All Fall Down (31 page)

M
elanie watched dawn break over the horizon. Fatigue pulled at her. As did hopelessness. She couldn't shake the strange sense that Stan had finally won. That her father, at long last and from the grave, had beaten her.

She was being punished for a crime she'd had no part in.

Connor hadn't believed her. She had sensed that he wanted to, that he was torn. The blank tape had clinched it for him. After that, what could she say to him? How could she have explained? Who could she have pointed a finger at? The police?

Instead of pointing fingers, she had turned and walked away. Humiliated. Despairing.

Now Melanie frowned, confused. She had plucked the tape cartridge from the machine after the police search. Perhaps Mrs. Saunders had inadvertently hit reset, perhaps she herself had and simply couldn't remember doing it? She had been upset that afternoon, distracted.

Melanie pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. If she had been honest with Connor from the start, if she had shared her suspicions about Ashley, let him hear the call that night, she wouldn't be in this mess.

The tape had been so convincing. She had nothing now.

Melanie dropped her head into her hands, acknowledging defeat. How much it hurt.

The phone rang. Hoping, praying, that it was Connor, she made a grab for it. “Hello?”

“Is this the home of Melanie May?”

Melanie stiffened. Word had leaked out that she was being investigated in connection with the Dark Angel killings and she'd had to field a lot of calls from reporters. She had learned fast that most of them wouldn't take no for an answer. “Yes, it is.”

“My name's Vickie Hanson, I'm with the Rosemont Mental Health Facility in Columbia.”

Melanie frowned, confused. “How can I help you?”

“Do you have a sister named Ashley Lane?”

Melanie tightened her grip on the receiver. “Yes, I do.”

“Thank goodness!” The woman made a sound of relief. “I'm your sister's psychiatric caseworker and—”

“Excuse me, her what?”

“Her psychiatric caseworker, here at the facility. Let me explain. Friday night your sister attempted suicide. Fortunately, a driver passing on the other side of the bridge stopped and dived in after her. The police brought her here.”

“Oh my God.” Melanie crossed to a chair and sank onto it.
Ashley? Suicide?
“Is she okay?”

“Physically, she's fine. Emotionally, she's…struggling.”

“Why's it taken so long for you to call?”

“When she was admitted she claimed she had no next of kin.” The woman paused, Melanie heard what sounded like the snap of a cigarette lighter, then the hiss of flame catching on tobacco. “But last night she began crying out for you. She had to see you, she said. You were in some sort of danger. She became so agitated, we had to sedate her.”

Melanie scrambled to put it all together. Something wasn't adding up. “I'm sorry,” she said. “When did you say Ashley was committed to your facility?”

“Four days ago. In the middle of the night.”

“And she hasn't left the hospital since?”

“Absolutely not.”

Melanie processed this new bit of information, stunned by what it meant. Stan ate his granola every morning without fail, even taking containers of it with him on trips. That meant his cereal had been poisoned sometime between Saturday morning and Sunday dawn. During that time, Ashley had been safely ensconced in a psychiatric hospital.

Ashley couldn't have tried to kill Stan. She wasn't the one who had set her up.

Then who was?

“Hello? Mrs. May? Are you still there?”

“It's Ms.,” Melanie corrected automatically. “And yes, I'm still here. How can I help?”

“Like I said, she was desperate to see you.”

“I'm leaving now.”

L
ong after Melanie left, Connor had stood at his front door, hand on the knob, her name poised on his lips. He had wanted to call her back, wanted to so badly that now, hours later, the sense of urgency still pulled at him.

He had let her go anyway, ruled by the mounting weight of evidence against her. Instead of by what he felt in his gut—that she couldn't have done what Harrison and Stemmons said she had, that she wasn't that person.

Everything she had said to him rang true—none of “the evidence” added up, not to him anyway. She was a smart woman and if she had done this thing, there was no way she would jeopardize her life by leaving incriminating evidence just lying around.

Murderers made mistakes all the time. They got cocky, they took chances. They buried victims in their own backyards. They kept souvenirs of their crimes in their homes. They bragged to friends.

Not Melanie. Not smart, courageous, moral Melanie.

He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes, fatigue, self-doubt and despair pulling at him. He recalled the anguish in her voice when she'd told him
Stan had taken Casey, relived her cry of disbelief and grief when the answering tape proved blank.

The last time a woman had begged him for help, he had ignored her. He had let his head overrule his gut instinct and she had died.

He had never forgiven himself.

Connor dropped his hands. Murderers would use anyone and anything in an attempt to prove their innocence. Psychopaths were some of the most convincing people on earth. Both he knew from experience, too much experience.

But no matter how much experience he recalled, no matter how many times he reminded himself of the facts, of the weight of evidence against her, Connor still believed Melanie was innocent.

He had fallen in love with her.

The truth of that blindsided him. He took a step backward, as if he had actually been struck. She had sneaked up on him—her integrity, her honesty and fire. The single-minded determination with which she tackled her job, the fierce way she loved her son, the way she made him feel.

Happy to be alive. Grateful for every moment.

