Cold Truth (28 page)

She and Rick sat in silence for a long time. He looked to the top of the stairs, where the lights had all been turned on and brown stains marred the pale carpet.

Old blood, not new.

Her blood, not Wainwright’s.

“When you said you dreamed of stopping him, you meant that first time. Not this time, now. But then.”

She nodded.

“I wanted to save my parents. My sister.” Her eyes filled with tears, and Rick knew the dam was close to bursting.

“You were six years old.”

“I know that. I do. And I don’t blame myself for not saving them, Rick, I swear I don’t.” She swallowed hard, her bottom lip trembled. “I just wish
I could have . . .
”

“Come on, Cass, let’s go.” He stood and tugged at her hand. He wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her, make all the pain go away.

“Go where?”

“Anyplace but here.”

He parked on the street that she’d directed him to and turned off the ignition. He took off his shoes and socks while she did the same, then together they set off on foot, taking care to keep to the narrow boardwalk that led over the unlit dunes.

In silence they followed the sound of the ocean across the dark beach to the waterline, then walked a half mile up the beach, the tide swirling at their feet. Cass paused at the foot of the jetty.

“This might be a little tough to maneuver in the dark.”

“I have a flashlight in the car.”

“That’s the easy way.”

It was too dark to see her face, but he could almost feel her smile.

“Go on, then.” He took her hand.

They picked their way slowly through the smooth rocks until they reached the end. Cass lowered herself carefully to perch on the end of the jetty, and Rick did the same. He put both arms around her and pulled her close.

“I want you to know I would have ripped him apart with my bare hands if he’d hurt you,” he told her.

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”

He wanted to say that he thought it was best that she had been the one to kill Wainwright, but it was stating the obvious. Instead, he tightened his hold on her and just held on. When she turned to him, he leaned down and kissed her mouth. She tasted of tears, and she kissed him back, so he kissed her again. And again.

“I meant it when I said I felt as if I’ve known you for a long time,” he whispered.

“I thought that was just a line.”

“A line?” He frowned. “You thought that was a line? I don’t do lines.”

She laughed softly, and he tried to remember when he’d last heard her laugh.

“I swear—”

“Shhh. I was just teasing you. You looked so serious, so earnest for a moment.”

The clouds that had covered the face of the moon drifted aside, and light spread in rivers across the water. The tide lapped against the rocks, and she stuck out her foot to catch it.

“It’s really over, isn’t it, Rick?”

“It’s really over.”

She leaned against him and sighed.

“Do you want to go back to the Inn?” he asked.

“In a little while.”

“How do you feel, Cass?”

“I feel at peace, Rick. For the first time I can remember, I feel at peace.”

He couldn’t have asked for more than that.

Cass came out of the kitchen carrying a large spray bottle of water and a scraper, when she heard a car pull into the drive. She went to the dining room window and watched the driver of the Camaro get out. She tapped on the glass and pointed to the front door.

“Hey,” she said as she opened it.

“Hey, yourself.” He kissed her, then stepped inside and looked around. “What are you up to?”

“A lot can happen in three weeks.”

“I’m sorry. I was out of the country. I couldn’t get in touch. I figured rather than call and try to make excuses on the phone, I’d drive up here and make excuses in person.”

“Apology accepted.” She closed the door behind him. “You know, I never thought I’d step back inside this house, let alone ever consider living here. But it was the strangest thing, after that night . . . I don’t know, I just wanted to be here. I thought if I got rid of the . . .”

She motioned in the general direction of the second floor and the kitchen.

“You know, the telltale signs. If the walls and the floors were cleaned up, maybe it could be all right. I had someone come and clean out the bad stuff—take out the old carpets and clean the walls and the kitchen, and it’s as if all the bad karma is gone now.”

“I have to admit I was surprised when I stopped at the police station and Denver told me you were thinking about living here again.”

“Lucy wants to live in Gramma’s house, which she is totally entitled to do. She wants to move down here with her boys for the rest of the summer, once they finish up at camp. She isn’t going back to David. I could certainly stay there with them, but it’s going to be a bit crowded. I got to thinking that I have another place to live. I wasn’t sure I could do it, but once I came back, it seemed the ghosts were gone. The bad ones, anyway. I can live with the others. I’m not one hundred percent certain, but I want to try. I thought giving the rooms a new coat of paint would be a good place to start.”

