Hidden (25 page)

“Mom?”

“I've been here for three days, sweetie. So have Scott and Carley. I've been so frightened, so scared you wouldn't ever wake up.”

“Mom? Can you turn on a light?”

Someone had put marbles in her mouth. They hurt.

“Of course, sweetie.”

She heard the click, and shut her eyes. “Okay, I guess not,” she mumbled around the marbles. “It hurts.”

“She's awake! Excellent.” Kate didn't recognize the
male voice in her room but didn't care enough to risk the pain of opening her eyes again.

“Yes, and she's talking and coherent.” That was her mother.

“Why are you guys talking as if I'm not here?” she asked, slightly irritated. “I'm in a lot of pain, is there something you can do about that?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is….”

That voice again. And then blessed relief.

 

Kate only knew that two weeks had passed because Carley had told her. Or had it been Scott? Or maybe Benny? She couldn't be sure. They were all hanging out together, and she was kind of jealous she'd missed so much of the party. Mostly she was aware of the male voice that had been new to her at first but had quickly become familiar. He was her doctor.

About a week before, when she'd finally been able to see clearly, she'd been surprised to find him so young. And a redhead.

Though it still hurt like hell to move, she turned her head to see if she was alone. Scott was sleeping in the chair a few feet away from her, his head at an awkward angle, as if he'd been fighting to stay awake. Then, almost as though he could feel her watching him, he opened his eyes.

“Hi.” She smiled. It hurt, but she managed.

“Hi.”

“What time is it?” A recessed light burned dimly in the wall.

“One in the morning.” He grinned, nodded his head as though proud that she'd asked.

“You don't have to humor me,” she told him. “It's really me this time. I think I'm back.”

He approached the bed with careful, quiet steps. “How do you feel?” he asked, half sitting on the mattress beside her.

“Like I laid down in front of a train.”

He grinned again. “You don't look quite
that
bad.” His eyes perused her slowly. She knew she had to be repulsive, but it didn't seem to matter to him.

Which mattered to her.

“Am I going to need plastic surgery?” she asked.

He shook his head. “They were able to set the bones in your cheek and jaw. That was the worst of it. Once the swelling and bruising is gone, you'll be back to normal.”

Kate shuddered. “I'm never going to be normal again.”

“Sure you are, honey. It'll just take on new form. A better form.”

She wanted him to hold her. “I love you.”

His gaze warmed, his feelings unmistakable even in the dim light. “I love you, too, Kate, more than I ever knew.”

She was glad. Because that was how much she loved him.

“C
an I touch you?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Of course.”

“I don't want to hurt you.”

“Scott, it seems like I've been in a haze of pain forever. Another ache or two isn't going to faze me.”

He laughed softly. “You
are
better.”

“Yeah,” she said, and then felt tears trickle down her cheek. “For better or for worse.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, his dear, unshaven face close as he bent to wipe the tears gently away.

In spite of what she'd said about touching her, she winced.

“I'm sorry, honey. He broke your cheekbone.”

She nodded. “He almost killed me this time.”

“Yes.”

The tears came again and pretty soon they were dripping down both sides of her bruised face.

“It's going to be okay, now, Kate…” She liked hear
ing that name from him. “He's going to jail for a long, long time.”

She didn't believe that. Thomas was facing more of a challenge this time, since there was a credible eyewitness, but he'd find a way. A prosecuting attorney who'd make a mistake, which would result in the suppression of key evidence. A judge who'd make a mistake, which would allow for the calling of a mistrial. There were a number of ways it could happen.

At the most he'd get a light sentence in a minimum-security rich-boy country-club prison—and freedom within a year or two.

Her tears continued to fall. She knew she had to stop them or soon she'd be sobbing and her ribs weren't going to tolerate that.

“Hey, what's this about?” Scott crooned. His expression was clearly worried as he glanced around the darkened room, obviously looking for help.

She could tell him the tears were for herself. For the fact that she'd never be free of Thomas Whitehead or his abuse. But… She took a breath. Tried to calm herself. And couldn't.

“Taylor's dead. Isn't he?” The sob she'd been dreading accompanied the words. And it hurt as badly as she'd known it would.

Hearing the words hurt far worse.

“No, he isn't!” Scott jumped up, strode through an adjoining door she assumed led to the bathroom—probably to get her a box of tissues.

He needn't have bothered. There was one on the tray at the side of her bed.

Kate cried helplessly, wishing he wouldn't humor her now, not over this. Not ever. Maybe she wasn't strong enough to take the news a week or two ago, but she'd had a lot of unconscious time to process the truth.

He was back almost immediately, wheeling something toward her.

It was a little bed, not much bigger than a bassinet, with bars and blankets and something in the middle of it. A bundle, with only a face poking out. A precious little face, eyes closed, mouth open, cheeks slightly flushed.

