Authors: Deeanne Gist
“What do you want?” His eyes flashed with anger. He cut the air with his hand. “Haven’t you had enough, Karl?” He gave Logan a look. “Yes, he’s here. But he doesn’t want to talk to you, and neither do I.”
He started to hang up.
“Wait.” Logan sprang forward. “Karl, is that you?”
“I paid a visit to a friend of yours just now.”
“Rylee?”
“She doesn’t care about you. I’m talking about that fat, cigar-smoking piece of garbage who spoon-feeds your stories to you. Only he’s not going to be much use to you anymore. He had something of mine. He doesn’t anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have a message for my father,” he said, “and I don’t think he’s going to remember much of anything he hears right now. So write this down.”
“What’s the message?” Logan asked.
“Tell him we’re leaving.”
“Who’s we?”
“Tell him he’ll never see either of us again. He doesn’t want to have a son, so he won’t. That’s his choice. But he can’t have a daughter, either. That’s my choice. You tell him.”
“Karl?” Logan gripped the phone. “Karl!”
But the line was dead.
Logan swung around to face Grant. “He said you can’t have a daughter, either. What does that mean?”
The old man shrugged.
Logan grabbed him by the shirt front and shook. “What does it mean?”
“He’s talking about Rylee,” the old man bellowed. “He wants to take her away from me.”
Logan didn’t wait for more. He left Grant Sebastian trembling against the desk, calling after him in slurred exclamations.
He rushed outside, down the stairs, and across the street. He jammed his keys into the ignition.
Karl was out there somewhere, looking for Rylee. Or maybe he already had her. Logan had to find them.
Only he didn’t know where to start.
The sunlight beating through the windshield made the seats sizzling to the touch, and Daisy’s a/c didn’t have what it took to cool things down. Rylee’s messenger bag lay on the seat beside her. Inside was a new set of keys, a new list of clients, a new start.
Running her fingers over the quilted pink and yellow fabric of her bag, she thought about Logan and the effort he’d gone to on her behalf. As soon as she finished walking Toro, she’d call him. Maybe see if he’d like to watch a dvd at her place tonight.
She checked herself. Make that Liz’s place.
The trees along Meeting Street shimmered in the breeze. She parked on the curb, then cut down Prices Alley toward the David-sons’ gate, which was half hidden by a covering of creeping fig.
Despite the heat, chills raced up her arms at the memory of the stalker who’d followed her here and of Robin Hood’s break-in. She shifted the bag on her shoulder, the familiar heft of her rollerblades inside.
She’d be able to use them with two of her new pets, and though she’d miss the historic district, the smooth sidewalks on James Island would be a nice break from the jarring she got on the cobblestone walkways south of Broad.
The only sign of the commotion earlier in the week was a tiny ribbon of yellow tape snagged by a boxwood. From the outside, at least. The damage inside the house would take much longer to heal. Her first time back after the break-in had been hard. She plucked the tape off the bush, then made her way to the piazza, slipping her key into the lock.
“Anybody home?”
Barking from deep inside the house, the sound of paws rattling the stairs, nails on the wood, prepared her for Toro. Someone had forgotten to put him in his crate.
He bounded around the corner. She hugged him to her, scrubbing fingers along his short, coarse coat. “Hey there, fella. How’s my boy?”
Hearing no other sounds from inside, she grabbed his leash from the hall tree. “Okay. Let’s go for a walk.”
He gazed up in delight, jumping at her hip, catching his paw on her belt loop.
“Easy, now. Stay down.” Laughing, she sat on the steps outside, letting him run free through the side garden while she slipped her shoes off and reached for the rollerblades.
Toro trotted along the beds, pausing to scratch once or twice at the ground. The blooming season had long since withered in the South Carolina heat, but the greenery and verdigris benches still exuded charm and a sense of history.
“Rylee?”
She jumped, losing her grip on the rollerblade laces. In the archway that led to the alley, Karl stood, a crooked smile on his lips.
She pressed a hand to her hammering chest. “You scared me to death!”
“Sorry about that.” He raised his open palms in apology.
“So what are you doing here?” she asked.
