Indefensible (4 page)

She lurched back.
Bastard
. Even now, he couldn't let her forget her infidelity. That much was still the same. Only, everything was infinitely worse.

He had no idea what she'd gone through. What she was still going through. “I had an abortion.” She flung the words at him. Slammed them at his face. Wished
she could slap him with the words, beat him with them, make him feel what she felt. “Thanks to you.”

He recoiled. “What do you mean by that? I would have paid child support.”

“And made me beg for it every step of the way. You'd probably insist on a paternity test, right?”

The look in his eyes answered her question.

“You fucking bastard! You have no idea what I've gone through!” She drew in a deep, sobbing breath and despised herself for revealing, once again, her weakness in front of her ex. “I will never forgive you for this.”

Tears streamed down her face. She knew her nose was running uncontrollably. She was a fucking sniveling mess. She ran up the walkway and yanked open the screen door, the complaints of the rusty hinge almost drowned by the squealing of rubber as her ex-husband took off down the road.

Friday, 7:06 p.m.

T
he doorbell rang just as Kate finished toweling her hair. Her shower had been refreshing, cleansing her mind of work—and of how her day had ended. She hurried to the front door, a smile already on her lips.

Nat stood on the porch, her arms crammed with takeout bags from their favorite Indian restaurant.

“Mmm.” Kate held open the door. “Come on in.”

“With pleasure,” Nat said with a grin. She marched into the kitchen, ignoring the drop sheets, put the bags on the counter and poured herself a large glass of diet soda. Kate followed her, marveling, as usual, at her friend's insouciance. From the top of Nat's bleached-blond pixie head to her broad yet tiny feet (my little sledgehammers, Nat called them), her friend just breezed through people's defenses and claimed her place.
It's from growing up on a farm,
Nat had once told Kate.
You have to take control of the animals or you'll spend your day walking in manure.

“Very nice.” Nat gave a low whistle at the newly
painted walls, raising her glass in a toast. “Hard to believe this was once the house of gloom and doom.”

The yellowy-wheat—or wheaty-yellow—paint gleamed on the once-dingy walls, rendering them clean and fresh. Kate sipped her wine, a pleasant glow in her stomach. She relaxed against the counter. “I know. I can't believe it myself.”

“Is your hunky handyman helping you?”

“Nat…” Kate grinned. “He's just a friend.”

Nat quirked a brow. “You sure?”

Kate nodded. “He's like…” She grappled for a description of her feelings for Finn. “He's like my little brother.”

Nat contemplated Kate over her soda. Kate knew that look. She braced herself.

“Does he feel that way, too? You're pretty oblivious to how men look at you. I, crack reporter that I am, have a nose for this.”

“I think he hangs around because of the house, Nat. And Alaska.”

Nat gave her another dubious look.

“Seriously. He's never made a move. And he's had ample opportunity. He practically lives here.” And that was exactly the way Kate liked it. Finn was great company, totally undemanding and invaluable around the house. He took the chill off her Victorian home, not just by fixing it up but by being there. Another warm body to fill the rooms.

“Here.” Kate handed Nat a plate. “Help yourself.” They dished up the take-out food, the aroma of fragrant samosas, butter chicken and
roghan josh
curry filling
her kitchen. Alaska moved to the counter and raised his muzzle in the air. His nostrils quivered.

“Let's go outside.” Kate had proudly set up two Adirondack chairs to face her garden. The bed was still a bit straggly—and hadn't benefited from the holes Alaska had dug in it—but Muriel and Enid Richardson, her elderly neighbors whom she now thought of as aunts, had pointed out the weeds versus the plants. In a flurry of beginner's enthusiasm, Kate had planted a huge variety of perennials too close together. But there were some lovely established shrubs that made up for the haphazardness of the bed. Right now, the daylilies were in bloom, their deep orange blossoms a stunning contrast against the weathered wooden fence behind it.

The garden didn't look half bad.

Alaska settled down contentedly between the two of them, knowing that Nat would “accidentally” drop some food his way.

“So, got any men lined up for the weekend?” Nat asked, stuffing a heaping forkful of butter chicken and rice into her mouth.

Randall Barrett's unsmiling face popped into her head. Kate gave herself a mental shake. But Randall was like a burr, sticking to the tender flesh of her heart. The more she tried to rip him out, the more pieces got left behind. Better to just ignore it. She forced a smile. “Nada. How about you?”

