Читать книгу Unlawfully Wedded - Kelsey Roberts - Страница 10

His eyes opened reluctantly, followed almost immediately by a telltale stab of pain in his lower back. Using his legs for leverage, J.D. hoisted his stiff frame to a sitting position. Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he squinted against the harsh rays of morning light spilling over a faded set of clashing curtains. Holding his breath, he listened for sound. Nothing.

He found a clock on the kitchen wall. Well, he decided, as he began a burglar-quiet search of the cabinets, it wasn’t really much of a kitchen. Hell, he added, feeling the frown on his lips, it wasn’t really much of an apartment.

Leaning against the counter, he surveyed the single room, feeling his stomach lurch in protest to the stark surroundings. Tory Conway appeared to be living one step above poverty. For some unknown reason, that rankled.

The single-serving coffeepot gurgled behind him. In the center of the room there was a card table with two mismatched chairs, their seats little more than shredded strips of faded vinyl. The computer sitting on top of the table was antiquated, probably five years removed from the sleek electronic notebook he had so casually brought along from Miami. The first stirrings of guilt did little to improve his mood.

He found a coffee cup on the drain board and actually smiled when he realized it was from the Rose Tattoo. A quick check of the drawers indicated that the utensils and most of the other items were also from his mother’s restaurant.

Mother. His grimace returned with a vengeance. What in hell had he gotten himself into? he wondered as he poured the coffee and took a sip. The liquid scalded his mouth. Why had he listened to Wesley? This little exercise in closure had turned into an unmitigated disaster. He wasn’t a preservationist. He was an architect. And a damned good one. No matter what the sassy little blonde sleeping in the other room thought.

Stifling the groan that rose in his throat, J.D. returned to the lumpy sofa, which had served as his bed, and grabbed the telephone. Pounding the keypad, he cradled the receiver against his chin as he took another sip of the too strong coffee.

“Hello?”

“Wes, it’s me.”

“Big brother?” came the groggy reply. “Do you realize what time it is?”

He hadn’t realized, but he didn’t feel the inclination to apologize. “Early.”

“No sh—”

“I’ve got a problem.”

He could hear the rustle of bed covers, and he could easily envision his brother groping on the nightstand for his round, metal-framed glasses. Wesley was one of those people who couldn’t hear without his glasses.

“You and mother aren’t relating well?”

That I-just-got-my-degree-in-psychiatry, inflection-free voice was enough to make J.D. grit his teeth. He was beginning to think Wes’s budding medical career was going to be a stiff pain in his rump.

“We aren’t relating at all,” he answered flatly. “But that isn’t the problem.”

“How can that not be a problem?” Wes countered.

“Because I have a more pressing problem with a body.”

“Oh.” Wesley snickered. “And is this body a blonde, brunette or redhead?”

“I’m serious,” J.D. insisted. “It’s a dead body. Deceased. Not living.”

“She was married and you did something rash?”

“Good Lord, Wes! I thought psychiatrists were supposed to be good listeners. You’re not hearing me.”

“You’re serious?” his brother asked, his tone indicating he had finally grasped the situation.

“Hell, yes,” J.D. answered, raking his hand through his hair. “And it looks like the body might be the father of the girl I told you about.”

“Woman.”

“What?”

He heard his brother expel one of those condescendingly patient breaths. “The person you described was a woman, not a girl. We’re talking about Victoria Conway, right?”

“Right.”

“The one with pretty blue eyes, an incredible mouth and boobs that—”

“Yes,” he growled.

“Hey,” Wesley continued. “You’re the one who told me you were astounded she didn’t fall facedown from the weight of those hooters.”

“Thank you,” J.D. managed to say tightly. “Forget what I said before. Fact is, the body I found might just turn out to be her father.”

He heard a low whistle before Wesley said, “Gonna be kind of tough to shaft the lady when she’s in the midst of burying Daddy, isn’t it.”

“No kidding,” J.D. admitted. “And I wasn’t going to shaft her. I was thinking more along the lines of a nice, quiet buyout.”

“Think she’ll be interested in doing business with a man who originally judged her by her bra size?”

“Wesley,” J.D. said from between clenched teeth. “I called for your advice, not a lecture.”

“Then you shouldn’t have confided all your observations about the lady’s physical attributes.”

“Brothers are supposed to confide things like that. It’s part of the male-bonding process.”

Wesley’s laugh was low and easy. It served as a vivid reminder to J.D. of their inherent differences.

“Careful, big brother. That sounded dangerously like an introspective moment. Not your usual style.”

