An Affair of Deceit (31 page)

“I can make this last as long as you like,” he said, rising to one knee and leaning toward her again.

“I’d like to see you try,” she said, and she meant it, she truly did. She smiled at him, though only half her mouth seemed to be moving. Symmetry was overrated.

She laughed at her own thought.

Kral clucked his tongue like a disapproving father. He held his gun loosely, dangling it with one hand between his legs.

Idiot. Did he really think he had her beat?

She shot her hand toward the Glock. Its cool plastic grip slid into her palm.

Shocked, Kral pulled back hard with both hands, but she refused to let go. She pushed her feet against his legs for leverage, but he held fast, tugging as hard as she. She kicked at his feet, at his face, at whatever he offered, but no matter how she flailed with the rest of her body, her hands never let go of that gun.

The gun was the one thing he had that could kill her, and she wasn’t letting him have it.

Then, just as she felt that her shoulders would be ripped from her body in the struggle, the gun fired, sending an explosive, teeth-clattering shockwave through the room.

K
RAL AND
A
BIGAIL
both froze, their eyes locked. For one long moment, she didn’t think either of them knew what had happened.

The weapon had been pointed at her, she knew, so if anyone was shot, it must be she. Then why did he look so shocked? Why was his skin becoming pale? Why did his grip on the gun relax?

Why?

Because he’d been hit.

Cherry-red blood seeped through his pale blue shirt. He fell back with a thud, his arms fluttering out to his sides. His head hit the floor hard and lifeless, like a bowling ball. His gun rattled harmlessly to the floor.

She scrambled for it and aimed it at him, unable to believe that he was dead.

She wanted to shoot him again, just to be sure. Her finger pulled back on the trigger.

“Abigail?”

She paused, confused. Who was talking?

“Abigail, it’s me, honey. You can put the gun down now. He’s dead.”

The voice was familiar. Smooth and mellow, it warmed her body like a long sip of wine.

“Abigail, it’s over. Put the gun down.”

It sounded like Riley, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Kral. Her arms began to shake, and she felt that damned awful pain rush back into her face. Her vision dimmed. The hormones of stress were quickly draining from her veins, leaving nothing but shock in their wake.

“Riley?” she whispered.

“It’s me,” he said again, but this time he was close, right next to her, his hands reaching for hers, his breath humid against her ear. “It’s OK.”

“No, no, it’s not. He’s dead. I killed him, but he deserved it. He killed my father. He was going to kill my mother. He killed you.”

“Abigail, I’m alive. I shot Kral. See? I have a gun, too. Look at me. Abigail,
look
at me.”

He squeezed her shoulder, and she slowly turned her head. The motion was excruciating but worth it, because he was there, and he was alive.

He was
alive
.

With dark circles under his eyes, a broken nose, and a frighteningly large red stain marring his white shirt, he looked like he’d seen better days, but it didn’t matter.

“You’re alive!” The gun dropped to the ground as she curled her arms around his neck. Though it hurt, she nuzzled his skin and breathed in, wanting the clean, familiar smell of him to mask the terrible odors of gunpowder and blood.

But he smelled like blood, too. Panic beating in her chest, she pushed him away and pawed at his shirt, trying to find his wound.

“Riley, why are you bleeding?”

“I’m not. It’s someone else’s blood.”

“Whose?”

His brow tightened. “Your father’s. He’s dead, Abigail.”

“That’s what Kral said. So he was telling the truth?”

“Yes.” Riley cupped the good side of her face with one soft hand. “I’m sorry.”

She felt something in her disconnect from what he was saying, as though he weren’t talking about anyone she knew. “How did it happen?”

Riley grimaced and looked behind her to where the man lay dead. “Could we wait until we’re somewhere else? Greene called for help at the safe house before I ran out, but I need to call in and make sure they’ve got help. Men are down. I dropped my phone and couldn’t…”

“No!” she interrupted. “I’ve been through enough. I deserve to know now, before anyone else comes. How did my father die?”

“Let’s at least move.” He started to stand.

“No.” She tried to get on her feet but failed, though she couldn’t imagine why. Her legs should have been perfectly healthy. Her ridiculous head wound was causing so much trouble.

Then she heard the wail of sirens.

“They’re already here,” she said, and leaned into Riley’s arms.

“Thank God.”

“Tell me what happened to my dad.” She heard footsteps. “Go on,” she urged.

His brow wrinkled, and for a moment she thought he’d ignore her plea. “We were at a safe house in the city. Kral got ahold of someone’s gun and went on a rampage. Greene and I were unarmed, and those who had weapons didn’t shoot accurately enough. Kral shot everyone in sight except your dad, and he was just about to shoot me when your dad jumped in his way. He took the bullet that was intended for me. Kral ran out of the building. I was the only one still able to move, so I followed him here. I worried that he would come for you next. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“My father saved you?”

“That’s how it seemed to me. He jumped in front of the bullet like he was a Secret Service agent protecting the president. He landed on me, Abigail. That’s how I…”

He stopped talking and, significantly, looked down at the bloodstain on his shirt.

It was her father’s blood.

Riley smiled softly. “His last thought was for you and your mother.”