He had to tell her. How he felt. That he believed in her. He crossed to the phone, punched in her number and waited. The machine picked up on the fourth ring.

“Melanie, it's me. If you're there, pick up.” He waited several seconds, then swore under his breath. “Call me. It's important.”

The phone rang before he had a chance to take his hand off the receiver. He snatched it back up. “Melanie?”

“Connor Parks?”

He stiffened, recognizing an official call by the man's tone. “This is Parks.”

“Agent Addison, Charleston satellite office. We've found your sister's remains.”

V
eronica sat bolt upright in bed, a silent scream on her lips. She looked wildly around her, expecting to see the ghouls bearing down on her, their clawlike hands reaching out for her. She saw Mia's familiar bedroom instead, bathed in early morning's soft light.

Veronica brought her trembling hands to her face. It was damp with perspiration. She wiped at the sweat, then brought her hands to her chest, to her pounding heart. It beat so heavily she feared it would burst free of her chest cavity and fly away, like an image she had once seen in a cartoon.

It didn't and she breathed deeply and slowly through her nose, working to calm herself.

She'd had this dream many times before and of late, frequently. A nightmare populated by the undead, their flesh rotting, home to maggots and disease. The stench sickening. In it her father and husband called for her, as did the woman—all laughing when Veronica ran.

There was no escape.

Beside her, Mia stirred, then muttered Veronica's name. Veronica's chest tightened, love seeming to balloon her heart to quadruple its size.

“It's okay,” she whispered, bending and brushing her lips against the other woman's temple. “Everything's going to be okay.”

As quietly as she could, Veronica climbed out of bed and headed on wobbly legs to the bathroom. She emptied her bladder, then went for her cosmetics case and the bottle of Prozac her doctor had prescribed for her. To help her relax. To reduce the anxiety that held her in its strangling grip. Her dependence on the pills had grown. Of late, she doubted she would have been able to function without them. Even so, she couldn't sleep through the night, she had no appetite for food or drink, no interest in her work. She had lost her last two cases and, she knew, people had begun to talk.

Veronica shook one of the small tablets onto her palm, then recapped the bottle. She took the medication, then washed it down with a glass of water. She started back to bed, stopping in the doorway. Mia lay half uncovered, blond hair fanned across the pillow, cheeks flushed with sleep. Her pink satin nightshirt gaped open at the neck, revealing the milky white curve of one breast.

Emotion exploded inside her and for a moment, Veronica couldn't breathe. Falling in love with Mia had been so easy. Trusting her had been more difficult. Trusting had required Veronica to make a giant leap of faith. Even so, bit by bit, she had allowed the other woman fully into her head and heart. Mia knew all her secrets now. As she knew Mia's.

Veronica found her breath, crossed to the bed and gazed down at her lover. She would give Mia all she possessed, would do all that she asked. Anything to make her happy. Anything to ensure they stayed together.

Anything at all.

J
ust over two hours later, Melanie pulled into the parking lot of the Rosemont Mental Health Facility. The caseworker had given Melanie excellent directions—she had only gotten lost once and that had been the fault of her own inattention.

Melanie pulled the car into a spot, shut off the engine and grabbed her cell phone, making sure it was still on before she dropped it into her purse. Shortly after getting on the road, she had called Mia and left a message, one that detailed the call from the caseworker and Ashley's location.

The Rosemont facility was a rather grim affair, although considering it was a state institution, it could have been much worse. She crossed the lobby to the information desk, introduced herself and asked for Vickie Hanson.

The caseworker appeared almost immediately. A pretty brunette, she smiled and held out a hand. “Ms. May, the resemblance to your sister is remarkable. She told me she was a third twin, but I wasn't certain if it was—”

“True? That's everyone's reaction.” Melanie clasped the woman's hand. “I want to thank you for calling me.”

Vickie's smile faded. “Your sister is a very troubled young woman. I hope you can help me help her.”

“I hope so, too. I love her very much. Is she awake?”

“Yes.” The caseworker motioned to the elevators up ahead and they moved toward them. “I told her you were coming. She said she needed a moment.”

A lump in her throat, Melanie said she understood, but she didn't. Regret and guilt tugged at her. Regret that her sister had come to this, guilt that she hadn't been there for her. Guilt at the fact that while her sister had been drowning in hopelessness, she had been calling her a murderer.

They stepped onto the elevator. The woman pushed the button for the third floor. “Do you have any idea the root of her problems?”

“I have an idea. What's she told you?”

“Not much. She's extremely depressed and I sense in her a great hostility toward men. Can you tell me a little about the Ashley you know?”

Melanie thought a moment, then a smile touched her mouth. “Ashley's really smart. And observant about people. She has this biting sense of humor and a willingness to say things nobody else will. Never mean-spirited, though. Not cruel toward others. Just…funny in a caustic kind of way. She's always made us laugh.”

The car reached the third floor and the doors slid open. They stepped off and started down the hall. Melanie continued. “Ashley's the most intense of the three of us. The moodiest. The most emotionally volatile. Something would upset her and she would erupt.
Then it'd be over. Because of that, it wasn't until recently that I realized…until I saw…”

“That she was in trouble?” the caseworker supplied.

