Читать книгу The Cost of Silence - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 10

RED KNEW HER HOME ADDRESS, of course. Lewis had provided it in the packet of contracts and other legal odds and ends. It was a small second-floor apartment in a white concrete block building. Nice porch from which you might, if you were about ten feet tall, catch a postage stamp–size glimpse of the Pacific in the distance.

The landlord didn’t exactly kill himself with the yard care, letting a few rock gardens and one stringy hibiscus suffice as landscaping. But he seemed to keep up with the paint and repairs pretty well, which helped.

It wasn’t a crummy address, but of course it was on the “wrong” side of town, which meant not on the water. Windsor was a small pocket beach about an hour south of San Francisco, one of the few little towns that didn’t even try to be artsy. The low bluffs, sandy beach and warm water had originally attracted the retirees who wanted to be left alone, and now the old guys were constantly at war with the Chamber of Commerce, which wanted to attract more paying tourists.

Two categories of people lived in Windsor Beach year-round. One—those retired, relaxed rich people. And two—the housekeepers, waiters, shop owners and repairmen who facilitated their cushy existence. About twenty-five hundred people, all told.

Red had been waiting across the street for the past hour. He hoped Bill Longmire wouldn’t be stopping by tonight, but he’d bought all the extra coverage the rental agency offered, in case.

The western sky had taken on a deep pink tinge before Allison finally drove up in her Honda. As soon as she parked on the tiny asphalt driveway, he opened his own door and called her name.

She didn’t seem to hear him. She got out slowly, stuffing her sneakers into her purse and taking a minute to rub and flex her arches. She still had on her striped uniform. She must have worked all day. No wonder her feet hurt.

She put her purse on the hood, then crossed to the passenger side of the backseat and leaned in. Oh. Right. He really wasn’t thinking very clearly about this whole thing, was he? He’d forgotten she probably would have the baby with her.

Victor’s son. The birth certificate listed the baby’s name as Edward James York. Mother, Allison Rowena York. Father, a blank line.

As she pulled the lumpy bundle out of its car seat, Red steeled himself not to react. He’d been around enough kids to know it wasn’t likely he’d recognize Victor’s features in the face of a three-month-old. His brother Matt’s little girl was the spitting image of her mom, Belle. But that hadn’t happened until she was…maybe two. His friend David Gerard’s son, same thing. At three months, babies all still looked as if they’d been hastily molded out of Play-Doh.

He called her name again, and she turned, tucking the baby’s blanket under her chin so that she could see. What was left of the fading light was right behind him, and she squinted, trying to make him out.

After a fraction of a second, she stiffened. He’d expected that. If he had asked for her phone number while she was serving him a sandwich at the café, she might have refused to give it, but she wouldn’t have been freaked out. Probably happened to her all the time.

But a customer showing up out of nowhere, clearly having tracked her to her home…that was stalker territory. He had decided to risk it because he suspected she wouldn’t agree to talk to him if she knew who he was. Still, he hoped she didn’t have pepper spray and an impulsive trigger finger.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you privately. I’m Red Malone. I’m the guy who—”

“I know who you are.” Frowning, she pressed the bundle of baby closer to her chest. The kid whimpered, as if she held on too tightly. “What do you want? Is it about Bill?”

“No.” He smiled. “No, our insurance companies are handling that fine. My car’s already been towed to San Francisco and put on the lift. I’m actually here about something else.”

“Really?” She still looked suspicious. “What?”

He glanced around. The street wasn’t exactly crowded, but the April weather was balmy, the kind that made people open all the windows to let the breeze blow through. Anyone could be listening. “It is personal. Is there somewhere we might talk privately?”

Her eyebrows drove together, and she took a step backward. She clearly thought that was pushy as hell.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Malone. I’m not sure how you got my address, or what you think we have to talk about. But I don’t know you. I certainly am not going to invite you into my home.”

“Please, call me Red,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know it seems strange, but I promise you I’m not some creep who followed you home from the café. I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend. It’s important.”

At that her eyes widened. The setting sun lit their honey-brown depths. It also pinked her freckled cheeks and full lips. The effect was amazing, and he felt a purely male reaction that he clamped down on instantly. Panting like a pervert wouldn’t be at all helpful in the I-am-not-a-creep department.

“A mutual friend?” Her voice sounded tight, as if her breathing had accelerated. Her nostrils flared subtly. It looked a little like anger. He wondered who she thought he meant. Was it possible she’d already begun to suspect the truth?

The baby began to fuss and wriggle, as if he reacted to his mother’s emotions. She dropped a kiss on top of the blanket to soothe him, then looked at Red. “What are you talking about? What mutual friend?”

Okay, moment of truth. He met her gaze squarely. “Victor Wigham.”

She lifted her chin, but not before he saw the contempt that flickered behind her eyes. “Victor Wigham is not my friend.”

“Okay. That might be the wrong word.” Red tried to remember that he’d been chosen for this task because he supposedly understood how to be diplomatic. “But, as I understand it, he was the father of your child.”

