Genuine Lies (61 page)

Testing, she moved her fingers, steepling them, interlinking them. And watched the reflections do the same.

Which woman was she? she wondered. Which woman would they believe?

She knew there were other faces on the opposite side of that glass, staring back at her. Staring through her.

They had given her a cup of water, but she couldn’t seem to swallow. They kept the room too warm, a few degrees
warmer than comfort. Beneath her dark suit her skin was damp. She could smell her own fear. Sometimes her voice shook, but she clamped down on the rising bubbles of hysteria until it was steady again.

They were so patient, so tenacious with their questions. And polite, so very polite.

Miss Summers, you did threaten to kill Miss Benedict?

Did you know she’d changed her will, Miss Summers?

Miss Summers, didn’t Miss Benedict come to see you on the day of the murder? Did you argue again? Did you lose your temper?

No matter how often she answered, they would wind their way around until she had to answer again.

She’d lost track of time. She might have been in that small, windowless room for an hour, or a day. Occasionally, she would find her mind wandering, simply going away.

She wanted to be certain that Brandon got his supper. She had to help him study for a geography test. While her brain took these short trips into the simple and the ordinary, she answered.

Yes, she had argued with Eve. She had been angry and upset. No, she couldn’t remember exactly what she had said. They had never discussed the changes in the will. No, never. She might have touched the murder weapon. It was hard to be sure. No, she hadn’t been aware of the details of Eve’s will. Yes, yes, the door had been locked when she’d arrived home. No, she wasn’t aware if anyone had seen her after she’d passed through the gates.

Again and again she went over her movements on the day of the murder, picking her way carefully through the maze, treading on her own footsteps.

Julia struggled to divorce her mind from her body through the booking procedure. She stared straight ahead when she was ordered, blinked at the flash of light as her picture was taken for the files. She turned her profile.

They’d taken her jewlery, her bag, her dignity. All she had to cling to now was the shreds of pride.

They led her to the cell where she would wait until her bail was set and paid. Murder, she thought dizzily. She had just been booked for second degree murder. She’d made some horribly wrong turn in the maze.

At the clang of the metal doors, panic ripped through her. She nearly screamed out, then tasted blood as she bit through her bottom lip. Oh, God, don’t put me in here. Don’t lock me inside this cage.

Gasping for breath, she sat on the edge of the bunk, clasped her hands in her lap and held on. She would swear the air stalled when it reached the bars. Someone was swearing, low, foul obscenities rattled off like a laundry list. She could hear the whine of junkies, the bitching of hookers. Someone was crying, low, pitiful sobs that echoed endlessly.

There was a sink bolted to the wall opposite the bunk, but she was afraid to use it. Though nausea rolled sickly in her stomach, she choked it back rather than crouch over the stained toilet.

She would not be sick. And she would not break. How soon would the press find out? She could write the headlines herself.

Julia wondered if Eve would have appreciated the publicity, then pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back a wild burst of laughter. No, not even Eve, with all her skill at manipulation, with all her clever ways of maneuvering the players in her own script, could have foreseen this kind of irony.

When her hands began to shake, she went back to the bunk, pushing herself into the corner. With her knees up tight
against her chest, she lowered her head to them and shut her eyes.

Murder. The word swam through her mind. When her breath began to hitch, she squeezed her eyes tighter. Behind her eyes the scene played out as it had been described to her in the interrogation room.

Arguing with Eve. The fury building. Her hand closing over the gleaming brass poker. One desperate violent swing. Blood. So much blood. Her own scream as Eve crumpled at her feet.

“Summers.”

Julia’s head jerked up. Her eyes were wild and blinked furiously to focus. Had she fallen asleep? All she knew was she was awake now, and still in the cell. But the door was open, and the guard was standing just inside.

“You made bail.”

Paul’s first impulse when he saw her was to rush over and hold her against him. One look told him she might crack like eggshells in his hand. More than comfort, he thought she needed strength.

“Ready to go?” he said, and slipped a hand into hers.