“Finding skeletons in walls isn’t par for the course, either.”

“I don’t know,” Wesley began arbitrarily. “If you’re willing to come to grips with the skeletons in your closet, one more in the wall should be no sweat.”

“You aren’t helping.”

“What would you suggest I do?”

“Get your butt up here.”

“In good time,” Wesley announced. “That was the deal.”

“But things have changed since we struck that bargain,” J.D. said on a breath.

“And you can roll with the punches,” Wesley said easily. “I think this may turn out to be a very healthy experience for you.”

“Right,” J.D. grumbled. His coffee had gone cold and it left a bitter taste in his mouth as he forced himself to swallow. “If you came up here, you could deal with the girl. She needs someone like you.”

“That’s not what you said the other evening,” Wesley countered. “You indicated that one night in your capable arms would have her eating out of your hand.”

“I was wrong,” J.D. admitted. Hearing his own arrogant words made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s not what I thought at first.”

“Wouldn’t let you in her pants, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

OPENING HER EYES, Tory blinked against the confusion clouding her lagging brain. Her hand ran over the surface of the rumpled comforter. The movement caused her to feel the coolness of the sheets against her skin. Too much skin, she thought as she threw the bedspread toward her feet. “What?” she mumbled as she discovered she was wearing nothing but her bra and panties. The flame red garments stood out against the stark white sheets. With wide eyes, she allowed her gaze to dart around the room as she tried to pry memories from her brain.

Her fingers feathered her bangs as she concentrated. Recall came slowly. Pain, followed by so many emotions that she lost count. Her father was dead. Had been all these years. A small groan escaped her slightly parted lips.

Images from childhood mingled with bits and pieces of the scene she had waged in the Tattoo. Images of her parents, recalled through the eyes of a mere child. Images of being in J.D.’s arms, remembered by a lingering heat on her skin.

Tory stood on wobbly legs. Only then did she recollect Rose forcing several pills down her throat last night. At least she thought it was last night. Everything seemed to be trapped in a haze. Grabbing her short robe off the hook, she tugged it over her shoulders and yanked open the door. Her eyes collided with a set of gray ones.

“What...?” She managed to tear the word from her constricted throat.

“Good morning,” he said easily, unfolding himself from the sofa.

Her mouth remained open as she took in the scene. J.D. had a tousled, rugged look that cemented her to the spot. His dark hair was mussed, as if someone had been running their fingers through it. His shirt was open, and the edges pulled farther apart as he rose to his full height of well over six feet. Tory’s eyes fell to the thick, black curls and then lower, where they tapered and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Realizing too late that such a brazen appraisal might prove dangerous, she lifted her gaze to his. His expression was intense, his eyes narrowed to a glistening silver. Again she realized the error of her ways too late. She could feel his eyes as they took in the lacy edges of her bra, could feel them linger at the valley between her breasts.

Feeling her skin color the same deep red as her lingerie, Tory grabbed the edges of her belt, twisting her exposed body away from the scrutiny of his examination. She’d given him an eyeful, she thought ruefully as she tied the belt so tightly that it actually made each breath painful.

“I made another pot of coffee,” he told her, his voice deep and as smooth as smoke.

“Thanks,” she said, willing herself into composure. “What are you doing here?” she asked as she padded into the kitchen. The vision of his eyes followed, narrowed with interest and a purely dangerous glint.

“Rose didn’t think you should be alone.”

“So she left you here with me?”

Tory turned to find that his expression had changed. His eyes were still narrowed, but she saw flashes of barely leashed anger that stilled her stiff movements.

“Any reason Rose wouldn’t trust us together?” he asked, one dark eyebrow arched high.

“We aren’t exactly close,” she offered, hoping her voice sounded more calm than she actually felt.

“Not because I haven’t tried,” he returned as a lazy half smile curved one corner of his mouth.

Tory directed a heavy sigh toward her bangs. “Don’t start, J.D.”

He moved with a quickness and grace that belied his size. Suddenly he was in front of her, his broad, bare chest dominating her vision. “Believe me, doll,” he began in a low hum, “when I start on you, you’ll know it.”

His words burned against her ears and she fought the instinct to raise a hand and slap his arrogant face. But she decided to stand her ground. She would not react. It was, she had learned, her only weapon against this man’s blatant maleness. “Well,” she said, clearing her throat on the word. “As you can see, I’m fine, so you can just go crawl back under your rock.”