“Well,” he said, looking around, “you have your work cut out for you. Fortunately for you, I’m an expert at home repairs—and a whiz at painting. Did I ever tell you that I paid for a summer in Vienna by painting houses? No? Well, remind me to tell you about that sometime. For now, I’m all yours. You just tell me where to start.”

“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish, Agent Cisco.” She poked at him with the wallpaper scraper, then started up the steps to the second floor.

“Don’t you worry, Detective Burke.” He grinned and followed her up the stairs. “I’ve got two weeks’ vacation saved up. More than enough time to finish whatever it is you’ve got in mind.”

E
pilogue

Regan lifted the last box and hoisted it against her chest before starting down the basement steps. She figured her father’s old papers had rested quite comfortably in the basement for all these years, they could remain there for a few more. She’d hoped to get more sorted out, but she was running out of time. She had promised her editor a first draft of the book about the Bayside Strangler in ten weeks. She’d have to go through the remaining boxes another time—right now, they were proving to be a distraction.

She slid the box onto the storage shelf and turned to go back up the steps, when her foot caught on the edge of a smaller box that must have fallen from a nearby shelf. She tripped over it and landed on her hands and knees.

“Damn.”

She picked herself up and leaned over to lift the box. The bottom, having apparently spent too much time on the damp basement floor, fell out, spilling its contents.

“Shit,” she muttered, and knelt down to gather the papers that littered the floor.

She scooped them together, stuffing them back into the file they’d slid from, then she realized what she was looking at.

She took the file to the light, and read the name. Puzzled, she gathered the rest of the papers and carried them upstairs, where she deposited them on the top of her desk.

Old elementary school report cards, all bearing the name of Edward Kroll.

Odd . . .

The doorbell rang and she left the file on the desk while she went to the front hall. She opened the door, to find Mitch Peyton on the other side.

“You’re late,” she said. “I thought you’d be here a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh, sorry. I got caught in traffic on I-95. Is now a bad time?”

“No, it’s not a bad time. Come in.” She stepped aside to permit him to enter. “I have the items you were looking for, they’re all ready for you.”

“I can’t believe I left all those reports here. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

They went into the office and she handed him a fat brown envelope. “Everything’s in here.”

“Thanks, Regan. I appreciate it.”

His gaze fell onto the papers that were stacked upon the desk. “You started the book already?”

She nodded. “I did, but that file isn’t part of it. I don’t know what that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found a box downstairs that held some old report cards. Look, they’re all for someone named Edward Kroll, who, back in the forties, attended St. John the Baptist Elementary School in Sayreville, Illinois.”

“Who’s Edward Kroll?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never heard the name before.” With a finger, she drew out first one, then another of the report cards. “I can’t imagine why my father would have had them.”

“Maybe Kroll was someone your dad was investigating.”

“Maybe.” She picked up one of the report cards and read a written comment aloud. “’Eddie is an asset to the class. He has an aptitude for math, is inquisitive, and is an excellent reader.’ Signed by Sister Mary Matthew.” She flipped the card over. “Second grade.”

“Well, his name is sure to turn up again, if your father was interested in him enough to keep his report cards from grade school.”

“That’s what I thought, too. I’m sure there must be other files. But . . .” She dropped the report card on the desk.

“Right. With your dad’s filing system, who knows where they might be.”

“Same old story.” She laughed. “It certainly makes going through his papers an adventure. I never know what I’m going to find. Sometimes I wonder if he didn’t plan it that way, just to keep me intrigued.”

“I guess I’ll get this to my car.” Mitch patted the envelope and headed for the door. “Thanks again, Regan. I appreciate it. I don’t think my boss would be too happy if he knew I’d left some of my investigative reports here.”

She walked him to the door, and watched him open the trunk of his car. He dropped the envelope in, then walked to the driver’s side.

