Hush (6 page)

That had been the thing that she'd brought to the table for Jeff—and Margaret and Emma, too. They were all three gentle souls, easily crushed, easily dominated. She was not. One thing she'd learned to do over the course of her life was stand up to bullies. She'd stood up to George for them.

“Margaret!” Lynn Sullivan, a thin, expensively dressed brunette who was one of Margaret's longtime social set, came up to them and, with a nod for Riley, put a toned and tanned arm around Margaret's shoulders. “Darling, we missed you at the Founders' Ball! You know we would love to have you back at Book Club! Why don't you—”

The Founders' Ball was a charity gala that was the highlight of Houston high-society's summer season. Two years before, Margaret had been its chair. This year she hadn't even received an invitation, not that she would have attended if she had been invited. Her world had changed too radically.

As Margaret listened to her friend extend an invitation to return to the monthly book club that she had once loved but whose members had made it wordlessly clear that they were now made uncomfortable by her presence, Riley moved away, slipping into the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was small and crowded, with tired yellow walls and outdated appliances.

She smiled at Bill Stengel, who was just inside the door and glanced over his shoulder as she entered. Stocky and balding, around Margaret's age of fifty-seven, he had a florid complexion and unremarkable features, and in his expensive gray suit looked exactly like the successful lawyer that he was. He was chatting with a couple that she didn't immediately recognize. She would have moved past with only a nod, but he caught her arm.

“Riley. How you holding up?” A Texan born and bred, his accent was strong.

Heartsick. Scared. Broke.
“Fine.”

Bill nodded like he thought she meant it, and gestured at the couple standing with him. “You know Ted and Sharon Enman?”

If she did, she couldn't place them, but she smiled like the answer was
of course
. As she engaged in the exchange of meaningless pleasantries that passed for conversation at death-­related functions, her gaze slid past them and found Emma leaning against the counter next to the sink, surrounded by some of the girls from her (tony private) high school. They were slim and pretty and fashionable, and Emma was looking at them like they were attack dogs and she was a small creature at bay.

“Excuse me,” she said, moving away from the small group and heading in Emma's direction, grimacing as she got close enough to overhear the conversation.

“. . . so awful for you,” Monica Grayson concluded in a sweetly sympathetic tone. With her waist-length black hair and big dark eyes, Monica had a slightly exotic appearance that made her look older than her seventeen years. From Emma's confidences, Riley knew that Monica was the head mean girl. She also knew that Monica was way into boys, who were usually way into her back. “I don't know how you can even hold up your
head
.”

“Brent said to say hi. He said to tell you he totally would have come, but he had football practice, or something,” Tori Meddors told Emma. She had glossy brown hair that curled up on her shoulders, and a carefully cultivated tan. Like Monica and the other girl who was with them, Natalie Frazier, she was part
of the popular clique at Emma's high school. She had been frenemies with Emma since kindergarten. Riley saw Emma visibly wince at that reference to Brent, whom she had just started dating before George's arrest and who Riley knew she still really, really liked, even though Brent had stopped calling after George's arrest. When Brent had invited another girl to the junior/senior prom, Emma had stopped eating for days. She had ended up not going, and Margaret had worried herself sick over it.

“Oh, uh, tell him that's okay,” Emma managed. She was gripping the plastic pitcher of iced tea she was holding like it was a life preserver and she was in stormy seas.

“Are you really going to be going to public school now?” Natalie asked in the kind of hushed tone someone might use to inquire about the onset of a fatal disease. Emma looked even more hunted. Riley winced inwardly. George had paid Emma's tuition for the previous year before his arrest, but now there was simply no money. Not for tuition or anything except the necessities.

“She only
hopes
she is. Haven't you ladies heard? All the hottest guys go to public school,” Riley said as she reached them. “Have you checked out Pearland's football team? Monica, you'd 
die
.”

“Oh, hi, Riley,” the girls chorused, while Emma shot her a grateful look. Meeting that look with a bracing one of her own, Riley added, “Em, your mother was wondering where you were with that tea.”

“Oh, gosh, I forgot she wanted it,” Emma said, then added to the girls, “I'd better get in there. Thanks for coming.”

She slid away from her friends, and with a smile for the girls
Riley moved on toward the back door. One more reason she was sure Jeff hadn't committed suicide: he knew how fragile Emma was right now, had worried about her state of mind right along with Margaret and Riley, and wouldn't purposefully have shattered his little sister's life yet again for anything. Not when it had already been turned upside down by her good-for-nothing bastard of a father.

Damn you, George
.

If she had a penny for every time those words had popped into her mind over the last few months, Riley thought, she would never have to work again for the rest of her life.

Seething with impotent anger was useless, though, so she did her best to put it and her worry about Emma and everything else aside except for her immediate objective of obtaining some clean clothes so that she could go to work tomorrow and pay the rent and utilities and buy food and gas, as she stepped out onto the small back stoop.

The sky was purple now, and the cicadas were singing. Someone nearby was grilling: she could smell the cooking meat, hear the laughing voices of children, the murmur of cheerful adult conversation. Somewhere happiness was in the air, and Riley looked in the direction of the cookout almost wistfully. Then reality bit: in her world, she had things to do, and darkness continued to close in. The sun was gone, and the long shadows that lay across the ground were merging until soon they would swallow everything.

Riley stood where she was for a moment longer, savoring the solitude, taking a deep breath of the still-sweltering air as her gaze carefully swept her surroundings.