“Not yet. But I've got my eye on this homicide detective. I ran into him last week. He's come off a bad relationship and told me he could use a fun girl like me….”

Kate lowered her fork to her plate. “That's not funny.”
Nat had changed when she was in Ottawa. Kate wasn't sure whether it was a by-product of Nat's career choice or a defense mechanism resulting from her disastrous relationship with Bryce, but Nat was more caustic than Kate remembered.

“Sorry,” Nat said unapologetically. “But I did run into Your Ex. He was checking out a crime scene.”

“Yes, I saw your report in the paper.” Kate's broken engagement with homicide detective Ethan Drake was one subject she couldn't discuss. Especially with the way Nat was now. She stifled a pang of sadness. She missed the closeness she'd experienced with her friend.

But we've all changed.

“So don't you want to know what Ethan had to say?”

No. Yes.

No, Kate, you've moved on.
“Not particularly.”

Nat said through a mouthful of curry, “Touchy, aren't we?”

Kate shrugged. “It hasn't been that long.”

They'd only truly ended things in May. And although Kate knew it was the right thing for both of them, part of her was still in mourning. She'd had six months of hope with Ethan. It had fallen apart in a very messy, very nasty way last New Year's Eve.

Then Kate had barely survived the attack, only to discover a new danger. She'd had a hard enough time getting her head around being targeted by a serial killer. To learn that Craig Peters had been infected with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease had been the icing on the cake.

There was a remote chance—a very remote chance,
she was assured by her doctors—that she could be infected with the fatal illness. The type of CJD they believed Craig Peters had contracted was not believed to be transmitted through blood infection. But no one knew for sure. There were no tests for it. It wouldn't be until Kate exhibited symptoms such as ataxia, where her body would move jerkily, or dementia that alarm bells would ring for her doctors. And only a postmortem brain biopsy could confirm diagnosis.

She tried not to think about it, telling herself she had more chance of being hit by a bus than developing CJD, but it lurked in her mind. Usually only coming out at night.

Nat stood, shaking bits of rice and naan onto the deck. Alaska moved into position. “I've gotta run.” She padded into the kitchen and grabbed her satchel. “I need my beauty sleep.” She grimaced. “Actually, I need to do my laundry before tomorrow's shift.”

“Why do you keep getting weekend shifts?”

Nat shrugged. “I'm earning my stripes. Anyway, I'm not complaining. In fact, I bought my own police scanner for when the newsroom's closed. The best crime happens on weekends.” Her friend gave her a saucy grin. “You oughta know.”

Kate had been attacked on a Friday night, as Nat was well aware.

Kate raised her wineglass in a silent toast. “Touché.” She liked the fact that Nat joked about her almost becoming the Body Butcher's final victim. So many people avoided talking about it—or worse, tried pumping her for details. Nat's teasing made her feel almost normal.

Almost. There was still a void. A deep, dark blackness that had fear acidulating its edges.

Nat stopped at the front door. “You sure you don't want to know what Your Ex said to me?”

Kate closed her eyes. “Nat. Stop it. Please. I doubt he'd say much to a crime reporter.”

“Thanks a lot. I'm better than you think at weaseling out classified information.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kate. Seriously. Don't you want to know?”

“Jesus. What kind of friend are you?”

“A good one.”

Kate studied her. Nat's cocky demeanor had softened. “All right.”

“He told me to say hello.”

“What?” Kate stared at her. “How did he know that we were friends?”

“I told him.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I didn't want him to think I was biased. Which I am, but at least I'm honest about it.” She winked and strode through the door. “Pray for some murder and mayhem this weekend. I want to make the front page on Sunday.”

Kate closed the door behind her friend. The house seemed deflated, as if all its life force had fled on the nonexistent heels of Nat's flip-flops.

She wandered back outside again. Restlessness battled with fatigue. She did not want to think about her ex-fiancé. But Nat had practically thrown him in her face.

She wondered what Ethan's reaction had been when
Nat told him she was friends with Kate. Probably the same as hers. Dismay. Discomfort.

Pain.

Yes, she was over Ethan. No, she did not have any regrets. At least, not about ending their engagement. She did regret the manner in which it ended. New Year's Eve was ruined for her now, that was for sure.

She also regretted causing Ethan more pain when he visited her in the hospital.

She wondered what, if anything, Ethan regretted.

Two houses over, in the student flats, a Natal Day party was just getting warmed up. She sighed. It would be a noisy evening.