Closing the front door, Regan wished she could think of something to say that would bring him back inside, if only for a while. She’d been thinking a lot lately that the house seemed so quiet, so empty, since the Strangler case had been wrapped up and Mitch had returned to Maryland, and she was once again alone.

The doorbell rang.

Wondering what Mitch could have forgotten, Regan opened the door.

He stood there, a dark blue blazer slung over his shoulder.

“I was just wondering—now that we have work completely out of the way—if you’d like to go out to dinner with me. If you don’t have other plans for tonight, that is.”

“You mean, like a date?”

“Yes.” He grinned. “Like a date.”

“Oh.” She smiled, waved him inside, and closed the door behind him. “Give me a minute to change.”

“You don’t have to change. You look perfect.”

“Well, I’ll need my keys . . .” She disappeared into her office and returned with her handbag.

“So,” she said as they walked to the door, “what did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking about this Mexican place outside of Princeton. I had dinner there one night and thought maybe you’d like it. They have one of those sort of traveling trios that roam around the restaurant, singing to the customers.”

“I know the place. It’s one of my favorites, actually.” She locked the door after they both stepped outside.

“Mitch.” She grabbed his arm when they were halfway to the car. “Did you really forget to take those files?”

“Of course not.” He grinned. “I made copies of a few reports and left them on the desk. You don’t really think I’d leave my files someplace, do you?”

“I thought it would be out of character.”

“I just wanted an excuse to come see you.”

“I’m glad you did. I’ve been dying to tell you about this old case I found in the bottom desk drawer last week . . .”

“Mariah Stewart is fast becoming a brand-name author.”

—
Romantic Times

Praise for Mariah Stewart’s Dead Trilogy

DEAD WRONG

“Fast-paced and intricately plotted . . . [a] chilling, creative tale . . . Stewart excels in writing romantic suspense.”

—
Library Journal

“Mystery master Stewart kicks off her new interconnected trilogy with a bang. Nail-biting suspense and emotional complexity make this launch irresistible.”

—
Romantic Times
(****)

DEAD CERTAIN

“Stewart’s Dead trilogy crackles with danger and suspense. Great characterization and gripping drama make Stewart’s books hot tickets.”

—
Romantic Times
(****)

“A stand-alone read, and highly recommended . . . Mariah Stewart is an awesome storyteller, and the Dead trilogy is wholly entertaining and totally outstanding.”

—America Online’s Romance Fiction Forum

DEAD EVEN

“Get set for an exceptional tale.
Dead Even
is a masterpiece of writing. You will not want to put this book down.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“Hold onto your seats, because Mariah Stewart will plunge you into a heart-pounding, roller-coaster ride. You won’t come up for air until the last page has been turned. Excellent!”

—Huntress Reviews

“Well plotted, imaginative and entertaining . . . The race against time is nail-biting tense.”

—BookLoons Reviews

“An elaborate balance of suspense and outstanding storytelling . . . Ms. Stewart is truly a master of the romantic suspense genre!”

—Reader to Reader

“The final installment of Mariah Stewart’s Dead trilogy is just as exciting and outstanding as its predecessors.”

—America Online’s Romance Fiction Forum

Crave more gripping suspense from Mariah Stewart?
Turn the page for a sneak peek at
HARD TRUTH
Coming in October 2005 from Ballantine Books

Callen Hall, Pennsylvania
October 9, 1980

“I thought your mother said you weren’t allowed to wear that dress until your birthday party.” Nine-year-old Lorna Stiles watched her friend Melinda slip the pretty yellow-and-white dress over her head.

“She did, but today is my birthday, and I want to wear it.” Melinda struggled to zip up the dress, then turned her back to Lorna. “Here. See if you can get it.”

“You’re just trying it on, though, right? To show me?” Lorna persisted even as she fastened the dress. She knew Melinda’s mother had a hot temper. Nothing provoked her more than having Melinda do what she was specifically told not to do.

“I’m going to wear it to your house. It’s going to be sort of like a party, right?” Melinda twirled in front of the mirror.

“Just birthday cake that my mom made for you. It’s not really a party, Mel. Maybe you shouldn’t . . .”

“I like it. I’m going to wear it. What good is it to have a pretty dress if you can wear it only one time?”