He walked over, still smiling, and sat down a step below her, leaving a few feet between them. “I should ask you the same thing. Have you ever heard the expression ‘returning to the scene of the crime’? If I were you, I’d give this place a wide berth.”
“Not a chance.” She pointed to Toro, who stood wide-legged in the distance, peering at the new arrival. “I wouldn’t miss this guy’s workout for the world.”
Karl nodded. “You really care about these animals, don’t you?”
“I do.”
As handsome as he was, as friendly as they’d become while she walked Romeo, she was relieved they’d never gone on that dinner. He wasn’t near the man Logan was. Not even close.
She hoped he wasn’t here to ask her out again. Standing, she balanced on the cobbled walk.
He cupped her elbow.
She smiled. “I’m good. Thanks.”
The breeze was uncomfortably balmy. She grabbed her bag and hooked it over her shoulder. “You ready to go, boy?”
Toro let out a low growl.
“Behave yourself.” She made her way across the grass to Toro and gave his head a quick rub. “He’s probably on edge because of everything that’s happened.”
Karl glanced at Toro impassively, the way he might at an inanimate object.
She straightened. “Listen, Toro here is going crazy for a walk, so I better—”
“Rylee,” he said, a strange thickness in his voice.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m here . . .” His voice trailed off. “I’m here to rescue you.”
She tilted her head. “Rescue me? From who?”
“You know who,” he said. “From my father.”
“Karl, please.” She knew things between him and his dad were strained. But she had no desire to get stuck in the middle. “Your dad has done so much for me. It makes me really uncomfortable when you—”
“My father is an evil, manipulative man. Do you know what he did?”
In spite of the sun on her skin, she felt a chill. She crossed her arms, holding on tight. “I’m sorry, Karl, but I’m not going to listen—”
“Rylee.” He stepped closer. “He murdered your parents.”
She froze. Her eyes wouldn’t focus, wouldn’t even blink. Then, sucking in her breath, she took a quick step backward, bumping into Toro. Her rollerblades slipped, but she managed to stay upright.
Karl rubbed the back of his neck, smiling to himself. “No, that’s not exactly true.
He
didn’t kill them. He
hired
someone to do it.”
Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe. “I’m sorry?”
“I was just a kid. About eighteen.” He glanced up into the sky. “Your dad had a document that my dad wanted. So he told Marcel to get it, no matter what it took.”
She took quick, rapid breaths, struggling for air. The messenger bag on her shoulder slid to the ground. “Marcel Gibbon?”
Karl nodded. “Back then, he was like a mentor to me. Took me under his wing. To me, he was the next best thing to James Bond. But then, I didn’t really know him yet. Just like I didn’t really know my dad.”
Nausea began to churn in her stomach.
“He took me along, you know. I watched him kill your dad.”
Her knees weakened. She groped for the nearby bench, grabbing the back of it for support.
“Marcel let me have your dad’s cuff links. ‘Something to commemorate the day,’ he said.” Karl’s eyes gentled. His voice grew soft.
“They’re fourteen-karat gold. Crested with your dad’s alma mater. I wear them around the house sometimes when no one’s home.”
She was going to pass out. Or throw up. Maybe both. Using the bench as a guide, she hand-walked her way to its front and plopped down.
He sneered. “Or I did. Until that stupid George stole my jewelry casket and tried to make it look like Robin Hood. Then he gave the thing to Marcel, of all people, to fence.” He shook his head. “It was your father’s, you know. A really cool piece with multiple drawers and doors. I kept my treasures in it. Your dad’s cuff links. Your mom’s perfume. My law professor’s glasses. Everything. Those items would have meant nothing to anyone . . . other than Marcel.”
She opened her mouth, breathing in. Blowing out. In. Out.
His lips curled in disgust. “He, of course, immediately recognized the cuff links and the perfume vial of your mom’s. And once he did, he realized the significance of everything else.” Raking a hand through his thick blond hair, he gave a bark of incredulous laughter. “And he had the audacity to use that stuff against me.
Me
. Can you
believe
that?”
“My mom’s perfume?” she rasped, touching her pearl-drop pendant. “You, you killed my mother?”
He sliced a hand through the air. “No. Pay attention. I only
witnessed
your parents’ deaths. The others . . . they happened much later.”