When the phone rang, she started, her wine sloshing over the rim of the glass onto her fingers. Would that nervous reaction ever go away?

“Hey, Kate, we're just leaving the Lower Deck,” her friend Joanne shouted over the background noise of the waterfront pub. Kate could hear a Gaelic band repeating a rousing chorus with the raucous support of its audience. “We've added a few more to our numbers and are heading up to the Economy Shoe Shop. Are you ready to come?”

A hoot of laughter echoed across her lawn. What was there for her to do tonight?

Just the case reports.

That was too pathetic for words. “Sure.” She tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.” She put down the phone. She wasn't going to sit at home and wallow. Not anymore.

She'd had a taste of her mortality. She was seizing
life with both hands. Carpe diem and all that crap. And maybe she'd wear away through sheer exhaustion the imprint that Craig Peters had made on her soul.

Friday, 8:35 p.m.

E
lise sat on the edge of the bed and stared through the patio doors. Pink and mauve tinged the sky behind the hedges, promising a stunning sunset. The day was ending on one final, glorious note.

Not for her, though.

After the blowout to end all blowouts with Randall, no one had been in the mood for a crustacean feast. They'd postpone it until tomorrow, Elise had told the kids with a forced brightness, when they all felt less tired from the trip. Lucy had nodded, her eyes mute with reproach and pain. Nick said nothing.

They ordered take-out pizza, ate it in the briefest of minutes, then embarked on an unenthusiastic walk-through of the main floor of the house. One peek down the basement stairs and the kids realized, with some disappointment, that the basement was in its original unfinished state. Even from the top of the basement stairs, the must was noticeable. A teen retreat was not to be found anywhere in the house.

Bedrooms were assigned, bags carried up the stairs, then Lucy asked if she could check out the shampoo-filled fountain. Nick sullenly agreed to accompany her.

Elise escaped into the master bedroom. She desperately needed to make a phone call.

This is the last time,
she told herself. She'd called Jamie during the trip, unsure of how to manage Nick's refusal to go sailing with Randall. It had been the first time she'd spoken to him in several weeks. Ever since her abortion, she'd been trying to wean herself from Jamie, from the therapy.

He, of course, sensed it, understood it.
It's grief, Elise. And guilt. It's natural, it's to be expected. Just remember I'll be waiting for you.

But she wasn't sure she'd come back. The sex with Randall—and its aftermath—had shaken her. She saw now that her feelings for her ex-husband were deep and unending, an underground river twisting through the cavern of her heart.

Was she capable of truly loving another man knowing that this river had a seemingly infinite source?

She'd wanted to ask Jamie, as her therapist, how to cope with her feelings for Randall. But she couldn't. She was scared she'd hurt her lover's feelings.

And when she discovered she was pregnant three weeks after Randall's visit, she was glad she hadn't said anything. It was Jamie, not Randall, who was there for her. He was the one who had listened to her fears: Would she have an unhealthy baby because she was now in her forties? How could she cope with being a single parent with two teenagers and a baby? And, the fear
that terrified her the most: Would she develop another debilitating case of postpartum depression? It had been bad with Nick. It had been even worse with Lucy. She couldn't take it again.

They both agreed the wisest, safest course was to terminate the pregnancy.

She still believed it had been the right decision. But she hadn't appreciated what she would feel afterward.

Guilt, grief, pain, sorrow. All compounded with hormones that went into overdrive.

That was two weeks ago.

This trip was her chance to get back on her feet. Figure out if she had a future with Jamie. But if she did, she didn't want to sneak around anymore. She'd tried that once before and it had been the most destructive thing she'd ever done.

She wanted to be better than that.

But it was so hard to be the woman she wanted to be when she was with Randall. He'd left her with so much baggage that when he showed up unannounced today she hadn't had time to prepare herself. He had caught her off guard.

And he had reduced her to a woman that she despised. She hated that he could do that to her. She hated that she let him.

The worst thing was that until the kids were adults, she would always have some communication with him. Like this weekend. They still hadn't made arrangements about Lucy going to riding camp. Randall would have to drive her there, since Elise had to take Nick to his camp, which was two hours out of the city.

How could they get past today? How could they get past June? Or the abortion?

She needed to talk to Jamie.

She pressed her cell phone to her cheek, closing her eyes as his number rang. On the second ring, Jamie answered. “Elise.” His voice was soft, gentle in her ear.

“Hi.” The word practically exhaled out of her mouth in relief.

“How are you? Are you in Halifax yet?”