“You can wear it again after your birthday.” Lorna paused, then lowered her voice, as if afraid of being overheard. “You know what your mom will do if she finds out, Mellie.”

“She won’t find out.” Melinda pulled a brown paper bag from under her bed and stuffed her play clothes inside it. “See? I’ll change before I come home, and I’ll put the dress in the bag. You can help me fold it real good, and she’ll never know.”

Melinda beamed, pleased with her plan.

“Come on, Lori,” she said, calling her friend by her nickname and tugging her hand. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to see my cake! Did your mom get candles, too?”

“I think so.” Lorna nodded glumly, an uneasy feeling spreading through her insides. In her short life, she’d discovered that truth always outs. If Melinda wasn’t afraid of her mother, Lorna was, not for herself, but for what Billie Eagan would do to her daughter.

The last time Melinda had disobeyed her mother, she’d lost three days of school. Oh, she’d never told Lorna exactly what her mother had done to punish her, but Lorna had seen the bruises on her friend’s arms and legs.

Once, when Mellie’s long sleeves had ridden up to display the fresh welts on the tops of her arms, Lorna had suggested gently that she tell someone. But Melinda had quickly pulled the sleeves down and asked, “Tell someone what?” with that defiant look she got sometimes, and Lorna had let it go. When Lorna had mentioned to her own mother that sometimes Melinda’s mom might be a little strict—without mentioning the bruises—she’d said that the Eagans had things tough since Melinda’s father had run off with that woman from the flower shop and Mrs. Eagan had to work two jobs just to keep food on the table for her two kids and a roof over their heads.

“And God knows she has her hands full with that boy of hers.” Mary Beth Stiles had shaken her blond head. “You’d think at fourteen, he’d understand the situation his mother is in and try to give her a hand, instead of causing more problems for her. He’s old enough to help her out once in a while.”

“Jason’s just mean, Mom.” Lorna had told her mother. “He is just plain mean. He’s mean to Mel, and he’s mean to me.”

“He hasn’t ever done anything to you, has he?” Her father, who’d been half listening while he skimmed the headlines, put the newspaper down.

“No, he just gives us dirty looks and talks mean to us. He’s never done anything bad,” Lorna denied.
Unless you call talking dirty to us and chasing us with snakes—really big snakes—doing something to me.

Of course, he hadn’t done the snake thing in a while. Now he mostly just stared. It had gotten so she almost hated to go to the Eagans’ because, if Jason was there, he’d stare at her and Mellie, and it scared the daylights out of her and she didn’t know why.

Lorna never told her parents just how scary she thought Jason was. There was something about him that gave her the creeps, more and more, something she didn’t have words to explain. All she knew was that the older he got, the creepier he got. She and Melinda never discussed it, but she knew that Jason rattled his sister even more than he rattled her.

“Let’s go, Lori. If we don’t go now, my brother will be home, and he’ll tell Mom about the dress. Besides, I can’t wait for cake.” Melinda turned the light off in her room and ran down the steps, the yellow skirt of her party dress billowing around her legs.

Lorna followed behind, happy to leave the dark little house and the threat of Jason’s imminent arrival behind her.

“Let’s take the shortcut through the field.” Melinda ran toward the wheat field that lay behind her house and started along the side where the ground had been plowed but not planted.

“It’s too muddy,” Lorna protested. “We’ll get our shoes all dirty.”

“We’ll clean them when we get to your house. Come on.” Melinda took off, and Lorna followed, trying her best to avoid the ruts the plow had made when it turned around. This morning’s rain had left little puddles here and there, and she knew her mother would not be pleased if she came home with her new sneakers all mud stained.

They were halfway across the field, when somehow Melinda slipped and went down on her knees.

“I knew it. I knew something was going to happen . . .” Lorna gasped. “My grandmother says every time you do what you know you’re not supposed to do, you get—”

“Shut up.”
Melinda pulled herself up and looked down with horror at the front of her dress, where brown smears marked the places where her knees had hit the ground. “Oh, shit. Look at my dress. Look at my dress.”

“You’re not supposed to say curse words.”

