Bridge to Haven (51 page)

Someone knocked on the door. “LAPD, Miss Scott. Please open the door.”

As she did so, she expected to be arrested and hauled away in handcuffs. The officer looked at her face and the open newspaper and said they just wanted to ask some questions. It felt like an interrogation, despite Officer Brooks’s gentle manner and Officer Gelderman’s offer of a glass of water from the bathroom.

Her hand shook so hard, water sloshed over her wrist. “I didn’t know he’d kill himself! I just wanted to get away from him. I couldn’t breathe anymore. Did he take pills? He kept sedatives in his pocket.”

“Sedatives?”

“He said they were barbiturates. He said the doctor prescribed them for me.”

“Did you know he had a handgun?”

She stared at him. “No. Don’t tell me he used the gun. Don’t tell me.” She covered her ears and rocked back and forth.

The two officers waited and then asked if she knew anything about the papers torn up and left strewn around. She told them it was the contract between her and Franklin and the wedding certificate from a chapel, which probably wasn’t worth the paper it had been printed on since she’d read that he wasn’t divorced from his first wife after all. She’d also left the ring he’d never let her wear and a note. She could tell they’d read it.

Did they blame her for his death? Even if they didn’t, she knew it was her fault. She’d never considered what Franklin might do if Lena Scott left him. Abra just wanted to get away.

Officer Brooks spoke in a soothing tone. The other officer called the front desk and asked in hushed tones if the hotel had a doctor on call. They didn’t want to leave her alone. A bubble of laughter rose before she regained control. Maybe they were afraid she might kill herself, too. Another headline. Wouldn’t Franklin be happy? No, he wouldn’t be happy. He wouldn’t feel anything ever again. Because of her.

She scarcely heard what Officer Brooks was saying about no question of guilt. “You’re not a suspect, Miss Scott. We confirmed what time you checked in here.” He put a hand over hers and squeezed gently. “Try to calm down. You’re not to blame. We just needed to ask a few questions and have the information on record.” He went on to explain.

“The doorman heard a shot fired an hour after Franklin Moss returned to his apartment. He called the police and opened the apartment when they arrived, finding Franklin in the living room, dead.”

Had his blood splattered his precious paintings of Pygmalion and Galatea? She clutched her hands together, her fingers as cold as ice. “How did you find me?”

“We received several calls from people who recognized you.”

It could have been the cabdriver who gave his word, or the teenage girl looking for movie stars on the palisades, or a staff member in the hotel eager to protect the reputation of the Miramar. If the police hadn’t come to her door, would she have called them? Or would she have run away like she always did?

A doctor came. Officer Brooks spoke to him quietly before he and his partner left. Dr. Schaeffer suggested a few days in the hospital. When she refused, he gave her a pill and spoke comforting banalities until she wanted to scream at him to shut up; he didn’t know what he
was talking about—she wasn’t Lena Scott; she wasn’t anybody. The shaking stopped and he took her pulse. “It’s still fast.”

She assured him she was fine now. She gave an Academy Award performance. How many had she given over her lifetime? No one had ever been able to guess what she was really thinking or feeling.

I see you. I know.

“I’ll be all right. Thank you for coming.” She saw him to the door.

He hesitated. “I’ll check on you in a couple of hours.”

The front desk called and asked if she wanted to make a statement. Reporters waited in the lobby. She asked how many reporters and the lady said three, but more were expected. Abra said she wasn’t ready to talk about it and hung up.

Guilt gnawed at her. It didn’t matter anymore what Franklin had done to her or why she’d run away. She’d sent him over the edge. If only she’d left a simple note of gratitude and apology. She couldn’t be Lena Scott anymore. She couldn’t be his Galatea. Maybe then he’d still be alive.

She awakened at every sound. She dreamed of Haven and Pastor Zeke and Joshua. She stood in front of the congregation. Everyone she’d ever known in Haven sat in the pews, looking at her, waiting for her confession.

Franklin sat in the front row. “It would have been better for everyone if you’d died under the bridge.”

She woke, sobbing.

Other words came like a whisper from the past.
If you go to the bottom of the ocean or climb the tallest mountain, there is nowhere that I will not find you.

Someone tapped softly on the door. “It’s me, baby.”

Dylan!