“He was due to be released today, but everyone thought it would be better to keep him close to you for now.”

“Taylor?” She couldn't even feel the excruciating pain in her ribs as she sat up, reached over and touched her baby's head. “Oh, my God! Taylor!” She cried out, laughed, sobbed all at once, her hand lightly against the sleeping child's head.

“He landed in a bush,” Scott was saying, tears in his eyes as well. “A concussion, some stitches, a little whip-lash and a bruise or two, but he's over it now. They removed the last of the stitches today.”

Ten minutes later, her hand still on her baby's head, Kate asked, “Who's going to take care of him until I get out of here?” She couldn't stop staring at the beautiful sight of that little body, warm and secure and sleeping soundly.

“We are,” Scott said, pulling a piece of paper out of his back pocket. “And until you're ready to chase him around the room, I'll be doing that.”

She recognized the letter. It was the one she'd meant to have notarized that Monday at the bank. It seemed like years ago.

“He's staying here?”

Scott nodded. “Sometimes it pays to have a bit of extra money.”

 

“When does he go to trial?” An hour had passed and Kate was tired.

“Next week. They expedited things. I guess he's not as popular a guy in jail as he was on the streets.”

“Yeah, he was pretty tough when it came to sentencing legislation.”

“Seems kind of fitting, though, doesn't it?” Scott asked, as he sat gingerly beside her. “After what he's done, he
should
spend some time with people who hate him.”

“He'll get out.”

“I don't think so, honey.”

Kate wanted to shake her head, but it ached too much. She lay there, eyes half-closed, and watched Scott in the reclining chair he'd pulled next to the bed. He'd moved Taylor back into his room so the incoming nurses wouldn't disturb him during the night.

“I can't sugarcoat this one, Scott. Thomas Whitehead will always get away with anything he does. It's the way
of the world. Sometimes evil does win. If I'm ever going to live a full life, become a whole and healthy woman, I have to accept that I'm always going to be watching over my shoulder. And I have to do it knowing that eventually he'll catch up with me again.”

Thomas Whitehead was a fact of her life.

 

Two days later Carley was there, holding a sleeping Taylor, when Kate woke up from her nap. “Hey, woman, how are you?” her friend asked.

“Not ready to climb trees, but I walked around the entire wing twice this morning.”

Carley's head tilted back, her eyes wide. “That's quite impressive. You whack anyone with that pole of yours?”

She glanced up at her IV drip. It was due to come out the next day, and although she was used to it, she wouldn't be sorry to see it go. She wanted to be able to hold her son without having to constantly watch the tubes.

“Nope. I was perfectly nice for once.”

Carley grinned at her. “This little guy sure is a hit up here.”

“Yeah, but that's because I have my own private suite with built-in nannies,” she said. “I'm just so glad they broke every rule in the book and let him stay.”

Eyes filling with uncharacteristic sensitivity, Carley said, “Yeah, well, I think everyone knew that the best healing balm for both of you was each other.”

She nodded. And would have added a third name to that small list if Carley hadn't suddenly blurted out, “I've got news.”

And suddenly she knew. “You're pregnant!”

Carley's happy smile was one of the best sights she'd seen in ages.

Life ebbed and flowed; seasons came and went. For the first time in years, Kate was ready to look ahead to the seasons in her future.

 

“So, I have this thought to share with you,” Scott said a few days later. He was sitting on a blanket on the floor, opening the doors and sliding the windows of a brightly colored plastic activity box with Taylor.

“What's that?” she asked, smiling down at them. Dressed in a silk gown and robe, she was sitting up in bed. She'd spent most of the day in the chair she'd seen Scott sleeping in before. She was hoping to be set free when Dr. Grant came around tomorrow.

“I've been operating under a false assumption.”

Her heart caught, her battered spirit still too tender not to protect itself against the onslaught of bad news. Too tender not to expect to be hurt and run for cover. “What false assumption?”

Scott didn't look up.

“I thought I'd guard myself from the chance that the worst day of my life might repeat itself by refusing to plan a future.”

She didn't know what to say. If that assumption was
false, did it mean he was now ready to plan a future? And if so, were she and Taylor part of it? Or were they still just here and now? They'd talked about many things these past days, including their love for each other, but he'd never mentioned their relationship. And she'd been too unsure of her current ability to cope with the answer to ask.

“How'd I do?”

She frowned and glanced at the toy, which seemed exactly the same as it had moments before. “With what?”

He looked up then, his gaze open, serious, and completely, honestly, vulnerable. “Protecting myself from the worst day of my life repeating itself.”

Her heart started to pound. “You tell me,” she said without taking a breath.