She stared at the red blossom on Riley’s chest. It was the closest she’d come to her father in a long time. She reached out a finger to touch it. Still damp.

She gasped. It was him, and yet it wasn’t him. Her father was dead, and as much as she’d tried to forget he ever existed, he’d always been alive in her heart. And now he was dead, and inside her, the stoic little girl who’d been waiting for her daddy to come home broke down.

Abigail wept as men rushed into the room around her. She sobbed as Riley held her hands and walked her into a waiting ambulance.

Finally, after twenty years of waiting, she grieved for the loss of her father.

It was several days before Abigail was well enough to leave the hospital and many more before she was able to function normally. She was surprised to learn how important the bones in one’s face were. Eating, drinking, and talking comprised more of her daily activities than she’d previously believed.

Her face was a mess, and she was embarrassed to be seen. She was also embarrassed to need care, and devastated to need special consideration from her office. The experience mortified her, but gradually, she saw how kind the humans around her could be. Beth was more thoughtful than Abigail herself would have been, bringing by any file she needed, and surprisingly, tubs of smooth, easy-to-eat vegetable soups that she’d cooked for Abigail
to store in her freezer. Abigail’s other coworkers were equally generous, covering her cases for weeks after the incident that left her disfigured.

Disfigured is hyperbole; she was well off compared to most of the other plastic-surgery patients, some of whom had been burned in fires or sliced in car accidents. She was humbled by her good luck to require comparatively minor reconstruction.

The intense medical care kept her mind from sinking too deeply into grief over the events of that night. Whenever it threatened, Riley soothed it away. He hardly left her side when she was in the hospital. She told him to get back to work and leave her alone, but when he did, she missed him. Before long, she found herself looking forward to his visits. Slowly, he became a regular part of her life. His world swelled to encompass hers, or hers to include his. It was hard to tell which way it worked, but it was just as likely that she’d meet him and Greene—who survived his gunshot wound with hardly a problem—for drinks after work as Riley would meet her and Beth for lunch.

Riley, although no interior designer, encouraged her to redecorate her master bedroom, which too closely resembled the white, sterile hospital environment she’d just left. Significantly, he convinced her to replace her queen bed with a king, and he added a beautiful oversized mirror above the headboard. She was hesitant about the mirror at first, but one romp with Riley told her that while making love wasn’t about appearances, it was awfully exciting to see what was going on.

At times, Abigail felt like she was sailing past her grief over her father’s death, and she wondered whether she should feel guilty for it. But she couldn’t bring herself to dampen her world again. Her father’s death and Kral’s terrible vengeance had given her the chance to see the depth of her own will to live. Now that she understood how quickly life could be taken, she resolved to
live brightly and openly, and without fear. There was no more time to waste on bitterness or anger, and though Abigail still struggled against old patterns, with Riley at her side, she was gradually learning how to live an optimistic life.

It would have been touching if not for one thing: her mother was avoiding her.

She had visited once after Abigail was initially brought to the hospital. They’d briefly discussed the bones of the tale. Abigail had discovered that her mother had known all along about Kral’s true relationship to the family, and that she’d always known that Peter had left to track him down.

It made Abigail angry, and her mother abruptly left. She didn’t return, and Abigail hadn’t heard a thing from her since. Her mother’s silence weighed on her like snow on a roof, quiet and cool, but ever present and increasingly unbearable.

Resolved to rid herself of silly emotional burdens, Abigail drove to her mother’s house a few months after the accident. It was a brilliantly sunny but frigid winter day, and she bundled herself in a thick wool coat. Her facial scars were sensitive to temperature extremes, so she tucked her face into the soft fibers of an alpaca scarf as she walked to her mother’s front door.

She knocked, but there was no answer. She stood on the porch, listening. There was nothing to hear but the cheerful songs of winter birds.

She must be out back.
Abigail trod to the moon gate and peered through its window.

Her mother sat on a bench in the red Chinese-style pavilion at the back of the garden, her eyes glazed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She didn’t have a coat, and her face was nearly blue with cold.

Abigail chilled. How long had her mother been sitting there? She wondered if anyone had come to see her since her father had died. She suddenly felt like a self-absorbed heel for having left her mother alone in widow’s grief.

Swallowing hard, Abigail opened the gate with her mittened hands.

“Mother?” she called, her voice thick.

Fei looked up, and her eyes focused on her daughter. “Abigail? What a surprise!” She tried to stand, but her knees didn’t seem to want to bend. Her smile tightened as she dropped her bottom back down on the bench.

God, she looked old. Spent. She looked nothing like the frustrating woman Abigail had resented for twenty years.

Damn, damn, damn! What sort of daughter was she? She hurried to the pavilion, but when her feet reached its wooden threshold, she didn’t know what to say.

“How have you been?” Abigail finally asked.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you again.” Fei smiled sadly. “I thought you would rather not have me there.”

Months ago, it would have been true; the old Abigail would have not wanted anyone helping her recuperate.

“Riley’s been helping. And so has everyone else, mostly people I work with, but also some people from the gym…” Abigail trailed off. Except for Riley those people had been strangers, yet she’d grown closer to them than to her own mother.