She didn’t speak until they were outside. It shocked her that it was still daylight. Cars were stretched along the road as commuters battled their way home to dinner. Hours before, only hours ago in the soft blue morning, they had buried Eve. Now she was accused of causing that death.

“Brandon?”

He caught her arm when she swayed, but she kept walking, as if she hadn’t noticed her own weakness.

“Don’t worry. CeeCee’s handling everything. He can stay the night with them, unless you want to go pick him up.”

God, she wanted to see him. To hold him. To smell him. But she remembered the glimpse of her own face when they’d let her dress. Her face was white, her eyes shadowed. And there was terror in them.

“I don’t want him to see me until I’ve … until later.”
Confused, she stopped by Paul’s car. It was funny, she thought, now that she was outside again, out of that cage, she didn’t know what to do next. “I should—I should call him. I’m going to need to explain … somehow.”

She swayed again so that when he caught her he could all but pour her into the car. “You can call him later.”

“Later,” she repeated, and let her eyes close.

She didn’t speak again, so he hoped she slept. But as he drove he could see the way her hand would go from limp in her lap to clenched. He’d been prepared for tears, for outrage, for fury. He wasn’t sure any man could prepare himself for this kind of dangerous fragility.

When she smelled the sea, she opened her eyes. She felt drugged, as if she’d awakened from a long illness. “Where are we going?”

“Home.”

She pressed a hand to her temple, as if she could press reality back in. “To your house?” “Yes. Is that a problem?”

But when he glanced over, she’d turned away so that he couldn’t see her face. He braked too hard when he pulled to a stop up in front of the house. They both jerked forward, snapped back. By the time he’d slammed out of his door, she was already standing.

“If you don’t want to be here, just tell me where you want to go.”

“I have nowhere to go.” Eyes stricken, she turned to face him. “And no one to go to. I didn’t think you’d … bring me here. Want me here. They think I killed her.” Her hands shook so badly she dropped her bag. After she crouched to pick it up, she couldn’t find the strength to stand again. “They think I killed her,” she repeated.

“Julia.” He reached for her, but she pulled back.

“Please don’t. Don’t touch me. I won’t be able to hold on to whatever pride I have left if you touch me.”

“The hell with that.” He gathered her up, into his arms. The first sobs began to rack her body as he carried her inside.

“They put me in a cell. They kept asking me questions,
over and over, and they put me in a cell. They locked the door and left me there. I couldn’t breathe in there.”

Even as his mouth tightened into a grim line, he murmured reassurances. “You need to lie down for a while. Rest for a while.”

“I kept remembering the way she looked when I found her. They think I did that to her. God, they’re going to put me back in there. What’s going to happen to Brandon?”

“They’re not going to put you back in there.” After he laid her on the bed, he took her face in his hands. “They’re not going to put you back in there. Believe it.”

She wanted to, but all she could see was that small, barred space, and her trapped inside. “Don’t leave me alone. Please.” She gripped his hands, her tears burning her eyes. “Touch me. Please.” She pulled his mouth down to hers. “Please.”

Comfort wasn’t the answer. Quiet reassurances and gentle strokes couldn’t sear away the desperation. It was passion she needed, fast and fulminating, rough and ready. Here, with him, she could empty her mind, fill her body. She groped for him, her eyes still wet with shock and terror, her body arching against his as she tugged at his clothes.

There were no words between them. She wanted no words; even the softest of them could make her think. For this brief space of time she wanted only to feel.

He forgot about easing her fears. There was no fear in the woman who rolled over the bed with him, her avid mouth and seeking fingers shooting arrows of pleasure into him. Every bit as desperate as she, he tore at her clothes to find her. That hot, damp skin vibrating under his hands, the wild, wanton scent of desires, the seductive scent of woman.

The light poured into the room, touched with the first flames of sunset. She rose over him, her face no longer pale, but flushed with life. She gripped his wrists, brought his hands to her breasts. With her head thrown back she sheathed him, taking him deep, surrounding him.