She opened the door a crack. He gave her his bright-white smile and told her to take the chain off; he’d just come to help her out.
When she did as he asked, he stepped inside quickly as though she might change her mind.

He closed the door and took her in his arms, all sympathy and pretense. “I’m so sorry, baby.” He drew back, cupping her face and kissing her. She felt nothing but the hard press of his lips against hers. His hands moved, digging into her flesh. She’d forgotten how rough he could be, but she hadn’t forgotten how he’d handed her over to Franklin Moss.

She pulled away. How had he found her? One of his many spies, most likely, or one of Lilith’s. That wretched woman was probably already at work on a column about her and Franklin. What was Dylan doing here?

“Ah.” He read her face so easily. “You haven’t forgiven me.” He came close again. “I tried to put you out of my head, baby, but here I am.”

Abra brushed his hand away and put distance between them. “You dumped me, remember? You practically shoved me into Franklin’s car.”

“Go ahead and blame me. I have broad shoulders.” He didn’t look the least bit remorseful. In fact, he looked amused. “The truth is, I set you up with Franklin. I was looking out for you, baby. And you’ve done pretty well for yourself, with his help, of course. A star on the rise. Just like Pamela Hudson.” His soft laugh grated her nerves. “I should’ve warned you the guy was crazy as a loon.”

She could see the malicious gleam in his eye. “Franklin was a good man, Dylan.”

“Really?” His dark eyes flared. “Don’t expect me to mourn. He despised me and my mother, but he didn’t mind swilling our champagne and playing polite to get his protégé’s name in her column. I don’t know why he came around that first time after Pamela took off, but I knew what kept him coming back.
You.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.” He gave a cold laugh. “I knew he’d become obsessed.
I also knew he’d have his hands full with you.” He grinned. “A little birdie told me Franklin took you to Vegas and put a ring on your finger. You fell for that sham wedding, didn’t you?”

“What little birdie?”

“Oh, baby. I have friends everywhere. You know that. I have one or two right here in this hotel. I got a telephone call two minutes after you stepped inside the Miramar. And you paid cash.” He raised a brow. “You’re paid up for one more night.”

She blushed. “It’s money I earned, Dylan.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did.” His smile was filled with provocation. “That’s why you ran away. That’s why you dumped your suitcase on Hollywood Boulevard and took off like a scalded cat with a pack of dogs on your heels. How much did you take out of his safe?” He tilted his head, eyes unblinking as they surveyed her face. “You’re looking pale, baby. Conscience troubling you again?”

She could feel a headache coming on. He’d always loved baiting her. “Why are you here, Dylan?”

Dylan’s expression softened. He sat on the sofa and patted the seat beside him. “I have a proposition for you.” When she didn’t sit beside him, he leaned back, watching her with those dark, glistening eyes. She wondered how much he’d paid for his Italian loafers. “I want to be your manager.”

“What?”

“Don’t look so surprised. I have more contacts in the industry than Franklin ever did. And I know how to get what I want out of them.”

Blackmail. Abra remembered how he and Lilith worked, collecting stories and secrets, twisting facts, making innuendos.
You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.

“Don’t look so down in the dumps, baby. We can turn this whole scandal around and make it work for you. There’s a script making the rounds, about a woman with a secret past who marries a wealthy man, then takes a lover.”

“I’m not interested.”

“They’re still looking for backers, but with you on board, the sky would be the limit. It’s the perfect role for you, baby.”

“No, Dylan. I’m not going to act anymore.”

He stood, all masculine beauty and grace, eyes like black pits. He’d never been able to sit for long. “Sure you will. What else can you do? Go to work as a carhop? You’ve already been discovered. Listen to me. Reporters are going to be all over you the minute you show your beautiful face in the lobby. Weep. Wail. Cry your eyes out. Tell them all how sorry you are Franklin Moss blew his head off over you.”

She turned away. “You don’t listen any better than Franklin.”

“You gave yourself to me, remember? You sold yourself to him.” He came up behind her and turned her around to face him. “I want you back.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. His touch gave her chills. She could tell by the look in his eyes he thought she was aroused. “Oh, baby, it’s been too long.” When he leaned down, she ducked under his arm and fled into the bathroom. When she locked the door, he laughed. “Are we back to that again?”

She sat on the edge of the tub, holding her throbbing head. “Go away, Dylan.”

