Every Breath You Take (32 page)

She was strong. Like Jason.

“La Vie en Rose” continued to swirl inside her head, the lump in her throat rising like dough as she thought about the last time she saw Paris.

She could see the two of them so clearly, like she was watching a movie where they were the only roles cast. They clung to each other like life preservers, him tugging her just a little, eager to show her something. They were standing on a bridge drowning in padlocks, ribbons, and shrubs of paper. He reminded her to take the padlock he’d given her at Christmas from her coat pocket, explaining that they were standing on the Pont des Arts and together, you and your true, committed love put the “love lock” on the bridge and threw the key to the bottom of the Seine. The only way to break the seal of love was to find the key and unlock the lock, which, of course, couldn’t be done since the key was at the bottom of the river. He took both their hands and they placed the lock on together, each kissing the key and throwing it into the water. He grabbed her and told her she was stuck with him now.

“She looks more like you every day.”

Natalie closed her eyes and sank into Jason as he rejoined her on the sand and slipped his arms around her. “She has your eyes. And your chin,” she murmured.

“Thank God not my nose.”

She chuckled softly as she continued to melt against him, unconsciously rubbing the platinum band around his ring finger as they watched their daughter pack wet sand into her tiny yellow pail with her matching plastic shovel. “It’s a nice nose,” she whispered.

Initially, she wondered whether Joey knew he’d failed so spectacularly in this part of his “mission,” that a neighbor coming home from happy hour that Friday night—just seconds after he slipped down the back stairs with her, neglecting to close the door in his haste—had seen the door of the apartment standing open, could hear Jason choking on his blood, moments away from succumbing to the twenty stab wounds and loss of more than two liters of blood. Had Joey known Jason lingered in a coma for close to a month followed by two more months in the hospital for an excruciating recovery? Had he seen the newspaper and TV stories about the massive manhunt for the pregnant fiancée of the man who’d miraculously survived such a brutal attack?

In the end, Natalie realized it didn’t matter what Joey knew. It didn’t change any of what he did.

Or what she did.

She was questioned about Joey’s death, of course. Not all that hard, though—at least she didn’t think so. Her fingerprints weren’t on any poisons or the tumbler. None of those lists containing exactly what she told him to buy were in her handwriting. She told the police Joey wanted them to go to the afterlife like Romeo and Juliet, and, accordingly, tried to make her stab herself. Except, before he could get her to plunge the dagger into her chest, so they’d die in each other’s arms, the poison snatched him faster than he expected, and he collapsed moments before she went into labor—all she could focus on was getting herself and her baby out of there. They accepted her version of events, which seemed plausible, given the circumstances.

It may have been unethical. Immoral. A crime, even.

But there was no question in her mind it was the right thing to do.

Deep down, she wondered whether any doubts lingered, if the overzealous rookie (eager to “crack the case”) or the seasoned, grizzled detective (listening to his never-wrong gut) who had gently pressed her for the details of Joey’s last moments had put the puzzle pieces together and realized one jutted out like a sore thumb. Did they know what she’d done but couldn’t prove it? Did they know what she’d done, could prove it, but decided, as she had, that the bastard had gotten what he deserved, no matter the circumstances? Were they reluctant to drop the sad case of Natalie Scott and Joey Green into a crisp, new file box marked “case closed?” Did they close it with a smug satisfaction that justice
had
been served and were content to leave the box to molder in a dark, fetid corner for all of eternity?

She told Jason one night as he sat in their living room feeding the baby her bottle and singing softly to her. She was folding a load of towels, warm and spring-fresh from the dryer, when she simply told him. Quietly. Calmly. No emotion. Not a tear shed. He didn’t interject. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t clear his throat, leaving the only sounds in the room the baby’s suckling noises, the squeal of the rocking chair, and her whispered monotone. When she was done, he’d just sniffed and murmured, “Good.”

And that had been the end of it.

“Where’d you go?” Jason asked, nudging her out of her reverie.

Natalie shook her head. “Just wondering what we should do about lunch. I’m starving.”