Melinda spun around and looked at Lorna with wide eyes.

“What the hell do you think I should say?” Her hands were beginning to shake. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Her bravado crumbling, Melinda began to cry. “She’s gonna kill me. She’s gonna beat me but good.”

“Okay, look, my mom is home. She’ll know what to do.” Lorna took Melinda by the hand and started to pull her along. “The longer we stand here talking about it, the harder it’s going to be to get the mud out. Come on, Mellie, let’s run.”

She tugged on Melinda’s hand.

“You don’t understand, Lori, she’s gonna really hurt me.” Melinda’s voice was filled with true fear.

“Not if she doesn’t know. Come on.”

Lorna dragged Melinda along the bumpy field until they reached the Stiles property. They ran around the back of the barn and across the yard and straight up the steps.

“Mom! Mom!” Lorna called from the door.

“Lorna?” Her mother came into the kitchen and saw the two girls panting, Melinda muddy and obviously in distress. “What on earth . . . ?”

“Mellie fell in the field. We have to get her dress cleaned before she goes home; she wasn’t supposed to wear it, but today’s her birthday and . . .” Lorna gasped.

“Slow down,” her mother demanded. “Mellie, let me take a look at that dress.”

Mary Beth knelt down in front of Melinda and studied the muddy mess. She looked up at the crying child and said, “I think I can get it all out, but if it’s going to be dry in time for you to take it home with you, we’re going to have to hurry. I’m thinking your mother didn’t want you to wear this today?”

Melinda nodded tearfully.

“Go on into the laundry room and take it off. Lori, run upstairs and get Mel something to put on.”

“I have stuff,” Melinda said, holding up the bag.

“Then go change and give me the dress. Let me see what I can do. And in the meantime, I want you to stop crying, wash your face and hands, and get ready to blow out the candles on that birthday cake, okay?”

Melinda nodded gratefully, the tears beginning to dry.

“Lorna, go find the matches so we can light the candles. The cake is in the dining room,” Mary Beth whispered after Melinda disappeared into the laundry room.

“Mom,” Lorna whispered back, “do you think you can get the dress cleaned up in time?”

“I’m pretty sure I can. Why was she wearing it, if getting it dirty was going to be such a big deal?”

“I think it’s because it’s her birthday dress and today is her birthday. You can do it, can’t you, Mom?”

“I’ll give it my best. Now go get the ice cream out of the freezer. I’ll be in to light the candles in a few minutes.”

Melinda blew out all nine of her candles with one big breath.

“My wish will come true now.” She smiled at Lorna. “Everything is going to be all right.”

Mary Beth cut the cake and served the girls ice cream—cherry vanilla, Melinda’s favorite—then disappeared into the laundry room. When five o’clock came and Melinda had to leave, Mary Beth handed her the dress, all cleaned and pressed, looking as good as new.

“Mrs. Stiles, you did it. You did it.” Melinda squealed and jumped up and down, clapping her hands, her smile lighting the room. “Thank you, thank you!”

“You’re welcome. Now, the next time your mother says don’t wear the dress, do us all a favor and don’t wear the dress,” Mary Beth told her as she handed her a bag holding leftover cake. “This is for your mother and brother. And there’s a little extra for you, for a snack.”

“Mrs. Stiles, you’re the best.” Melinda hesitated, then threw her arms around Mary Beth’s neck and shared a whispered secret. “My wish came true. Thank you.”

The rudely loud knock on the back door startled them all. Lorna opened it to find Jason’s dark eyes staring at her.

“My mom wants Mel to come home now.”

“I’ll drive her, Jason, and you, too,” Mary Beth offered, looking for her keys. “It’s starting to get dark.”

“My mom said for me to walk her.” Jason looked beyond Mary Beth to where Melinda stood. “Come on, Mel. Now.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stiles, for everything.” Melinda’s voice held a solemnity beyond her years. The smiles were gone; the happy glow had disappeared. She ran out the back door, a bag in each hand, calling over her shoulder to Lorna, “I’ll see you at the bus stop tomorrow.”

Lorna waved good-bye from the back porch.

It was the last time she saw Melinda alive.