grocery store, as if pleading for her to give him another chance.

  Of course, Laurel had brought a lot of people to their knees. Including her.

  No, Erika had been shaken by the man’s last claim. That he’d been in his office on the night Laurel had died. Alone.

  If that was true, then that changed everything.

  Quickly jogging down the stairs, she rushed out of the gallery. When she’d arrived earlier in the evening she’d noticed a familiar car in the parking lot. Now she made a beeline out of the building and across the quad. Less than ten minutes later she’d entered the admin offices and was thrusting open the door to the office of the dean of the English department.

  She frowned as she glanced around. The door had been unlocked, but the lights were off. About to back out, Erika frowned as she heard a muffled sound.

  “Hello,” she called out.

  There was a bang, as if something had been dropped. Or maybe a chair overturned. Erika reached into her purse, fumbling for her cell phone to call for security. She was still searching for the damned thing when an inner door was pulled open and Dr. Edgar Moore stepped into the reception room.

  He was wearing his usual white dress shirt and black slacks, but his tie was missing and his silver hair looked mussed. Had he fallen asleep at his desk? It wouldn’t be unusual. Many professors spent crazy hours in their office. They were either obsessed with research, or writing articles in the hopes of having them published.

  Publish or perish wasn’t a joke in the academic world.

  “Erika.” Edgar blinked, reaching out to press a switch on the wall. Muted light filled the reception area. “What are you doing here?”

  Erika was suddenly uneasy. Outrage had propelled her from the gallery to this off ice, but now that she was standing face-to-face with Edgar, she found it wasn’t as easy as she’d expected to confront him with what she’d discovered.

  Abruptly, she was struck by a fierce urge to retreat and leave the past where it belonged . . . in the past. Then she squared her shoulders. If they really were investigating Laurel’s death, she couldn’t keep silent. It would be a betrayal of the woman who’d changed her life.

  “I have a few questions to ask you,” she forced herself to say.

  “Now?” Edgar glanced over his shoulder, as if longing to go back to the privacy of his office. “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “I’m in the middle of—”

  “I don’t care,” Erika snapped. “This can’t wait.”

  Edgar sent her a chiding glare, obviously offended at being interrupted. “You always were pushy,” he complained.

  Pushy. It was a word used to demean ambitious women. Usually by men who were afraid their superior position was being threatened.

  “I’m not pushy, I’m determined.”

  The man clicked his tongue. “I warned the previous dean before he ever hired you that it was a mistake. Grant College has a certain standard it expects from its staff. Even if you are just a counselor.”

&nb
sp; Erika was a trained professional. Nothing and no one should be able to rattle her composure. But this man had a rare ability to rub against her nerves. Probably because they’d always been on opposite sides of every fight. From her place at this college, to Laurel’s affections, to how Wynter should deal with her grief.

  And tonight was no different.

  “At least I’m not a sneaky little jerk,” she retorted.

  “Sneaky?” Edgar scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You have everyone fooled, don’t you?” Erika stepped forward, suppressed emotions welling to the surface. This battle was long overdue. “You pretend to be this mild-mannered professor who spends his life lost in his books.”

  He arched a brow. “Who am I supposed to be fooling?”

  “Your wife, for one.”

  “My wife?” Edgar flinched, as if her words had caused him physical pain. “Laurel?”

  Erika refused to feel bad. Not this time. “She was convinced that you were cold and incapable of deep passions. I knew better.”

  Edgar’s face flushed, his hands clenching into tight fists. “Don’t you dare talk about her.”

  “I warned her that you bottled up your emotions, and like anyone who repressed their feelings you were a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode,” Erika ruthlessly pressed, a sickness rolling through her as she recalled her squabbles with Laurel.

  Her friend was convinced that Edgar was a cold fish with a pathological inability to enjoy life. Erika had tried to warn the woman that Edgar was just the opposite. He felt so deeply it terrified him. So instead of sharing his emotions, he desperately tried to repress them. They weren’t gone, they just bubbled and brewed beneath the surface, like hot lava beneath a volcano.

  Edgar’s features tightened with an ancient bitterness. “I’m sure you told Laurel a lot of things about me. You were desperate to break us up.”

  She couldn’t argue. He was right. She had wanted Laurel to leave her husband. And it wasn’t just because he was an unyielding prick who treated her like shit. Erika had been genuinely convinced that she could make Laurel happy. Who else understood the demons that drove the woman to her excesses? And who else possessed the patience to give her the freedom she needed when she was feeling trapped? And who else saw the person beneath the surface beauty and brittle charm?

  Not that she was going to admit her belief that Laurel was her soul mate. Not to this man.

  “You were toxic to her,” she instead accused.

  Edgar narrowed his eyes. “If anyone was toxic to Laurel, it wasn’t me.”

  “You withheld your love to punish her for not behaving as a proper professor’s wife. In response she misbehaved. The colder you treated her, the more outrageous she behaved.” Erika met him glare for glare. “Toxic.”

  “And you were always there, whispering in her ear like the snake in the Garden of Eden,” he snapped. “You were obsessed with her.”

  “She was my friend.”

  “But you wanted more.”

  The accusation slammed into her with the force of a sledgehammer. Of course she wanted more. She adored Laurel. And maybe she was a little obsessed with her. A part of it had been Erika’s youth. She was ripe to tumble head over heels with the first person to give her the attention she craved. And Laurel had a gift for bewitching others. Unfortunately, she used that gift to manipulate and control the people who loved her.

  “I only wanted what was best for her,” she muttered.

  “You?”

  “Happiness.”