The one truly positive thing about the scruffy subdivision where Margaret's house was located was that, except for the street out front, there was no place for TV trucks to park, or camera crews to camp out, or reporters to hide. The small patch of scorched grass that was the backyard was surrounded by a tired chain-link fence that was all but hidden by a dusty vine, and it abutted a number of other tiny yards just like it. The one-story houses were so close together that if they didn't keep the drapes drawn at night they could see into each other's windows. Living in such unassuming surroundings wasn't a stretch for Riley, who had grown up in even less prosperous circumstances, but for Margaret and Emma—and Jeff—it was like being plunked down on the moon.

Pushing Jeff's image away for the time being—thinking about him hurt too much—she stepped off the stoop and walked quickly in the opposite direction from the driveway, which was packed with cars, then let herself out through the creaky metal gate on the far side of the house. When they had arrived home after the funeral there'd been quite a crowd out front, but by this time it had largely dispersed. Two TV trucks remained, she saw as she cast a cautious glance toward the street, but only one camera crew was visible.

They were set up on the sidewalk opposite the house, apparently conducting a running commentary on God-knew-what while keeping their camera trained on the front door, probably in hopes that someone gossip-worthy would enter or leave. A marked police car idled near the camera crew, and another drove slowly down the street, moving away from her. Parked cars lined the curb in both directions and a few people—­neighbors
or gawkers, Riley couldn't be sure which—stood around on the sidewalks talking as they cast occasional glances at the house.

Being the focus of the scandal-mongers sucked.

Congratulating herself on her foresight in parking her car around the corner and exiting through the back door, Riley slunk through the neighbors' front yards, careful to keep well away from the street. She didn't have far to go, but by the time she was halfway there she'd made the unwelcome discovery that she really didn't like being alone outside in the dark anymore. The shadows seemed to be closing in on her, and she kept thinking she could hear
something
sneaking along behind her. There was nothing there, of course—she checked—but by the time she saw her small white Mazda her pulse was racing and she was breathing way faster than she should have been. A shivery sense of unease kept her glancing over her shoulder even as she unlocked the car. She was starting to mentally chastise herself for being a coward, when it hit her:

Somebody murdered Jeff
.

Under the circumstances, being scared wasn't only justified: it was smart.

That thought did not help her calm down. In fact, it made her go cold all over, despite the oppressive heat.

Glancing back, Riley could see the lights of the camera crew across from Margaret's house. Most of the nearby houses had lights on inside them now. What she took from that was,
there are people nearby
. A scream would bring them running. Not that there was any need to scream: no one had followed her, no one was even close. It was dark, but not so dark she couldn't see well enough to be sure of that.

They don't have any reason to come after you. You never even worked at Cowan Investments
.

Unless they knew she had Jeff's phone, and wanted it. Or thought Jeff had told her something. Or were killing Cowans for fun or profit. Or—

Stop it
.

Yanking the door open, Riley got in, slammed it shut, hit the lock-doors button, started the car, and took off way faster than she normally would have done toward her apartment. And tried not to let the impossible-to-shake feeling that she was being watched completely terrify her.

“Y
ou suppose she's in for the night?” Bax asked as he carefully maneuvered the Acura into a vacant spot on the street outside Riley's apartment building.

It was a busy street, full of the kind of tall, boxlike structures that had been built all over Houston in the commercial real estate boom toward the end of the last century. Restaurants and offices and small shops occupied the lower floors of the buildings, and apartments and condos took up the upper floors, so there was plenty of activity, perfect for going unnoticed.

“Don't know.” Finn's voice was tight with irritation as he watched her stride across the parking lot and come around the front of her building. Still in her funeral clothes, she looked haunted under the pale glow of the security lights. She was moving fast, and she gave a couple of quick, searching looks around that made him frown. He was confident she hadn't made them, but something seemed to have spooked her. Even from a distance,
he could almost feel the waves of tension she was giving off. “We need to get this damned thing fixed or replaced
now
.”

He tapped the blank screen of the mobile receiving unit that was propped on the console between the seats. About the size of a portable GPS, voice and/or motion activated, it was designed to monitor the roving bug that had been turned on in her cell phone. The bug allowed Finn to listen in on her mobile calls, of course, and also to track her anywhere she took her cell phone and listen to any conversation anywhere that cell phone was, even if the phone was powered off. He liked the technology because it was simple to use and it was almost impossible to detect.

Unfortunately, not long after they had started following her away from her mother-in-law's house the receiver had stopped picking up her phone's signal, which had led to a harried chase along the freeway and through the city streets. Finn was now discovering that the bug also wasn't working to track her present movements, or pick up any sound.

One possibility was that the receiver was dead.

The other was that during the course of the drive she'd disabled her phone the same way she'd disabled Jeff's.

If that was the case, there could be only one reason: she was afraid of being followed.

And instead of being interested, he was now officially downright fascinated.

To his annoyance, for the moment Finn's only recourse was to track her visually. As Bax picked up the receiver and started fiddling with it, Riley pushed through her building's revolving door, slim legs flashing, bright hair gleaming beneath the warm interior lights. For another moment he was able to watch her
through the building's wall of windows as she walked quickly across the lobby, heading no doubt for the elevators. Then she was out of sight.

Invisible to him.

Which was not good.

She could do anything. Talk to anybody. Disappear.

Damn it to hell and back anyway
.

HER APARTMENT
was cool and quiet and dark. Two of those things Riley welcomed. The third—darkness—made her shudder. She banished it by flipping the light switch the minute she stepped inside her door. The overhead light came on, as did the two fat white ginger jar lamps on either side of the couch. A quick scan of the premises allowed her to relax a little. Her apartment was small, with a galley kitchen, living/dining room combination, one bedroom, and one and a half baths—and she could see most of it from where she stood: unless somebody was under the bed or hiding in the closets or bath, nobody was waiting to jump her. Better yet, the place
felt
empty. Engaging the dead bolt and chain that secured the door, Riley heaved a sigh of relief. Only then did she realize how on edge she'd been.