Kiss Me If You Dare (16 page)

Something had changed between Denton and me. Lately, he’d seemed somewhat possessive. I felt the bite of an invisible chain around my ankle. He wanted me to stay. He insisted I stay. And somehow that made me want to go. Made me want to find the truth behind the questions he refused to answer.

Only two more weeks left in the semester. Then a few weeks off before the next semester began. What could it hurt to take a quick trip back to Michigan and just see for myself what was going on? Then I’d zip back in time to start the next round of classes.

I met up with Denton in the kitchen as he fumbled to make a pot of coffee.

“Let me help,” I offered and poured water into the brewer. With a glance in his direction, I seized the opportunity to chat openly. “I’ve been thinking about going home. For a short visit.” I set the carafe on the burner and pressed the power button. “Just a week or so to see how everyone is doing.” I swallowed hard at the thought of Brad.

Denton pounded a fist on the counter. “Are you out of your mind?”

Water dribbled into the decanter, its gurgling filling the momentary silence between us.

“Why do you think I paid Jane to keep quiet? One word of your whereabouts and you might have been the one at the bottom of the cliff.”

“But Frank Majestic must be behind bars by now.” Majestic was the drug pin I’d accidentally crossed when I helped my friend Candice LeJeune try to make a clean break from her past. Unfortunately, I’d been somewhat responsible for the death of one of Majestic’s leading distributors, who also happened to be his son-in-law, and ended up hiding his daughter and grandkids at my log home in the woods. Needless to say, the man didn’t like me much.

“Even if they’d caught him, metal bars don’t stop men like him.” Denton’s eyes blazed red.

“So how long does a contract last? It’s been almost six months. They must have forgotten about me by now.”

“Until you’re dead, Patricia.”

My skin crawled. I glanced around the kitchen for eavesdroppers. “No offense, but when you call me Patricia, I feel uncomfortable. Could you just stick to calling me Alisha, even in private?”

“Perhaps now you’re beginning to understand the threat to your life.”

“Define life. If it means hiding out ’til I’m ninety years old and pretending to be someone I’m not, then I’m not impressed. Life and freedom should go hand in hand. This is America.”

“Perhaps you’d think otherwise if life meant a bullet lodged in your spine and paralysis from the neck down.”

I weighed the option. “I suppose there are worse things than death.”

“If you take my advice, you’ll never have to find that out for yourself.”

I put my fingers to my temples and took a deep breath. “You’re right.” Another breath. “It’s not so bad here. I’ve actually got it pretty good.” I looked at Denton’s strong chin and determined brown eyes.

He smiled, victorious, eyes crinkling in the corners, kind of like Brad’s.

“Good girl,” he said. “You’ll make it just fine.”

I stared at him, the steam from my coffee swirled in the shape of a question mark.

“Coming from you, that’s a high compliment.” I took my coffee with me and walked out.

Maybe it was just my gypsy blood churning, but I was suddenly sick of Cliffhouse. I was sick of Del Gloria. While my surroundings might imply I was a princess in a castle, the truth was, I’d failed here just like everywhere else. I was done letting Denton or anyone else have power over my emotions and my life. I’d make my own choices from here on out. I didn’t owe him any explanation. I could do what I wanted. What I felt was best for me.

And that meant going home. But Denton didn’t have to know that. I’d finish out the semester, then hop on a bus and be home in time for Christmas. Six months’ exile was long enough. I’d take two weeks’ vacation in Michigan, then head back to California in time to start classes and keep working on our renovation project. It would be like I never left.

The next week passed uneventfully. Denton’s eyes followed me more than usual, as if trying to read my mind. But I kept a relaxed look on my face, enjoying the peaceful days before my road trip, comforted in knowing that he couldn’t possibly guess my plans.

Two days remained in the countdown. I waited for the opportune moment to share my plans with Portia and Celia.

“Hey, guys,” I said, scraping stain remover goo from the floor planks, “Just wanted to let you know I’m taking a short trip. I’ll be back right after break.”

“Where are you going?” Celia’s clear voice asked from over by the front windows. She held her scraping tool, filled with slimy gook from the sills, suspended for a moment.

I looked away. “Back to Galveston for Christmas.”