  Edgar shook his head, his expression peevish. He’d never liked Erika. From her first day at Grant College, he’d done his best to convince the other professors she was a waste of precious monetary resources. And when she’d become friends with Laurel, his dislike of her had warped into an ugly jealousy.

  “No. You tried to convince her into believing no one cared about her except you,” he insisted.

  Erika’s lips tightened. There might be some truth in his words. She’d hated sharing Laurel. With anyone. “At least I didn’t try to smother her. Between you and your father’s incessant nagging, Laurel couldn’t breathe. I wanted her to be free.”

  “To be free of what?”

  “Your expectations. They were crushing her.”

  Edgar waved a dismissive hand. He was a typical male, assuming his wife would conform to his expectations without him having to bother with compromises. It didn’t matter if Laurel was forced to give up her desire to become an artist, as long as Edgar was thriving and succeeding in his career. Nothing else mattered.

  “Is that why you tried to convince her to have an abortion?” he demanded.

  Erika gasped at the blatant attack. “That’s not true.”

  His lips twisted into a nasty smile. “I overheard her talking to you on the phone.”

  Erika’s mouth dried to the texture of sand. She remembered the call. Laurel had been in tears when she’d revealed she was pregnant. She’d told Erika that she was terrified. She didn’t want Edgar to know. Not because he wanted to be a father. He was too selfish to want his life burdened with a baby. But Edgar’s father, Sander Moore, had been grousing for an heir from the day they’d gotten married. The old man had some weird obsession with passing on the family farm. As if it was a royal title, not a plot of sketchy land in the middle of nowhere. And since they were constantly in debt to Sander, Laurel was afraid that having a child was the price Edgar would force her to pay.

  “I told her that it was a decision she would have to make on her own,” Erika insisted, refusing to recall her private dismay at the thought of Laurel being pregnant. She’d known in that moment things would never be the same. She wasn’t an awful person, but she’d been young and selfish. “No one could know how she felt about becoming a mother. Not me. Not you. Not your father.”

  “Then why did Laurel end your friendship?”

  Erika wrapped her arms around her waist. She didn’t need to be a psychologist to know she was instinctively trying to protect herself from the pain of her memories.

  “I ended it when it became obvious I was doing more harm than good,” she admitted. It hadn’t been one flaming argument that had created the rift. Instead, it’d been a slow, steady decay of their relationship over the course of Laurel’s pregnancy. The abrupt demands for attention when Laurel had time, followed by weeks of silence when she had something or someone more interesting to occupy her. The midnight phone calls when she cried over her latest argument with Edgar, and then seeing the two of them at a college event, arm in arm with smiles on their faces. “She was addicted to her manic spirals and I couldn’t watch her self-destruct.”

  Edgar arched a brow. “Why did she attack your car with a baseball bat?”

  Erika shrugged. A part of her had been exultant when Laurel had lost control. It’d revealed that she actually cared. Another part had been horrified by the violence. Laurel was pregnant. She needed peace and calm. It was obvious that ending the relationship was for the best.

  “She was angry I wouldn’t return her calls,” she murmured.

  A sly expression settled on his narrow face. “So you withdrew your love to punish her?”

  “No, I was hoping that she could find some peace in her marriage to protect her unborn child.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “The only thing we could all agree on was that Wynter was more important than our petty squabbles.”

  Edgar’s sneer faded, his shoulders slumping. “Wynter.”

  Erika studied the man who’d been a thorn in her side since she arrived in Larkin, abruptly realizing this was a perfect time to ask the question that had haunted her for years.

  “Why did you send Wynter to my therapy group?” she asked. “You never liked me.”

  “No, I didn’t like you,” he readily agreed. “But you were the best, and more importantly, I knew you’d do everything in your power to ensure that Wynter overcame her grief. That’s what I wanted for my daughter.”

  Eri
ka believed him. When Laurel had been pregnant, she’d doubted Edgar would be a good father. But Erika had to admit that she’d been impressed when he’d stepped in to take care of Wynter after Laurel’s death. He wasn’t the most attentive dad, but he’d given her a stable home and unconditional love.

  “So why did you insist that she leave the group?” she asked. “Wynter loved being there with the other kids. It made her realize she wasn’t alone in losing a parent.”

  Edgar looked away. “I didn’t want her hypnotized.”

  “Why not? It’s an important part of therapy for patients who struggle with traumatic memories.”

  “If you must know, my father was convinced that you intended to screw with her memories to punish me,” he muttered, almost as if he was embarrassed to reveal the truth. “And since he was paying the bills, I had no choice but to end her sessions.”

  Erika blinked in confusion. “How could I screw with her memories?”

  He made a sound of impatience. “My father was suspicious of any sort of therapy. He thought you would try to convince Wynter that I had something to do with her mom’s death.”

  Erika narrowed her eyes. Had Sander Moore suspected his son was involved? And that the hypnosis sessions would uncover memories that Wynter was unconsciously trying to suppress?

  The dangerous train of thoughts circled Erika back to the reason she was currently standing in the lobby of the dean’s office instead of headed home for a late dinner and a well-deserved bottle of wine.

  “I want to know why you lied to me about the night Laurel died.”

  Edgar stared at her in confusion, looking puzzled by the unexpected question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “After Laurel had been killed I came to you,” she reminded him. It’d been during the wake he’d organized a week after the funeral. The gathering had felt more like a social event with chattering guests who sipped cocktails and discussed the latest gossip from the college. She’d been grief-stricken and angry, longing to lash out at someone. No, not someone. This man. If he hadn’t constantly pushed Laurel away, she wouldn’t have been in Pike that night. She wouldn’t have been dead. And so she’d cornered him in the kitchen and bluntly demanded to know if he was responsible for killing his wife. “I wanted to know where you’d been that night.”