She smiled up at him, fighting the constriction in her throat when she looked at him through the thickness of her lashes. J.D. didn’t move. Not at all. He simply allowed his body to heat the air between them. Forced her to breathe in the scent of his skin. Power fairly radiated from this man. Power that Tory was only beginning to comprehend. One thing she knew, she realized as she struggled to hold his gaze, J. D. Porter was way out of her league. She surrendered, closing her eyes before lowering her chin fractionally.

“Thank you for staying,” she said after a drawn-out silence, punctuated only by the even sound of his breathing. Perhaps graciousness might accomplish her goal of dismissing this disturbing man.

“No problem,” he said as he slowly stepped back. The edge to his voice was still there, but it wasn’t quite as sharp.

Tory turned back to the sink, thinking how helpful it might be to douse herself with cold water. J.D. somehow managed to ignite small fires in every cell of her body. She reached up into the cabinet in search of a coffee cup. His sharp intake of breath was as thrilling as it was disquieting. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that the action, however innocent, had resulted in her flashing the big man a goodly amount of leg. She lowered her arm slowly, snidely hoping to give him a healthy dose of his own medicine.

With a cup of coffee in hand, she finally mustered the nerve to look at him again. The flash of anger was gone, all right, but it had been replaced by something even more devastating. Hunger—raw, passionate and definitely frightening. A small voice of reason chanted that saying about playing with fire as she bolted for the living room.

J.D. followed, his pace slow, but determined. It conjured visions of a predator stalking its prey. Tory wasn’t at all sure she could handle being this man’s quarry.

“Rose called earlier,” he said conversationally.

His calm, businesslike demeanor only made her more aware of her own raging pulse. The man was obviously some sort of machine. She’d seen him do this time and time again during the course of their short acquaintance. J.D. could be in a rage one minute, calm as a gentle breeze the next.

“I should call and apologize,” Tory said, tracing the top of her cup with her fingernail.

“For what?”

“Falling apart yesterday.”

“Appropriate under the circumstances,” he said as he turned one of her metal chairs and mounted it. His well-developed forearms rested against its back.

Her interest fell to his exposed stomach, wondering absently how those ripples of muscle would feel beneath her fingertips.

“Don’t you think?”

“Sorry,” Tory mumbled as her attention dropped to study a polyurethaned knot in the wooden floor.

“I said, I thought your actions were appropriate under the circumstances. That must have been quite a shock for you.”

“It was,” she admitted softly. “I still can’t believe he’s been there all this time.”

“Where did you think he was?”

Sitting at the table and tucking her bare feet under the hem of her short robe, Tory placed the coffee cup on the table. “I just always believed he’d suffered some sort of midlife crisis and bolted.”

“Leaving his loving wife and daughter behind?”

Tory peered up at him through her lashes, trying to gauge his sincerity. Unfortunately, J.D. had the perfect face for poker. It revealed absolutely nothing.

Her lids fluttered closed as she felt a swell of emotion grip her chest. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve hated him all these years. How many times I’ve wished him dead for what he did to my mother.”

“You didn’t know.”

Somehow his words failed to bring absolution.

“Mother,” she said, her eyes open and straining against her tight lids. “I’ve got to go out to Ashley Villas.”

“Where?”

“My mother’s home,” she said by way of explanation.

Tory deposited her coffee cup and turned toward the bedroom in a flurry of activity. It took several seconds for her brain to register the fact that J.D. hadn’t moved a blessed muscle.

“I don’t mean to be antisocial, Mr. Porter,” she said stiffly, “but I’ve got to go see my mother. Tell her...”

Nodding, J.D. rose and began buttoning his shirt. Tory refused to look, no matter how much she might want to.

“How long will it take you to get ready?”

“How long?” she gasped.

“Minutes? Hours? How long?”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know how soon to pick you up.”

“Why would you pick me up?”

“Because your car is still at the Rose Tattoo.”

“So,” she said, her voice faltering slightly. “I can grab the bus and pick it up.”

“No, you can’t.” J.D. dug into the front pocket of his jeans. Instantly she recognized her key ring as it dangled from his forefinger.

“Give me my keys,” she instructed, annoyance stiffening her spine.

“Can’t,” he drawled with an exaggerated sigh.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” he insisted, pretending to be hurt by her insinuation. “The doctor said you weren’t to drive for twenty-four hours after taking those pills.”

“Then I’ll make other arrangements,” she told him with a wave of her hand.

“Seems kind of stupid since I’m ready and able.”