“You don’t mean that, baby.” He kept talking as he moved around the bungalow. Was he pacing like a lion, waiting to pounce?

He drummed his fingers on the door. “Come on, baby. We’ll make a great team.”

She flashed back to the first night in San Francisco, and the second, and all the months of misery that followed. She knew better than to say a flat no. “I need some time to think, Dylan.”

“Let me hold you. I’ll make you forget Franklin Moss.” He gave a throaty laugh. “You know I can.” When she didn’t respond, he moved away from the door. She heard him opening drawers. What was he doing? He came back. “I’ll give you time, baby. Tonight. I’ll be back in the morning to pick you up.”

She heard the door open and close. Had he really gone? She waited another five minutes before she opened the bathroom door and came out. Dylan sat on the end of the bed. He’d taken off his jacket. That sultry smile that once melted her insides now turned her cold. “I thought you left.” Her heart pounded when he got up and walked toward her.

“I’ll go when you say yes.” He touched her hair, stretching out one strand, rubbing it between his fingers. Was he thinking about making her a blonde? “You wanted to be free of him, and who could blame you? The guy was nuts.” He took his hands away and spread them. “If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t. We’ll keep it strictly business between us. As to what happened between you and Moss, we can tell the press anything we want.”

“I won’t lie, Dylan.”

“Oh, baby, you’ve been lying for as long as I’ve known you. Now you have scruples? Don’t make me laugh.”

How he’d always loved twisting the knife.

“Don’t you get it, Abra? No one cares what the truth is. People just want a good story—the juicier, the better. Franklin took you pretty far; I’ll give him that. I can take you all the way to the top.”

She’d give him the answer he wanted if it would get him out of the bungalow. “Give me the night to sleep on it. Alone. Then we can start talking about your plans tomorrow.”

He looked surprised at her capitulation. “Good. I’ll bring the contract in the morning.” He shrugged into his jacket and cocked his head. “Eight o’clock too early for you?”

She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s after midnight, Dylan. Let’s make it nine.”

When he walked toward her, she lifted a hand. “Strictly business.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay.” He went to the door and opened it. “Sleep tight, baby. See you in the morning.” His smile was smug. “I don’t think you’ll go anywhere without me.”

The moment Dylan went out the door, Abra fastened the chain. It didn’t occur to her until he was gone what he had been looking for. She got down on her hands and knees and pulled the shoulder bag out from under the bed. The money was gone.

She sank to the floor. No wonder Dylan had left with such confidence, his expression so mocking. What now? Stay and let him take over where Franklin had left off? Or follow Franklin’s example? She rose and went into the bathroom. Digging through her toiletries, Abra found the package of Gillette razor blades. She unwrapped one and held it over the blue-green veins in her wrist. Her hand trembled. How deep would she have to cut to make sure she bled to death? Tears blurred her eyes.

Shaking violently, Abra looked at herself in the mirror and saw a girl with big green eyes, ashen cheeks, and a mass of wavy black hair. She’d missed her regular hair appointment with Murray. Franklin wouldn’t be happy to see red roots showing. Uttering a cry, Abra grabbed a handful of black hair and sawed through it. Keening, scalp stinging, she kept at it until a pile of severed black locks lay around her bare feet on the white marble floor.

Cursing Dylan, she held her head.
Think, Abra. Think!
Each time she’d left the room, she’d always taken a hundred-dollar bill with her. She ran back to the bed, flung her suitcase on it, and went through all her clothing, digging through every pocket. She found enough to buy a bus ticket somewhere and have a few meals, if she didn’t order steak.

Run, Abra.

This time she listened to the quiet voice.

She threw her things back into the new suitcase and closed it. Heart thumping wildly, she opened the door and peered out. It was late enough for everyone to be in bed. She wove around the bungalows and snuck away in the dark shadows of the giant Moreton Bay fig tree.

Few cars traveled the road this time of night. The surf crashed
along the beach as she ran down the sidewalk. A taxi drew up to the curb, but she didn’t want to use any of her remaining cash to pay for a cab ride. Several inebriated young men came out of a club. She hid behind a shuttered hot dog stand. They came closer as another cab came toward her. Changing her mind, she waved it down and asked how much it would cost to get to the Greyhound bus station. She couldn’t afford to linger. Sliding in, she looked out the back window, wondering if she’d see Dylan’s Corvette following.