She didn’t even blink. “And since that fact doesn’t seem to interest Victor in the least, I’m afraid I don’t see how it could possibly interest you, either, Mr. Malone.”

Red hesitated. She was using present tense when she mentioned Victor, just as he sometimes found himself doing. But why? He was struggling with grief, but clearly she had no affection for the man who had fathered her child.

Which had to mean…she didn’t realize Victor had died.

Hell. That complicated things. For some reason, he’d taken it for granted that she knew. But how? The Wighams owned a vacation house here in Windsor Beach, but they kept it rented out, so they wouldn’t be considered locals. His obituary wouldn’t even have made it into the back pages of the Windsor Beach Bulletin.

And obviously the “other woman” wasn’t likely to be mentioned in the will. So unless she kept tabs on him via the internet, how would she have found out?

The baby sneezed. She pulled the blanket up, covering the last inch of downy forehead that had still been visible. “I’m afraid I need to get Eddie inside. It’s too chilly for him. So if you don’t mind—”

“Allison.” He decided to say it. “Victor died two months ago.”

Her body froze in place, but a dozen different micro-expressions swept across her face. Surprise, definitely. And…could that have been fear? Anger? Something negative…but it all happened too fast. He would have loved to capture the display in slow motion, so that he could decipher even half of them.

When the baby began to cry, she blinked, and all visible emotions disappeared.

“I see,” she said. She picked up her purse with her free hand and gestured toward the stairs. “Then I guess you’d better come in.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Allison still hadn’t recovered from the shock. She had gone through the motions of playing hostess, getting Red a cup of coffee—two sugars, no cream—and inviting him to sit while she changed Eddie and put him in bed.

Thankfully, Eddie was exhausted and fell right asleep. Afterward, she stood at her bedroom door for a couple of frozen seconds, still numb and reluctant to emerge. Her mind wasn’t working. She couldn’t think where to begin.

She wasn’t sure why the idea of Victor’s death bothered her in the first place. She’d long since accepted that he wouldn’t be a father to Eddie. But obviously somewhere, buried very deep, the hope had lingered that someday he might wonder what he’d missed. That he might find his son and try to make up for lost time.

But now her son truly did not have a father. And never would.

She had to go out there. She could see enough of the living room to know that Red had picked up a magazine. He leaned back, comfortable and relaxed on the scratchy plaid sofa.

That kind—the completely confident kind—always claimed their personal space with ease. Victor had looked equally at home on that sofa. Fat lot that had meant, in the end.

She couldn’t stall forever, though. So she straightened her spine and walked down the hall.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem.” He half stood, maybe because his mom had raised him right, and maybe only to set down the magazine on the coffee table. “I learned a lot about fat-free casseroles.”

She bought some time by circling the living room, turning on the lights to banish the twilight gloom. Then she sat on the opposite sofa and folded her hands in her lap.

“So, what happened?” she asked. “To Victor.”

Red leaned forward, his hands dangling near his knees. He looked sober, but under complete control. She couldn’t tell from his manner how close he and Victor might have been.

“Throat cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, more or less. He didn’t tell any of us until about six months ago.” He seemed to be watching her closely. “I take it he didn’t tell you, either?”

“Victor and I haven’t spoken for at least that long,” she said. “But, no. He didn’t tell me he was sick.”

She worked to keep her expression neutral, too. They were like two poker players, neither willing to give the other an iota of advantage.

But her mind was racing. About a year ago…that would have been close to the time she met Victor. He’d been a regular at her dad’s restaurant. He’d clearly been sad—a bad divorce, he’d told her. And she had been keeping a death vigil on the restaurant. On the night she closed the restaurant doors for good, she and Victor had finally made love.

She wondered whether he had known about the cancer then. She wondered whether his sickness had anything to do with his leaving her.

Not that it was an excuse. Sick or not, he shouldn’t have walked away without a word. Their relationship had lasted about five weeks. They hadn’t been in love—they’d both known that. They were good friends who had helped each other through some tough times.

But you’re never too sick to call and tell a friend goodbye.

Besides, he’d sounded fine four months later, when she called to tell him about the baby. He’d sounded quite normal as he explained that he hadn’t been entirely truthful with her.

Not entirely truthful? Yeah. You might say that.

He was a married man with two children.

He’d apologized, of course. And he’d instructed his lawyer to send her a check. Not a huge one—enough to pay for the abortion he’d earnestly advised her to seek, and then a little cushion for “emotional distress.”

She’d torn up the check the day Eddie was born. And then she’d done the one thing she was truly ashamed of in this whole mess. She’d found Victor’s address and mailed the pieces back to him, along with a picture of Eddie. No note.

She’d never heard from him again.

So what was his emissary doing here now?

She was suddenly exhausted. She’d been up since six, after only three hours sleep. And Eddie had been waking up every couple of hours lately, as if he still didn’t feel quite right.

So whatever Red Malone wanted, he needed to get to the point.

“Victor made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with me, or with Eddie,” she said. “So I have to admit I’m a little confused. Why are you here?”