But for what, exactly? her brain screamed. “I don’t think—”

“No thought required,” he said as he tossed her keys in the air, captured them in his big palm, then slipped them back into his pocket. “I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”

* * *

THE PURPOSE FOR the cold shower was twofold. First, J.D. hoped it might revive his sleep-deprived senses. But, more important, he was trying to cleanse the memory of her voluptuous body from his mind. Closing his eyes against the spray, his mind immediately brought forth the image of her pale skin...and the slope of her full breasts spilling over the lacy top of her bra. He didn’t have to touch the garment to know it was silk—like her skin. The vivid red lingerie set against her creamy skin reminded him of a ripe, red berry atop a snowdrift.

“God,” he groaned, earning himself a mouthful of cool, chlorine-scented water. He’d been too long without a woman. That was the only explanation for his body’s rigid and painful response to Tory.

He stepped from the shower, grabbed a towel and blotted the water from his skin. Droplets of water fell from his hair as he grabbed his razor. He was glad for a task that required his full attention.

J.D. vigorously towel dried his hair as he stepped into the master suite of his condo. Guilt tugged at his conscience as he paused to look at his surroundings. A king-size white rattan bed dominated the large space, with no fewer than three chests of drawers. There was a desk in the corner, his laptop lay open on it, gathering dust. His condo also included a living room, dining area and a kitchen that could have swallowed Tory’s entire apartment. His intellect reminded him that he’d had no way of knowing she would be a person of such modest means. But that knowledge didn’t seem to stem the surge of guilt as he tossed the towel into a pile of laundry that would be handled by the cleaning woman.

Selecting a fresh pair of jeans and a thin cotton shirt, J.D. tucked his wallet and keys into his pants pockets and took the stairs to the parking lot two at a time. He was greeted by a slap of humid air that barely fazed his well-conditioned body. The air in the red interior of his white Mercedes was stale before he flipped on the air-conditioning. He turned out into the midday traffic and tapped a disk into the CD player as he drove.

Ashley Villas. He repeated her words in his brain. It sounded like one of those golf and tennis communities that lined the southeastern seaboard like smooth shells. He tried to develop a mental image of Tory’s mother. The woman would probably be in her fifties and have a strong personality. He guessed she would be small, like her daughter, but more athletic than soft. Her skin would be wrinkled and weathered from too many trips around the back nine and not enough sunscreen. He grimaced, envisioning a brash woman wearing a white golf skirt and those funny little socks with the fuzzy little pastel balls that stuck out the back of her shoes. She was probably fiercely competitive. Tory was a fighter, that much he knew. That attribute was normally learned at home.

He frowned, suddenly realizing his thoughts were more suited to his inquisitive younger brother. Wesley was into analysis, not him.

Her apartment didn’t look much better in the light of day. It looked exactly like what it was—a garage converted into barely livable space.

She came through the door before he had an opportunity to kill the engine. Her dress forced a small smile to his lips. It fell far short of flattering, he mused as he watched her move toward him. It basically covered her from her throat to her ankles, a swirl of gauzy beige fabric designed specifically not to cling to her in any of the right places. His eyes fell to where her breasts strained against the material. He wondered if beneath that shapeless, colorless dress, she wore those wispy, sexy undergarments. His body responded uncomfortably to his imagination.

“You’re punctual,” she said as she slid in beside him.

“A regular Boy Scout,” he grumbled.

“Boy Scouts aren’t surly, as a rule,” she told him as she folded her delicate hands in her lap.

“Have much experience with Boy Scouts, do you?”

“Probably as much as you do.”

“I’ll have you know I almost made it to Eagle Scout,” he informed her, his chest puffed out slightly.

“Almost doesn’t count.”

His chest deflated. “I suppose not,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “Which way?”

“Take the Mark Clark.” She pointed north.

The expressway was crowded with minivans and trucks sporting business logos. But his attention was on the woman to his right. “You can relax, I won’t bite.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You don’t look it.”

“How can I not be relaxed? Sitting in this car is like sitting in your living room.”

“Not your living room, doll,” he promised her with a sidelong glance. “I slept on what you’ve got passing for a couch.”

“It serves its purpose,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

That small movement filled the interior of the car with the distinctive scent of gardenia. His mind immediately demanded to know if it was her soap, her shampoo or her cologne. Would he be able to taste it on her skin? Would he be able to keep his mind on the road long enough to prevent a ten-car pileup?

J.D. decided to concentrate on making polite conversation. “Did you call your mother to let her know you were coming?”

“It isn’t necessary.”