“Got your phone call, huh?” Portia asked without pausing her work.

“Kind of. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m going.”

“Does the doc know?” This time Portia stared me down.

“No. And you’re not going to tell him.”

“Hmmm.” Portia’s body took on a “we’ll see about that” attitude.

“I mean it, Portia. Please don’t say anything. He’d be really upset.”

“Why? ’Cause you lied to him?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You just didn’t tell him the truth.”

“He can’t handle it.”

“Because he knows it’s not safe. If you didn’t get the phone call, then it’s not safe.”

“What’s going on here?” Celia tried to keep up with us.

I shook my head. “Nothing a few days in Mi—” I stopped before I said the word, “—Texas won’t solve.”

Portia stood, hands on hips. “Come here. We have to talk.” She grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to the tiny back bedroom. The door crashed closed behind us. She practically pinned my arms to the wall. “I know who you are.”

19

My heart skipped a beat. “Alisha Braddock. I’m Alisha Braddock.” I hoped the more I said the name, the more convinced Portia would become.

She squinted in accusation, shaking her head. “Your name is Patricia Louise Amble. You’re from Walled Lake, Michigan. You were the first ever convicted of assisted suicide in the state. You were a suspect in the murder of some guy named Martin something, but they let you go without charges. And the cops in Michigan want you for murder one, grand theft auto, and leaving the scene of a crime. Did I forget anything?”

My eyes felt like saucers in my head. “How do you know all that?”

“Come on, Alisha, Patricia, whoever you are. It’s the information age. You just have to know where to look.” She put her hands on her hips. “Okay, I confess I had Koby check into it. And if he got the info that easily, so could anyone else. Am I right?”

“So—,” I gulped, “what do you want? Money or something?”

She turned away in frustration. “I can’t believe you’d think that. I’m your friend. I want you to be safe. Believe me, if it was money I was after, I could have sold the information a month ago.”

I looked around, dazed. “I guess so. Didn’t know there were warrants out for my arrest. Denton said he took care of everything for me. Covered my tracks. I figured he must have explained what happened and everyone understood and let it go.”

“You’ll be surprised to hear that you’re also dead. Funeral and everything. Maybe that cancels out the warrants.” “Dead? Are you serious?” I giggled, then sobered as I digested the information. “If you and Jane both know who I am, other people probably know too. How safe am I here?”

Her face was blank. “I don’t have an answer for that. But I have a few ideas how you can get off that hit list.”

From the other room came the sound of glass breaking. Then a scream.

“Oh no.” Portia raced into the hallway.

I followed behind. Air rushed past as we staggered down the hall toward the sound. Then came the whoosh of an explosion.

“Celia!” Portia’s voice came from just ahead, but flames and smoke blinded me. I kept one hand on the wall as a guide.

Celia’s cries came shrill from across the room. “Help! I’m on fire!”

Orange blazed over the floor and up the windows, fueled by the chemicals we’d been using. Through eyes burning with heat and smoke, I watched Portia make a dive toward Celia’s chair. But flames drove her back, gasping and slapping fire from her own clothing.

“The tarp! Grab the tarp!” Portia crouched to the floor and crawled through the thick haze toward the kitchen. Right behind her, I snatched a corner of the cotton painter’s cloth she thrust toward me and scooted back into the mayhem.

Celia’s screams of agony and fear filled our ears, mixed with the deafening roar of the inferno.

“Hurry!” Portia pulled the fabric out of my hands as she made the rush toward Celia and threw the cloth over her frail body, crouched and burning in the wheelchair. Portia patted out flames where she could, even while her own clothing caught fire. She grabbed the handles of the chair and pulled it toward the hallway and the back of the house.

Another crash of glass as a second bomb, what looked like a bottle stuffed with burning gauze, hurled through the back door and exploded, blocking our escape.

“We’re trapped. Get to the bedroom, quick!” Portia’s orders kept me from dropping into a useless heap on the floor.

We pushed through the blinding smoke toward the tiny space.

Portia jammed Celia’s chair against the threshold. “It won’t go through.”

A moan came from beneath the charred tarp.

“Thank God she’s still alive.”