Her body went rigid, then shuddered as she came. With her eyes on his, she brought his palm up to press a kiss to it.
Then with a cry that was both despair and triumph, she rode him fast, and hard, as if she were riding for her life.

She slept for an hour in dreamless exhaustion. Then reality began to creep into her defenses, shooting her from sleep to full wakefulness. Biting off a cry of alarm, she sat up in bed. She’d been certain she would find herself back in the cell. Alone. Locked in.

Paul rose from the chair where he’d been sitting, watching her, and moved to the bed to take her hand. “I’m right here.”

It took her a moment to fight for her breath. “What time is it?”

“It’s early yet. I was just thinking I’d go down and make some dinner.” He caught her chin in his hand before she could shake her head. “You need to eat.”

Of course she did. She needed to eat and sleep and walk and breathe. To do all of those normal things to prepare herself for the abnormal. And there was something else she had to do.

“Paul, I need to tell Brandon.”

“Tonight?”

To fight off the weepy feeling, she looked away, toward the window and the roar of the sea. “I should have gone to him right away, but I wasn’t sure I could handle it. I’m afraid he might hear something, see something on television. I have to explain it to him, prepare him for it myself.”

“I’ll call CeeCee. Why don’t you take a long, hot shower, down a couple of aspirin? I’ll be downstairs.”

She plucked at the sheets as he walked to the door. “Paul … thank you. For this, and before.”

He leaned against the jamb. He folded his arms, lifted a brow. And his voice took on that oh-so-British and very amused tone. “Are you thanking me for making love with you, Jules?”

Uncomfortable, she shrugged. “Yes.” “Well then, I suppose I should say you’re quite welcome, my dear. Be sure to call on me again. Anytime.”

By the time she heard him starting down the stairs she was
doing something she hadn’t been sure she’d be capable of doing again. She was smiling.

The shower helped, as did the few bites she could manage of the omelette Paul served. He didn’t expect conversation. That was something else she owed him for. He seemed to understand that she needed to think through what she would say to her son. How she would tell her little boy that his mother was being accused of murder.

She was pacing the living room when she heard the car drive up. With her hands gripped together she turned to Paul. “I think it would be best if—”

“You talked to him alone,” he finished. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t thank me again, Jules,” he said as she opened her mouth. “It might not go so easy on you this time.”

As he headed up the stairs, he let out one quiet, vicious oath.

Braced, Julia opened the door. There was Brandon, his backpack slung over his shoulder, grinning up at her. He managed to keep himself from bursting out with all the things he’d done that day. He remembered what she’d done. She’d gone to a funeral, and her eyes were sad.

From behind him, CeeCee reached out a hand for Julia’s. The unspoken sign of support, of belief, had the back of Julia’s throat stinging.

“You just call,” CeeCee said. “Just tell me what you need.”

“I … thank you.”

“Call,” CeeCee repeated, then gave Brandon’s hair a quick tousle. “See you, kid.”

“Bye. Tell Dustin I’ll see him in school.”

“Brandon.” Oh, God, Julia thought. She’d been so certain she’d been prepared. But he was looking up at her, his face so young, so full of trust. She closed the door behind her and led him around to the deck. “Let’s stay out here for a minute.”

He knew all about death. She’d explained it to him when
his grandparents had died. People went away, up to heaven like angels and stuff. Sometimes they got really sick, or had an accident. Or they got all sliced up like the kids in the
Halloween
video he and Dustin had snuck out of bed to watch on the VCR a couple of weekends before.

He didn’t like to think about it very much, but he figured his mom was going to talk to him about it again.

She kept holding his hand. Tight. And she was looking out into the dark to where you could just see the white foam of water run up on the sand. The lights were on in the house behind them so he could see her face, and the way the wind caught at the long blue robe she wore.

“She was a nice lady,” Brandon began. “She used to talk to me, and ask me about school and stuff. And she’d laugh at my knock-knock jokes. I’m sorry she had to die.”

“Oh, Brandon, so am I.” She drew a deep breath. “She was a very important person, and you’ll be hearing a lot of things about her—at school, on TV, in the papers.”