Remember to Forget (39 page)

Bart stepped into the doorway from the kitchen, his apron skewed and decorated with splotches of marinara sauce, his large hands encased in sudsy rubber gloves. He beckoned Maggie over, and she wove her way through clusters of guests.

Bart nodded toward the beverage cart in the corner. “We’re running low on coffee. Wren went up to take something for her headache, and
I don’t know beans about this big coffee maker. Do you know how to work the thing?”

Maggie spread her hands. “I haven’t a clue, but I’ll run up and ask Wren.”

He nodded and went back to his dishes.

Maggie raced up the stairs and knocked on the door to the Johannsens’ apartment. “Wren?”

No response. She knocked again, louder. “Wren? Are you there?”

She heard footsteps in the apartment, and a moment later Wren opened the door.

“Are you feeling okay? Bart said you had a headache.”

“Oh, nothing a couple aspirin won’t cure.” Wren put a hand up to her temple. “Is everything under control down there?”

Maggie gave a nervous laugh. “Mostly. We’re out of coffee, and Bart and I didn’t know how to work that coffee maker.”

Wren smoothed her apron. “Hold down the fort for a minute. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay . . . thanks.”

Wren did an imitation of Trevor’s comical salute. Maggie laughed and closed the door. She took the stairs back down two at a time.

The lobby was still buzzing with conversation and strains of Mozart, but the chatter quieted as she crossed the lobby, as if they expected another announcement. Near the fireplace, two couples occupied the sofas, and a man was seated in the wingback chair with his back to her. She smiled, and the group resumed their conversations.

Maggie noticed one of the candles in the fireplace had tipped in its holder, and she walked over to set it aright. When she straightened, her eyes locked with the man in the wingback chair.

“Hello, Maggie. Or is it Meg?”

The blood siphoned from her face. She balled her hands into fists, clenching her fingers until the nails dug into flesh. She fought for enough air to breathe his name.

“Kevin.”

His laughter chilled her, bringing back memories she’d almost succeeded in burying.

Chapter Forty-Two

W
hat . . . what are you doing here?”

Kevin Bryson, dressed in a white shirt and tie—his office attire—fit right in with the evening guests. His sandy hair was cut shorter than he usually wore it, but other than that, he looked instantly familiar.

He glanced at the couple on the adjacent sofa. They were engrossed in conversation together, and he turned back to Maggie, lowering his voice. “The question is, what are
you
doing here?”

“I-I want you to leave,” she whispered.

He laughed, as if she’d made a terribly clever joke. His smile remained, and anyone else would have thought they were having a pleasant conversation, but she knew the hardness that came to his eyes all too well. “That’s exactly what I plan to do. Go get your things.”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes never wavered from hers. “Get your things. I’m taking you home . . . back to New York.”

“No, Kevin. I’m not going. Please. Just leave.” She clenched and unclenched her fists at her side. The buzz of conversation in the room had grown to a low roar in her ears.

Kevin’s gaze made a furtive pass over the people nearby before he spoke. His tone was even, conversational. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”

Maggie cast frantically about the room. If she argued, he’d make a scene and ruin the whole evening. She would die before she’d let him do that to Bart and Wren.

Wren hadn’t yet come downstairs, and she could hear Bart’s and Trevor’s voices and laughter in the kitchen as they washed dishes.

“I’ll talk to you later, but I’m busy right now.” Maggie knew the minute the words left her mouth that they would infuriate him. She wouldn’t have dared to speak to him that way six weeks ago.

Remaining in a bent position, he eased from the wing chair to the sofa. He reached for her wrist and squeezed until she winced. His expression never changed. Anyone watching them might have thought he held great affection for her. It was a technique he’d perfected. One he could use to keep her in control when they were in public.

“Please, Kevin.” She glanced to the street outside, then panned the room. No one seemed to notice anything amiss. “Come outside for a little bit. We can talk out there.”

He eyed her suspiciously, then let go of her arm and unfolded himself from the sofa. “Fine.” He walked to the door and held it open for her. The picture of chivalry.

But once they were outside, his nice-guy grin turned to a sneer. “What exactly are you trying to prove?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything. This has nothing to do with you.” She backed down the sidewalk, trying to get out of view of the inn’s front windows. Looking through the windows to the festive lights and
activity inside, she wondered if anyone would notice she was gone.

It was nearly dark outside now. She back-pedaled some more, still attempting to draw him away from the inn.

He followed her, jabbing a finger at the empty air, accusing. “You walked out on me. Without saying a word. What—you couldn’t tell me you wanted to leave? We couldn’t talk about this like two adults?”

“I
tried
to talk to you. Many times. You wouldn’t listen. And you . . . you had me so dependent on you there wasn’t any way I
could
leave.”

He swore and looked back toward the inn. “Seems to me you managed just fine.”