I heard Portia, though I couldn’t see her through the smoke. I dropped to the floor for a breath of air. Through heat-singed lids, I caught a glimpse of Portia. Hair had melted like a helmet to her head. One cheek was black and oozing. Her palms were blistered from the heat of the chair handles. Smoke came in puffs from her clothing. Portia’s burns spurred me to action. “We have to get out of here.”

I yanked the wheelchair from the doorway and squeezed through, pulling Portia behind me. Her vacant eyes told me she was heading into shock. I left her on the floor by the window and went back for Celia, still wrapped in the smoking tarp. I dragged her by the feet onto the floor. Her head made a thud as it hit the wood.

“Sorry,” I muttered, tugging her dead weight across the planks. My lungs were at the bursting point. I stretched out a leg and kicked the door closed, hoping to conserve oxygen. I crawled across the room and felt around for the window latch. A twist, then a push as I tried lifting the sash. But the years had left it swollen in place, like so many of the others we’d already repaired. I tore off my ragged cardigan and wrapped a fist in the cloth. My face instinctively turned away as my arm smashed the glass.

Smoke rushed outside as fresh air streamed in. I gasped for oxygen, feeling new energy with the momentary gust. But behind me, flames snuck through the gap beneath the door and spread up its panels, engulfing the corner of the room. I grabbed at Portia and nudged her toward the window. Her body seemed to move in slow motion as she lifted herself onto the sash. With a push of her toes, she was outside. Now it was Celia’s turn, but the lump beneath the tarp didn’t budge. I wrapped my arms around her bulk and tried lifting her through the window, but my arms were made more of jelly than sinew.

Lying on my back, I worked my feet underneath her chest and hoisted her headfirst toward the sash, using the same kind of airplane ride my mother used to give.

My legs were ready to give out when Celia jerked forward as someone pulled her swaddled body through the window to safety.

The fire had spread to the floor nearby. Above me, only choking black smoke. I tried to breathe, but my chest wouldn’t move. I closed my eyes and focused on the pinpricks of light that danced behind my lids. Soon the dots formed a face—a crinkly-eyed, laughing Brad. As blistering heat pressed against my skin, sadness swept through me. I’d never see that happy face in this world again. The dots moved and a light took shape. I relaxed, knowing that the pain to come would be fleeting. In a moment I’d be through the veil, meeting my maker, dancing for Jesus. The world spun beneath me, hurtling through the blackness of space, and I felt every revolution. Blood rushed through my ears, a steady
whoosh whoosh
. I waited for the sound to slow and eventually stop. Instead it grew more intense, gradually becoming a shrill
beep beep beep
. I opened my eyes. Through white haze, I realized I was in a hospital room. As my senses checked back in one by one, I detected an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. The beeping must be a heart-rate monitor, and the tender area on my arm must be the needle for an IV drip. But the oxygen—I took another deep breath— the oxygen tasted so wonderful and pure. It tasted like . . . life.

I was alive. I’d made it through. Somehow I hadn’t died in the fire.

A figure sat in a corner of the room. “Welcome back, Ms. Amble.” A man approached me.

Detective Larson wasn’t exactly the first person I’d wanted to see after my brush with death. But stuck in a hospital bed, I didn’t have much say in the matter.

I peered at him through lazy lids and let the oxygen mask do its thing. He’d obviously figured out my identity and was about to hammer the fact into my smokedamaged brain.

His lumbering form towered over the bed. “Lucky for you I put the pieces together in time. If I hadn’t ordered personal protection for you when I did, you’d probably be taking up space at Del Gloria Mausoleum instead of Del Gloria Memorial.” He chuckled like he’d just told a funny joke.

“See,” he continued, taking advantage of the fact I had a muzzle on, “in this day and age of computers, the human mind is still the smartest kid on the block. Computers can match faces and fingerprints, determine DNA, and look up criminal records. But it takes a real live person to noodle through the information and come up with four.”

His body shifted and his voice sped up. “Back in the fall, I had a good laugh when I read the report on the rooftop heroine and her stolen ladder. Never thought another thing about it. But when I saw the same girl at the scene of a murder, I couldn’t help but wonder, why her? What made Alisha Braddock the common denominator between the two crimes?”

The detective’s voice droned on like background music to my heart monitor.