She swallowed. “Yes. We arrived a few hours ago.”

“Everything okay?” As usual, he picked up on the tone of her voice.

“No,” she whispered. “No, it's not.”

She told him the whole sordid story.

“The kids have witnessed enough conflict,” he replied. “You and Randall need to behave like caring parents, instead of attacking each other in front of them. Show Randall you can take control of this situation—call him first.”

It seemed like exactly the right thing to do when Jamie laid it all out. Elise felt empowered, a rare emotion when dealing with her ex-husband.

“How are you feeling, anyway?” Jamie's voice dropped, became more intimate.

“I've been better.” Elise tried to laugh but she couldn't.

“Listen, I know you're trying to avoid sleeping pills—and I think that's a good call. But maybe you should take one tonight. You haven't been sleeping well. You're still recovering from your procedure.”

“Oh, Jamie, I don't think so.” Elise rubbed her temple with her hand. “I don't want to rely on pills to sleep.”

“I understand. I'm not suggesting you take them every night. But you told me you've barely slept the past few days. It might be worth thinking about. I'm worried about you.” His tone changed. “Regardless, I think you'd feel a lot better if you called Randall tonight. Get it over with. That might help you sleep.”

“You're right.” She exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

“And remember, Elise, you can call me any time. I'm here for you.”

“Thank you. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know how I make out.”

“You do that. You know where I am. Love you.” His last words startled her. He didn't usually say stuff like that on the phone. Guilt squeezed her heart. She knew she should say she loved him, too. But she didn't know what she felt.

“Talk to you tomorrow,” she said.

Then, before her courage could fail her, she called Randall. He listened to her spiel with barely controlled impatience. Her carefully planned words fell flat.

Finally, he said, “Is that it?”

“We need to talk about this,” she said. She fought hard to keep her voice from trembling. “Can you come over?”

He hung up.

She sprang to her feet and walked onto the balcony. It was long and narrow, running the back length of the house. A decorative wrought-iron rail provided an airy contrast to the stone terracing of the garden spread out below.

Twilight crept over the rock-studded edges of the
walls below her. The terracing looked quite stunning at this time of day, full of deepening shadows that pooled, dark and mysterious, from the rock walls.

Why had she listened to Jamie?

She'd humiliated herself.

The wrought iron under her fingers had been warmed by the sun, roughened by the elements. It was exactly how she'd hoped she'd feel by the end of her vacation: her inner strength renewed, her body buffed by the sun and salt air.

Goddamn him.

A profound sense of aloneness settled around her.

Cathy had done a lovely job terracing the garden, she thought. Tears slid down her face.

 

Kate riffled through her closet. One item caught her eye, standing out from all the suits and running clothes, the price tag still attached to the neckline. It was a flirty little summer dress in an outrageous shade of cherry red, bought one rainy Saturday afternoon when Nat had dragged Kate to her favorite shopping haunts in Halifax. She slipped it on. It felt cool, chic. Hip, even.

She put on sandals, lipstick. The color on her lips was vibrant, but it mocked the dark shadows under her eyes. She dabbed on concealer, a new but necessary accessory since May, and gave herself a critical once-over. Her eyes still looked tired. She added a streak of gold eye shadow, feeling ridiculously glam, but liking the way it caught the amber lights in her eyes.

But more than her eyes glinted in the light. She peered at a few strands of hair. No. She wasn't going gray yet. The sun had merely given her brown hair a few honey-
gold highlights. All in all, she would do. She grabbed a thin cardigan, and hurried down the stairs.

Eighteen minutes later, a cab dropped her off at the end of Argyle Street. She strolled toward the Economy Shoe Shop. People spilled out of chic bars and even chicer restaurants, relaxing on the patios that were created for Halifax's brief yet glorious summer. She breathed in the fresh, warm air. Part of her wanted to linger, to enjoy the brief caress of summer. The other part was eager to immerse herself in the chatter and laughter of her friends. And crowd out the flashbacks that would pounce on her when she left her mind unguarded.

She pulled her cardigan around her shoulders and hurried past the final patio that jutted into the sidewalk. A lone figure caught her eye. He was sitting with his back to the street, his hands clasped around a whiskey glass, but Kate recognized the thick shoulders. The blond hair. The rugged jawline that was unusually rigid as he stared into the amber liquid.

What was Randall Barrett doing on the first night of his vacation staring into a glass of booze?

She hesitated. Should she say hello?

Hell, no.