“You don’t understand. I-I got carjacked. Things were all messed up that day. I didn’t know what to do. I was scared and I—”

“What, you couldn’t call me?” His voice escalated, building to a fury she’d seen more times than she cared to count. “You had to make me come looking for you?”

When he got this way, there was no reasoning with him. She willed her own voice down an octave and measured out her words. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”

But he seemed not to have heard her. He paced, zigzagging the breadth of the sidewalk, kicking at pebbles and mashing the heel of his dress shoes into the concrete. He buried his hands deep in the pockets of his pants. “Is there a liquor store in this town?” He motioned to the curb. “Come on. Come with me. I need a drink. We can talk in the car.”

For the first time she noticed the Honda parked at the end of the block.

“No. I have a party to go to.” Her words sounded silly and incongruous. But she didn’t owe him any explanations. He had no right to come here after her. “I’m going back inside.” Hands trembling, she willed courage into her voice. “And you need to leave.”

He didn’t respond but stood in front of her looking more shocked than angry.

Taking advantage of the distraction, she started around the side of the building. Maybe if she used the back hallway entrance, no one would notice she’d been gone. She could slip into the utility room and compose herself. She envisioned Kevin standing back there, blank surprise on his face. How had she lived with that man for two years? What a fool she’d been.

“Maggie! Get back here!”

Hearing his voice behind her, she quickened her steps.

Her hand was on the warm metal of the doorknob when his fingers closed around her wrist. He pressed his body against her. “I said, let’s go get a drink.”

She squirmed and turned to face him, her back pressed against the door. “No. I’m going inside.”

He swore again and wrenched her forearm. Hot pain shot up her arm and through her elbow. “Stop! You’re hurting me.”

“No kidding.”

His laughter chilled her, bringing back memories she’d almost succeeded in burying. “And you don’t think you hurt me when you left?”

The doorknob pressed painfully into the small of her back. She winced. “I’m sorry. I-I should have talked to you.” She hated herself for groveling before him.

“Well, it’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?” His voice had taken on that patronizing tone she’d learned to loathe.

Her thoughts tumbled over one another, as she tried to think how she could persuade him to go. She had to get him out of here before he made a scene and ruined everything.

Forcing a calm she didn’t feel into her voice, she tried another tact. “I’m sorry. Can we talk about this tomorrow? You can come back then, when things aren’t so busy here and—”

“No! Stop talking.” He glared at her. “You think I’m going to fall for that? Come on—” He grabbed her arm and dragged her away from
the door. “Get in the car.” He shoved her in the direction of where the Honda was parked.

Maggie was at a loss for how to handle him, but one thing she knew. She was
not
getting in that car with him. She started to run back toward the front entrance to the inn, but he caught up with her and grabbed her by the arms. She tried to scream, but he clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Shut up!”

She let her body go limp and sagged to the hard earth at the edge of the sidewalk. She grappled free from his hold. “Help! Trevor! Somebody!”

Music and laughter drifted from the inn. Maggie knew they hadn’t heard her.

Kevin came at her again. She kicked at his legs, and when he faltered, she scrambled to her hands and knees, scuttling like a crab toward the door to the inn. He tried to tackle her, but she rolled out of his grasp and struggled to her feet.

He came after her, and she started running, blindly, the only direction she could go—away from the inn. She had to get back. Maybe she could outrun him and circle back. The man had tracked her halfway across the country. If he was willing to do that—She shuddered, not keen on exploring that train of thought.

He closed in on her and dove to tackle her again. He clipped her heels, and she stumbled, catching the heel of her sandal in her hem. The fabric ripped and her hem sagged. She cried out but kept sprinting along the grassy space between the sidewalk and the street.

The river
.

The words echoed in her head the way they had when she’d fled New York. That soft breath of a voice in her ear—there, yet not there. And then that same mysterious urgency to heed its instruction.

Go to the river.

The banks of the Smoky Hill had become her special place. To walk. To think. And of course to spend time with Trevor. If she took a
shortcut through the alley, it was a twelve-minute walk from the inn to the roadside park by the river. She’d timed it on several occasions when she and Trevor met there to walk. If she ran, she might be able to make it in eight. She knew that short stretch of the river—its shallow coves and overhanging branches.

She looked up. The sky had darkened to indigo now. She’d never been to the river after dark, but Kevin wouldn’t know the way. She’d be safe there.

She broke into a sprint and turned down the alley. Looking over her shoulder, she discovered he wasn’t following. He was standing there. Just watching her.

Gathering up her ripped skirt as she ran, she slowed to a jog, breathless and trembling. She glanced over her shoulder again. Maybe he’d given up. But she wasn’t going back to find out. Not yet. She would go to the river.

She came out of the alley and turned down Pickering Street, leading north, out of town.

Headlights blinked from a side street as she passed. She slowed, waiting for the vehicle to cross Pickering. But she froze as she recognized the car.

Kevin’s white Honda. And him glaring behind the wheel.