“Yes.” Melanie stopped and looked at the woman. “I feel awful about this. That I didn't help her. That when I saw the way she was falling apart, I didn't do something. Anything.”

“Don't beat yourself up, Melanie. Things like this creep up on family members. Suddenly you're hip deep in a situation you didn't even see coming.”

A situation? Was that what this was? Was that what her and her sisters' lives had become?
Melanie swallowed hard. “She's a special person, Ms. Hanson.”

“I know.” The woman indicated the door just ahead on their left. “Why don't you tell her that yourself.”

“Maybe we could talk again later?”

“That would be good.”

Melanie watched the caseworker walk away, then took a deep breath and eased Ashley's door open a crack. “Ashley,” she murmured, peeking into the room. “It's me.”

Her sister stood at the window, her back to the door. She held herself rigidly, arms curved tightly around her middle, as if protecting herself against assault. Assault by whom? Her own sister?

“Ash,” she said again, stepping into the room. “It's me, Mel.”

She turned then. Melanie bit back a cry of dismay at her ravaged appearance. She was thin and pale, her face gaunt, eyes hollow and shadowed.

“Oh, Ash,” she whispered, “I didn't know.”

Her sister's eyes flooded with tears. “I'm sorry…so…sorry.”

Melanie went to Ashley and folded her in her arms. “It's me who's sorry. I didn't know how much you needed me.”

Ashley began to cry then, great wracking sobs of despair. Sobs that sounded as if they were drawn from the very bottom of her soul.

Heart heavy, Melanie held her while she cried. She felt so fragile in her arms, small and vulnerable, not the tough-talking, independent and acerbic sister she knew and loved so well.

How could she have seen the beginnings of this devastation and not done something to stop it?

When Ashley's tears abated, Melanie led her to the bed. They sat together in the way they had as children—cross-legged, heads bent, foreheads touching.

Melanie folded her sister's hands in her own. They were as cold as death and she rubbed them between hers. She didn't rush her sister, didn't question her or press for explanation. If Ashley wanted to talk, she would.

And she did, after many minutes had passed. She kept her voice low and she spoke in the way of someone recalling a near-forgotten and unimportant incident from the past.

“Remember when Dad began…molesting Mia?”

Melanie tightened her hands over Ashley's. Even after all these years, it hurt to hear those words spoken. “I remember.”

“You were so brave. The way you pulled that knife
on him, I was always in awe of you, Mel. But especially then.”

Ashley fell silent, but for only a moment. “He came to me after, though I don't remember how long.” Her voice lowered to less than a whisper. Even with their heads pressed together Melanie had to strain to hear. “He said what you'd done…that you'd broken the law. That the police would come, because of the knife. That they could…take you away. Then it would just be me and Mia, he said.”

The things she had done for her sisters.

Melanie squeezed her eyes shut, horror dawning.
Dear God, no. Not that. Please, not that.

“He said if I…if I told you or anyone else what he…that he would do it. Call the police. Have you taken away.”

She tightened her grip on Melanie's fingers. Even so, they were damp, clammy. “I kept waiting for you to save me, Mel. The way you saved Mia.” Her voice broke. “You never did.”

The root of it. The truth.

She had let Ashley down in a way she hadn't even imagined.

“I didn't know,” Melanie whispered, tears spilling over. “If only I had known…I would have killed him to save you, Ashley. I would have, I promise.”

They held each other, held
on to
each other—the way family was meant to—loving, protecting and above all, cherishing.

“Why? Melanie asked after a long time. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“At first, I was terrified. I believed him, what he'd
said. And after, when I realized…I was too ashamed. Because I wasn't strong like you. Because I didn't say…no.”

It was the last, perhaps, that hurt the most. In that moment Melanie hated their father as she had never hated before. With a heat and ferocity that frightened her. If he were alive, she would kill him now, she would take her service revolver and blow his head off.

And in that moment, too, she applauded the Dark Angel. She knew the feeling wouldn't last, that reason would win out over primitive emotions, but now, this second, she was glad those men were dead. They had gotten what they deserved.

Suddenly, inappropriately, Ashley giggled. The sound was girlish and carefree, gleeful even. Melanie leaned back and looked at her sister in concern.

Ashley motioned her closer—she bent close to her ear. “I took care of him. For all of us.”

Melanie drew away. She searched her sister's expression, heart thundering.

“I killed him, Mel. For us. For you, me and Mia.”

The breath seemed to leave Melanie's body—the ability to reason, to speak, fled with it.

“It was so easy,” she continued. “You see, I knew what would happen if he took too much of his medication. And I knew how much would raise suspicions…and how much wouldn't. I paid him a visit, I slipped his own prescription into his food.” She smiled, the curving of her lips childlike. “It was easy, Melanie.”

Easy. Painless. The world minus one child-molesting son of a bitch.

Melanie took a deep breath. She had to ask. She had to hear the words from Ashley's own lips.

She met her sister's gaze evenly, though it was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. “You have to tell me, Ash. Are you…are you the Dark Angel?”

Ashley looked surprised by the question, then angry. “No. Not me. But I know who is.”