Found Wanting (52 page)

It was Beau.

A neat, black hole between his eyes.

Blood everywhere.

Margot couldn't move. His eyes were open, and there was no mistaking the blankness of that stare.

Compelled by the need to be sure, she reached forward and pressed trembling fingers to the place in his neck where there should have been a pulse. Nothing. Just blood that wet her fingers.

He was still warm.

She gagged, crabbing back on all fours. The heavy dresser halted her retreat, and she used it to pull herself to her feet. Gasping, she snatched up the bedside phone and called nine-one-one.

A woman answered.

"I need help," Margot said.

"What is the nature of your emergency?" the woman asked.

Margot heard the tap-tap of computer keys. She swung around to look at Beau in the unnatural light cast by the shadeless lamp on the floor. The shadows made his eye sockets look empty. Her chest convulsed with a dry sob.

"I'm dispatching emergency vehicles to your address right now. Please tell me the nature of the emergency so they can be prepared to help quickly," the woman said.

Margot forced herself to look away from Beau and froze.

Blood on the mirror.

Scrawled words.

"Happy Birthday. Love, Slater."

She saw her own image reflected through the blood, dark hair wild, green eyes wide with shock. And she saw the snapshot of her and Beau that he had pressed between the mirror and the frame a week ago.

"Oh, God." Her knees buckled, and the phone clunked to the floor.

"No," she whimpered as her fingers curled into the carpet. "You son of a bitch. Son of a bitch."

Sirens drove her to her feet. With another hoarse denial, she smeared the words on the mirror, erasing the message, then stumbled out of the bedroom. She skidded halfway down the stairs, her feet almost sliding out from under her in the tiled entryway.

The door was still open. Sirens wailed closer as Margot leapt down the porch steps and raced for the Lexus. Her fingers slipped on the door handle, and she realized why as she wiped them on her jeans. They were smeared with Beau's blood.

Moaning, she yanked the door open and dove into the car, fumbling for the keys in her front pocket. The jeans were tight, the way Beau liked, and she had to arch her back, straightening her body in the confines of the driver's seat, to cram her fingers into the pocket.

Her hands trembled violently, but she managed to get the key into the ignition on the first try as fat raindrops began to splat against the windshield. When she jammed it into gear, the car jumped forward.

Hurry, damn it, hurry.

She didn't ease up on the accelerator even as she rounded the first curve of the driveway and banked too high. Tires bit into the lawn, spun for a second, churning up grass and dirt, then caught on the edge of the asphalt. At the end of the drive, she jerked the steering wheel to the left, leaving mud and tread marks in her wake.

Flashing red lights appeared behind her, and she pressed the accelerator to the floor, tears burning her eyes. Her chest felt heavy with pain and guilt and fear.

The vent blew icy air at her face, but Margot barely noticed as her brain began to decipher what had happened.

Happy Birthday.

Love, Slater.

* * *

Three months later

Meg Grant rolled down the car window and propped her elbow on it, unable to tame the smile of satisfaction that curved her lips. It was January tenth. Seventy-five degrees. Not a cloud in the dazzling blue sky. Life was good. Damned good.

In twenty minutes, she would be at Southwest Florida International Airport to pick up Dayle, her first visitor in Florida. Meg was looking forward to sharing with her closest friend the excitement of a new city. She had lived in Fort Myers a month and was just learning the courthouse beat at the newspaper. Although it was all very new and thrilling, she missed home. Not the cold, of course. Christmas had seemed odd without snow, but that hadn't been the only strangeness this year -- it had been her first Christmas since her parents had died.

With a slight shake of her head, Meg turned on the CD player. Nothing like a Melissa Etheridge tune to steer her mind away from depressing thoughts.

She made it to the airport with minutes to spare and marveled at how convenient it was to zoom into a parking space just yards from the terminal. No parking garages, no confusing signs, no impatient drivers and rude hand gestures. Fort Myers was blessedly laidback compared with the harried pace of the Chicago suburbs. She had yet to regret the move, had yet to miss the smog and sub-zero temperatures.

In the terminal, Meg boarded the escalator, grinning at the three papier-mâché manatees suspended from the ceiling. At the second level, she checked the overhead monitors. Dayle's flight would arrive at any moment.

Meg hurried to the gate, imagining her friend on the plane, cramming legal pads and her PalmPilot into her black leather briefcase. Dayle, even though this was supposed to be her vacation, had probably not left her work at home. Meg couldn't blame her. She was the same, dragging a laptop with her pretty much wherever she went. You never knew when a Pulitzer Prize-winning news story would break right in front of you.

Pausing in front of the windows, Meg saw airport personnel preparing to unload the plane's cargo. The first passengers were trickling through the gate when a black limousine glided to a stop on the tarmac. Curious, she watched as the back door opened and a man stepped out.

A businessman, she assumed. A well-paid businessman, by the cut of his suit. He wore sunglasses and shoes as shiny black as the car.