Her mind started to reengage. She needed to get away. She needed to get help. But her legs were like rubber, and she feared if she stood up she’d pass out before taking more than a few steps.
“It was my
dad
who had your parents killed. Who confiscated the proceeds from your estate sale. Who stole your ancestral home right out from under you. And I’m sick and tired of the way you go all soft around him, like he’s some father figure to you or something. It’s not right.”
Toro had disappeared around the corner. He was somewhere in the yard, but she didn’t know where. The faint vibration of her phone came from inside her messenger bag. Too far away to retrieve without being obvious.
Her eyes throbbed in her head. She brushed at them, expecting tears, but the skin, though raw to the touch, remained dry. Her hand was shaking. “If I’d had any idea—”
“And now he thinks he’s gotten rid of me. From his house. The law firm. All of it.” His smile was full of wicked satisfaction. “He was provoked when he realized everything I’d stolen were items that once belonged to Jon Monroe. But that was nothing compared to his fury when he saw what I did to your apartment.”
Her breath caught.
“You should have seen him. He acted like you were his daughter or something. How twisted is that?” He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, then began rolling the sleeves up to the elbows. “Seems that all this time, it was you he wanted, not me. But don’t worry. I’m going to fix that. You’re coming with me. And he’ll never find us.”
Every instinct she had screamed at her to run. Instead, she listened to her brain.
Take it slow. No sudden moves. Big, deep breaths
.
She rose from the bench, standing still to make sure her head no longer buzzed or swam. Her legs held firm. Her head was clear.
He slid his hand into his pocket. When he removed it, a folding knife flashed in the light. He snicked the blade open, smiling down at the gleaming edge.
Her voice jumped an octave. “Karl?”
“You’re mine.”
The words branded on the toilet lid of her bathroom flashed across her mind.
Her phone vibrated again.
He used the knife as a pointer, emphasizing each word with a shake of the wrist. “Give me your hand. It’s time to go.”
“Karl.” She straightened her spine and used the same tone she did with her dogs when she expected them to obey. “Put that away.”
Standing between her and the house, he had her bottled up at the corner of the garden. In her rollerblades, she could hardly dart around him. To reach her with the blade, all he’d have to do was lunge.
“I’ve watched you grow from a child into a woman,” he said. “All those years, I’d find myself thinking of you. I’d wonder if wherever you were at that moment, you were thinking of me, too.” His gaze raked over her. “Imagine my shock when I discovered my dad had been thinking the same thing.”
She reached for her messenger bag.
“Leave it,” he said. “I have everything you need. Just come.”
She rolled backward around the edge of a garden bench. Toro trotted around the corner, then stopped short. Ears perked. Tail stiff.
Karl glanced at him, weighing the knife.
“Don’t you touch him, Karl. I mean it.”
He pressed the blade’s spine against his lip, like a silencing finger, then gazed almost contemplatively at Toro. The mastiff went into a crouch, baring his teeth.
“If I’d wanted to, I could have done all kinds of things to this guy.” He moved the blade back and forth through the air, slicing an imaginary target. “Maybe I still will.” He smiled at the prospect.
Barking, Toro charged. Karl’s knife hand flashed forward.
Without thinking, she kicked.
Everything happened at once—the dog’s yelp, the crunch of her rollerblade wheels sending a shivering impact up her leg, the knife flying through the air.
Crying, Toro limped across the garden and out the gated archway, his leash dragging behind him.
Karl writhed on the grass, the knife just inches from his hand.
It had blood on the metal.
They both grabbed for it at once. But he reached it first and lunged from the ground. She swiveled out of the way.
“Come here!” he shouted.
Before he could rise, she scrambled for the wall, jumping, throwing her arms up, reaching for the top. Getting a tenuous grip, she heaved herself up, kicking her leg as high as she could.
Her rollerblade clattered against the brick. She kicked again, hooking the edge, then wrenched herself to the top.
He snapped at her with the knife just as she dropped to the other side of the wall. Landing, she felt a sharp burn on the back of her thigh. Her probing hand came away bloody.
Karl appeared at the top of the wall, gripping the knife like an ice pick.