He moved forward. The light from the end-table lamp tilted the shadows, hiding one side of his face. “Because he asked me to come. He was—” He seemed to search for the correct word. “He was worried about you. He wanted me to give you something.”

“What?”

“This.” Red had been wearing a windbreaker, which he’d folded beside him on the sofa. He reached into the front breast pocket and pulled out a long, thin brown envelope. He opened it and pulled out a small, rectangular piece of paper.

“It’s a check,” he said unnecessarily, holding it out for her to take. “For you and your son.”

She accepted it without comment and took a moment to look it over. The amount surprised her. Twenty-five thousand dollars. That was a lot of money. Five times what he’d offered her to get rid of Eddie in the first place. But Victor’s name was nowhere on it.

“This is your check,” she said, holding it out for Red to reclaim. “Not Victor’s.”

He held up his hand, forestalling her. “It’s Victor’s money, though. He gave it to me with the understanding that I would give it to you.”

She smiled, though she could feel her pulse beating in her throat. “So you laundered it for him. How sweet. The two of you must have been very close.”

He understood how she felt now, she could see that. His eyebrows lowered over his blue eyes. “Yes,” he said. “It would be difficult to overstate Victor’s importance in my life. I’m close to his family, as well. His wife. His son and daughter.”

He waited a minute, as if to let that sink in, as if she might not have realized Victor had another family.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Cherry and Dylan.”

Red’s eyebrows went up. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Victor had told her their names, the day she called about the baby. He’d told her all about them. Cherry was much older, beautiful, ambitious and good at math. Dylan, who was starting to play soccer, was going through a difficult phase. Victor had wanted to make Allison understand. He’d been so sure she would see that his beloved legitimate children were far more important than any bastard child she might be carrying.

“Yes, Cherry and Dylan,” Red repeated. “They’re grieving right now. Obviously Victor didn’t want them to be hurt further by any…disturbing revelations. But he also wanted you and your son to be remembered. So yes, I was happy to help make sure no one got hurt unnecessarily.”

Clearly he wasn’t going to take the check back from her. She laid it gently on the coffee table between them. Then she folded her hands in her lap. She clenched them so tightly her knuckles went white.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” he said coolly, still watching her with that appraising look. “And yet, you don’t seem particularly impressed.”

“I’m not.”

He waited, apparently unfazed. She tried not to reach across the table and slap that smug arrogance from his face. He was so sure, wasn’t he? So sure he had her number. And that number, he assumed, was twenty-five thousand.

“Apparently you haven’t ever looked up the average cost of raising a child from birth to age eighteen, Mr. Malone. I have. Would you like to know what it is?”

He smiled. “About ten times that.”

“Exactly.” She sat back in her chair, though she didn’t allow her spine to touch the fabric. “So you’re correct. I’m unimpressed.”

He raised one brow. “You want more?”

“No, actually. I want less.” With effort, she kept her voice down, so that she wouldn’t wake Eddie. But God, she was mad. She was so hot, blazing angry. “I want less ingratiating B.S. I want less of your insulting, patronizing arrogance. This check isn’t a bequest, or a gift. This is a payment.”

“A payment?”

“Yes. Or rather, a payoff. I’m not an idiot, Mr. Malone. Victor never felt the urge to toss this kind of money my way before. Why now? What does he want? I’d be willing to bet the answer is in that nice envelope you’re holding. So why don’t you show me?”

The look he gave her now was odd—part contempt and part grudging admiration, as if she’d turned out to be a worthier opponent than he’d expected. She could feel his scorn, but in a strange way she was glad the poker faces were gone. The cards were on the table now, and the game was almost done.

With a cool smile, he opened the envelope and unfolded a sheaf of papers. He flattened them so that they could be more easily read, then extended them to her.

“It’s a confidentiality agreement. In a nutshell, he would like you to agree that you will not disclose to anyone that he is the father of your child. If you sign, you’ll also be agreeing to renounce any interest in the estate and relinquish any claim you may have to it.”

She took it. She gave it a cursory look, though the black squiggles didn’t even seem to form words in front of her fury-glazed stare.

Then she leaned over and picked up the check. She folded the check inside the papers, neatly. With an almost tender care.

And then she tore it all into pieces.

“Ms. York, I think you might want—”

As if it had been rehearsed, Jimbo chose that moment to come home.

He opened the door with his own key and blundered in, singing. His gorgeous, toned body was barely covered by his yoga pants, which rode low on his hips. He wore no shirt at all, displaying his colorful tattoos. At chest level, he held a pile of take-out boxes so high that only the spiky blond tips of his hair could be seen above the cartons.

“Hey, sugar lips. Lookee what Daddy brought home from Mamma Loo’s!”

Red Malone stared for a split second, and then, running his fingers through his hair, he began to chuckle darkly. “I see. The new meal ticket, I presume?”

“Hey.” Jimbo cocked his head around the food. He clearly didn’t like the tone. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m nobody. I’m gone.” Still smiling, Red stood. “No. Really.” He put his hand out to prevent Allison from rising. “Don’t bother. I can find my own way out.”