Standing next to the limo, a breeze blowing tangles of dark hair across his forehead, he reminded her of a model in an advertisement for men's cologne. He had the body -- broad shoulders suggested muscles that rippled under that tailored jacket, and a lean waist spoke of regular workouts and skipped desserts. His jaw was angular and clenched as if in perpetual anger, his chin nearly square, with a cleft.

Yes, he definitely had the "I'm-a-great-smelling-guy" look. All he needed was a blond, too-thin goddess in a form-fitting red dress clinging to his arm.

He removed his sunglasses, and Meg realized with a jolt that he did it to see her better. The blazing Florida sun made him narrow his eyes, and she resisted the urge to shift under the probe of his gaze. She wanted to glance away but couldn't, as if the stare-down had become a dare to see who would buckle first.

A reflection in the window caught her eye, and Meg pivoted, grinning at the woman she'd known since they were both gangly, looking-for-trouble kids living on the same block. Instantly, the man and his limo were forgotten.

Dayle dropped her carry-on, and they hugged.

"God, it's great to see you," Meg said.

Dayle, a small woman with blond hair, brown eyes, and a shrewd gaze, drew back to look her friend up and down. "Jesus, you're even more stunning than usual. What is that? A tan?"

Meg's smile grew at the compliment. She didn't think of herself as beautiful. Her slimness was more athletic than willowy. Her dark brown hair -- auburn-streaked now that she had spent some time in the sun -- was long, curly and in her face if she didn't tie it back into a loose ponytail. A former lover had said her green eyes reminded him of the ocean off the shores of Jamaica, a more-green-than-blue shade that hid the undercurrents of emotions too well.

She wore simple clothes by necessity -- slacks and flat, comfortable shoes -- because chasing after defense attorneys and prosecutors for quotes wasn't practical or comfortable in a fancy dress and heels. Dayle had once kept a tally of her male lawyer acquaintances, who, knowing the women were friends, had pumped her for information about Meg. Although Meg assumed that Dayle exaggerated, the compliments never failed to give her confidence a boost.

"Yes, believe it or not, I have a tan line," Meg said. "First one since high school. But then, I live on the Gulf. What's a girl to do in her free time but hang out at the beach?"

"Yeah, right. I can see you lounging on a towel, computer planted on your lap." Dayle glanced around. "I'm starving."

Meg laughed as she scooped up Dayle's carry-on. "You're always starving. First, your luggage. Follow me."

They took their time walking to the baggage claim, discussing Dayle's flight and the frigid air she had left behind. On the escalator, Meg slipped an arm around her waist and gave her another hug. "I've missed you."

"I wish you could have made it home for the holidays. My family was asking about you," Dayle said.

"Someone had to cover the news."

"I just felt so bad that you spent Christmas by yourself."

"I was too busy to notice."

Dayle took the cue that Meg wasn't ready to talk about her first Christmas since she'd lost her parents almost six months ago. "Well, the Midwest isn't the same without you," Dayle said.

"Still cold, though, I presume?"

Dayle grinned. "As hell. Good God, what are those?"

Meg glanced up at the papier-mâché sea cows dangling over the escalator and laughed. "Manatees. They're endangered."

"Uh-huh."

"They're so ugly they're cute. You can buy license plates with a manatee on them, and the extra money goes to a wildlife fund. You can even swim with them."

After the escalator deposited them on the first level, Dayle made her way to a baggage carousel that had yet to start. Meg hovered at the edge of the crowd of newly arrived vacationers and took the moment to check in with her editor at the newspaper.

She had just turned off her cellphone when a hand grasped her upper arm. "We have to talk," a man said near her ear.

Startled as she was, Meg felt no real fear. People often mistook her for someone they knew -- she had one of those faces. But when she turned toward him, recognition stole the words from her lips. He was even more gorgeous up close, taller than she had guessed, and he did indeed smell good, like soap and wind. His jaw was set, muscles bunching into knots at his temples. Sunglasses were perched on his head.

His fingers dug into her flesh as he herded her toward a short hallway that branched off the baggage claim area.

"I'm afraid you --"

"Shut up and come on."

His rudeness erased her courtesy. "Look, pal --"

"I'm not your pal. Walk."

She saw that the area where he was steering her was deserted and relatively secluded. Suddenly afraid, she dropped Dayle's bag and whacked his forearm with her phone. "Let go."

His grip loosened, then tightened. "You're making a scene."

"No shit. Let me go." She whacked him again, more startled by his nerve than his strength. "Help!"

The clatter of a baggage carousel as it started up swallowed her cry. Catching her wrist, he twisted her arm behind her back and forced her toward the hallway. Any effort to jerk away increased the pressure he put on her arm and the certainty that he would not hesitate to break it.

"You're making a big --"

"Save your breath and walk."

They were at the mouth of the hall when Meg rammed her head back into his jaw. Stars burst before her eyes, and she heard him grunt before she was free. She whirled. A wild punch snapped his head back, sent sunglasses flying and pain singing up her arm into her shoulder.