He sensed a tension in her voice that piqued his interest. “You two that close?”

“I love my mother.”

He realized instantly that she hadn’t actually answered his question. This from the woman who had not bothered to spare her tongue when it came to his strained relationship with Rose.

“Do you think she saw the newspaper?” he asked, nodding to the folded copy lying on the seat between them.

“No.”

“She’s not a reader?”

“No.”

“How do you think she’ll take the news about your father?”

“Calmly.”

His only hint that she wasn’t quite as composed as her limited answers implied was the sight of her hand as she played with the strands of wheat-colored hair sculpted around her slender throat. The tremor in her fingers was undeniable.

“You tense?”

“Tense?”

“Nervous? Agitated? Upset?”

She didn’t answer right away. He glanced over once, only to have his eyes fall on the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply through her slightly parted lips.

“I’m just not sure how Mama will handle the news.”

J.D. gripped the wheel a bit more tightly. “Her long-lost husband is dead. If she loved him, I’m sure she’ll be devastated.”

“What do you mean ‘if she loved him’?” Tory fairly shouted at him.

He saw the spark in her ice blue eyes and was glad to see some of the life come back to her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting his hands off the wheel in a brief gesture of mock surrender. “I just meant that it’s been, what? Fifteen years? Love and memories fade.”

She turned her head so that he could no longer get a fix on her expression.

“How about you?”

“How about I what?” she answered dully.

“How are you holding up?”

“Are you asking me if I read the newspaper article?” Tory asked, gesturing toward the paper between them.

“Yes.” He realized he was holding his breath, not certain why he had suddenly broached this potentially dangerous subject.

“I don’t believe everything I read in the papers.”

“Smart approach.”

“But,” she said as she turned, “if the police are correct in their early assessment of the case, my father didn’t desert me. He was murdered.”

“They weren’t clear on that point,” J.D. told her.

“One of them stated that there appeared to be a bullet wound in the skull—”

“But that they needed to run tests.”

She scooted closer to the door, as if she wanted as much distance between them as possible.

“I must admit, Tory,” he began in a deliberately soft, nonthreatening tone, “I’m astounded by your composure. If someone told me my father might have been murdered, I think I’d go ballistic.”

“As strange as this may sound, hearing their theory made me feel strangely comforted.”

“How so?”

“Because it means he didn’t choose to walk out of my life. It means he didn’t leave me.”

J.D. hated the effect her soft, almost choked, words were having on his gut. Feeling compassion for this woman was dangerous.

“Turn here,” she said as they approached an exit.

Silently, J.D. followed her instructions for the next several miles. The landscape was little more than swampy grasses and clusters of evergreens. Hardly an ideal sight for a golf and tennis community.

His eyes fixed on a wooden sign about a hundred yards down the road. It swayed gently on the currents of the passing cars, but he could still make out the bold, black print.

“Ashley Villas Convalescent Center?” he read aloud as he pulled into the lot, threw the car into park and killed the engine.

“None other,” she responded, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Your mother lives in a convalescent center?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered as she opened the door and stepped from the car.

Grabbing the folded newspaper, J.D. tucked it under his arm and then jogged to catch up to her. “You could have said something.”

“I did,” she responded without looking at him. “I told you I would have preferred coming alone.”

He inclined his head in respect as he held open one of the center’s shining glass doors.

“Tory!” a male voice bellowed down the otherwise silent corridor. Tory smiled wanely at the dark-haired man sauntering toward her. “I should have guessed I’d run into you here today. Tough thing about your dad.”

He watched as she accepted the huge hand from the man he guessed to be about fifty, though his physique belied his age. His clothes told J.D. two things—first, the guy definitely had bucks; and second, he dressed for the sole purpose of attracting women.

“Cal Matthews,” she said, almost as an afterthought, “This is J.D. Porter.”

The two men shook hands.

Tory continued, “Cal used to work for my dad.”

“Sorry I can’t stay,” Cal cut in, making a point of looking at the Rolex on his wrist, “but you know how it is.”

Tory nodded. J.D. wanted to question her about the guy, when a plump nurse approached

“Poor child,” the large woman with skin the color of chocolate came shuffling forward, her arms held open.

“Hello, Gladys,” she answered before being enfolded in the woman’s ample bosom.

Gladys gave him a once-over that made J.D. feel as if he were back in Sunday school. He didn’t think he’d passed inspection, either—not judging from the wary look on the nurse’s round face.