Scott shook his head, held her eyes and said, “I hope never to have a day as bad as the day I saw you walk into that man's home. Or the one when I watched you walk down my driveway and out of my life, either.”

Kate smiled, but felt her lips trembling. He was learning. And so was she.

“Dadada, see-ee!” Bending over until his head was almost in his diapered lap, Taylor put his face down to a plastic mirror in the middle of his toy.

Scott glanced at the boy, then back at her, something between panic and hope on his face.

“We can take things slowly,” she suggested.

He nodded. “Good.”

She couldn't look away. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Kate.” The name still sounded odd coming from him.

“You can call me Trish if you'd like.”

He shook his head. “No more hiding.”

“But it could be our private name, couldn't it?” she asked. “I've grown fond of that woman. I think she saved my life.”

Scott rose, hands on her bed, and leaned over, kissing her softly, just the lightest touch to a mouth and jaw that were still far too tender. “I know she saved mine.”

 

“Mr. McCall, can you please tell the jury why you were on the grounds of the Whitehead residence on the night of May ninth?”

“I knew Kate was going there to confront Thomas Whitehead and that he'd been violent with her in the past. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
She'd gone there to testify against him for murdering her best friend,
Scott wanted to say, but had already been warned that the fact was considered informational and therefore disallowed. They were having to tread extremely carefully through every aspect of the trial procedure to ensure that there'd be no cause for mistrial, that Thomas Whitehead would be convicted. And that afterward, there'd be no cause for reversal.

He kept his gaze on the prosecutor. If he looked at the blond man in his expensive but sedate blue suit and Italian leather shoes, he'd forget that he wasn't some Neanderthal and tear the bastard to shreds.

And if he looked at Kate, sitting gingerly on the hard wooden bench, her back still sore from the nearly healed hairline fracture she'd suffered when Whitehead had thrown her against the wall more than four weeks before, he'd never be able to get through the next few moments. This was only the third full day of trial and already she was fading. If it weren't for the fact that they had to put Whitehead away for her to be free, he'd say to hell with the trial and take her to some island in the Caribbean. Someplace where she could lie around in the sun all day, sip mai tais, play with her son, and learn not to glance over her shoulder every time she stepped outside.

“Describe for us what you saw.”

Resisting the urge to yank at the red silk tie around his neck, Scott stared at the back wall of the courtroom, catching his father's nod. His mother, sitting in the next seat, had Taylor on her lap. She was going to take the child out the minute he got fussy. He wished that had already happened so she wouldn't hear what was coming next. He wanted to spare not only his mother but Kate, too.

Carley and Benny flanked Kate in the front row. When he'd taken the stand, they were each holding one of her hands.
Please God, let them be holding her now. Surround her with love…

“I saw the defendant and his wife enter a room upstairs. The curtains were open and the light was on, so I could see them clearly.” He, the prosecutor, Kate—
they all knew what he was going to say. They'd gone over his testimony early that morning—not exactly how he would've chosen to spend a lovely mid-June day.

“It was dark outside?” Prosecutor Black asked.

“Yes.”

The older woman, dressed in another of her gray suits, stood just to the right of the witness stand.

“Go on.” She faced the jury.

“He started to undress her. To fondle her.” He swallowed. Stared at Black, who was now standing right in front of him. Her eyes held his, reminding him not to glance away, even for a second. She was going to guide him through this.

“How was he fondling her?”

“He…her blouse was undone…”

“And her bra?”

“Yes.”

Black nodded.
Go on.
Her eyes said,
She needs you to do this.
Those eyes gave him no mercy.

“He was touching and kissing her breasts.”

“And then?”

“She shook her head. Backed away. It was obvious they were arguing about something.”

“What happened next?”

“He slapped her face. Twice…”

“And then?”

“She jerked away from him and ran for the door. He chased after her….”

He looked over at the jury, as he'd been instructed
to do. “That's when I broke the window in the back door, let myself in. By the time I got upstairs, they were in the baby's room. Mrs. Whitehead was bleeding from the mouth, barely conscious. Her body was at an awkward angle.”

He'd never forget that sight. Ever. Not in a million lifetimes.

“And her son?”

“He was holding the baby by his armpits, dangling him out the window.”

Every face on the jury flinched. And Scott knew a second's satisfaction. This was going to work.

“Go on.”

He shook his head, glanced at the prosecutor—and at the back of the room. His mother's seat was empty. Thank God. His father sat upright, hands on his thighs, his gaze intent—and encouraging.

They adored Kate, had been a world of support. As he'd known they would be. They also adored Kate's mother, who was up front, sitting between Carley and her mother. This was hard on all of them, but the women were drawing an immeasurable amount of strength from each other. Patsy and Arnold Miller were there, too. They'd driven up the coast together to be with Kate during the trial.