“I read all about what happened in the paper,” Gladys said, crooking Tory beneath her arm in a purely protective fashion. Her dark eyes continued to assess J.D. “And who is this young man?”

“J.D. Porter,” Tory said. “He’s in Charleston visiting Rose.”

“You told me about him,” Gladys said with a thoughtful nod. “This is the man who’s going to ruin the Tattoo?”

“The same,” Tory admitted without so much as a trace of apology in her expression. “J.D., this is Gladys Halloday, R.N.”

“I prefer to think of my work as improving the property,” J.D. corrected as he offered his hand to the rather imposing woman.

“Change can be good,” Gladys said with a nod of her graying head.

Arms locked, the two women began to move down the hall. J.D. followed, feeling much like an intruder.

The place reminded him more of a hotel than a nursing home. There was no ammonia smell, no hiss of oxygen tanks. The place had carpeting and wallpaper, comfortable chairs and a bulletin board full of scheduled activities.

“There’s Dr. Trimble. He’s been waiting for you,” he heard Gladys say. “He spent a lot of time with your mama this morning.”

J.D. saw a paternalistic look appear in the doctor’s eyes when the man spotted them moving down the hall. It was becoming obvious to J.D. that Tory was a frequent and popular visitor here.

The doctor uttered words of condolence and didn’t bother giving J.D. a second glance. His face was a palette of concerned lines as he took both of Tory’s hands in his.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get any reaction when I told her about Robert.”

“None?”

He watched as the doctor’s expression grew sad. “I’m sorry, Tory. There was nothing.”

“I’d like to see her now.” Tory glanced over her shoulder but didn’t quite meet J.D.’s eyes. “Alone,” she added.

Gladys planted herself in the center of the hallway, her expression all but daring him to try to push past her. J.D. wasn’t about to take on the nurse. He’d learned a long time ago when to back down from confrontation. And this was definitely one of those times. He watched Tory disappear into the last room on the right.

For the next forty minutes, he sat in a small lounge under the watchful eye of his self-appointed guard. J.D. thumbed through the paper, wondering what Tory and her mother were discussing. No reaction at all. The words filtered back through his brain. He finished reading the paper and piled it on the seat next to him. He looked up to find Gladys away from her post.

Feeling restless and a bit intrigued, J.D. got up, telling himself that he was only going to walk far enough to stretch the cramped muscles of his legs.

His walk took him past the lookout station, down to the last door on the right. The door was ajar and he gave a soft push, widening the crack.

He was shocked by what he saw. At first glance, he could have been looking at a child, she was so tiny. Then he saw her face. Tory’s mother couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds. The white sheets nearly swallowed her frail, limp body. But it wasn’t her size as much as her face that forced him to suck in a breath. She looked barely older than her daughter. Her pale skin was smooth, nearly devoid of lines. The difference was in the eyes. The woman in bed stared blankly into space, apparently untouched by the things and people around her.

“You would have laughed, Mama.” He heard Tory’s voice and followed it. She was framed by the light from the window, her back to him. “You remember when I was ten and I started to develop? That nasty David Coultraine paid two of his friends to hold my arms while he peeked down my blouse? And I screamed that I’d hate all boys until my dying day?”

She paused, as if awaiting a response that never came.

“After I stopped crying, you told me one day I’d be swooning over boys. Well, you should have seen me last night. I fell right into a man’s waiting arms, just like you said.”

J.D. nearly jumped back when she turned and moved to the bed, sitting on, but barely rumpling, the neatly tucked bed coverings. The woman didn’t move, he noted. She gave no indication that she was even aware that her beautiful daughter sat at her side. J.D. swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat.

“The doctor said he told you about Daddy,” Tory said as she continued her monologue. The pauses, he quickly realized, were the result of a long history of these one-sided conversations.

Tory lifted the woman’s limp hand. Something glittered in the light. J.D. moved closer to pull the object into focus. It was a ring, a copy of the one that the cops had found with the skeleton. From its placement on the lifeless hand, he guessed it was her wedding band.

“He didn’t leave us, Mama. No matter what else, he didn’t run off.”

Tory took the hand to her face and forced it along the side of her cheek, simulating a loving, motherly stroke.

“That day after he left,” Tory began, her voice dropping to a hard-to-hear whisper, “you told me he wasn’t coming back. You sat me on top of the bar and told me that.”

J.D. could easily imagine the scene. He felt it in the twisted knot of his stomach.

“Please, Mama,” she begged, holding the hand to her heart. “Please tell me you didn’t kill him.”