He kissed her neck. “I’m on it. Hey, Sonja, baby, we’re gonna go get something to eat.”

The little girl toddled back over to her parents, sand dripping from her outstretched hands. “Sand,” she giggled.

Natalie laughed and took the clumps from her as Jason scooped up his daughter. She squealed as he tickled her while Natalie smothered her warm, downy neck with kisses.

Natalie collected the pail and shovel while Jason continued to swing the baby around. Her phone beeped from inside her beach bag, and she reached in to see a text message from Christine.

Hope the Hudson family is having a good vacay. Call me when you’re back, we’ll have lunch. We also need to talk about what we should do for Brandy’s bachelorette party :)

Natalie smiled and tapped out a quick
yes and yes and yes
before noticing that Dina had left her a voicemail. She’d call her tomorrow. There was also an e-mail from the fabric reweavers, letting her know her old baby blankets (given back to her along with her other childhood mementos after the investigation was closed), in tatters from age and Joey’s abuse, were ready for pickup. Well ahead of the new baby’s arrival in four months. Another little girl.

She and Jason reached for each other’s hand while he balanced Sonja on his hip. He kissed Natalie’s hand, and she gripped him tighter, letting her gaze settle on his for a few moments. The words were unsaid, but the look that passed between them said it all. Love. Happy.

Grateful.

She dropped her head on his shoulder as they continued down the beach.

He didn’t think about all the truisms that applied to a situation like this as he bolted down the bright, white hospital corridors toward his girl, ignoring the pinch in his thigh that sometimes bothered him on cold days like today, a lifetime souvenir from that night.

No, he didn’t think about the compulsive craving for sunlight and open windows. About how she couldn’t stand closed doors. About the crying jags that would jolt her awake in the middle of the night. He shoved from his mind how angry she must be at him, how abandoned and betrayed she had to have felt because he didn’t come rescue her. How else could he account for her having the hospital call Christine and not him?

All he could do was get to his girl.

The black acne scars smeared across her puffy face, the chapped cracks of her lips, and the matted mass of broken, fraying clumps of hair—once long and shiny—as she lay pale and wasted against the massive hospital bed didn’t stop his legs from wilting beneath him as he dropped to the floor in a quivering mass of tears and gratitude.

His girl was finally home.

He took her hand, cold, limp and clammy, inside of his. He pressed a soft kiss against her lips and waited.

Hoped.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. Weak. Crooked.

“Oh, Jason. Oh, God, Jason. I’ve missed you so much.” Her voice was wet. Raspy.

He stroked her forehead, afraid to speak, afraid the words would be swallowed by the tears. Finally, he nodded. “Me too, baby,” he whispered. “Me too.”

“I don’t want to wake up. I just want to stay here with you.”

“Where am I going?”

Her eyes slid shut. “But I have to stay awake for the baby, the baby needs me, I’m all she has.”

His heart swelled. She. A little girl. They had a little girl.

He wiped the tears from his eyes. “She has both of us.”

“I know,” she nodded. “I know you’ll be watching over her, and I’ll tell her all about you. I’ll tell her everything. I named her Sonja. Do you like that? Sonja. I know it’s not the name you wanted, but it was perfect, the perfect name for our little girl. She’ll love you so much. She’ll always know daddy. Always. . .”

“Scotty,” he said, kissing her hand. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”

She blinked. She kept on blinking until tears dropped from her eyes. She cried out as he snaked his arms around her as gently as he could, resisting his urge to crush her, to show her just how much. . .

She was babbling, but he didn’t hear any of what she said. She likely didn’t either. All he could do was hold her. Just hold her.

“I know, baby. I know.”

“Don’t ever leave me.”

“What have I always told you?” he whispered as he held her face in his hands.

“That I’m stuck with you.”

He held her closer. Tighter. “Forever.”

-Fin-

It’s been said that it takes a village to raise a child. In the case of this book (my child), it may have taken
two
villages.

First off, huge thanks to my “First Reader,” Kathryn, for reading this not once but twice (glutton for punishment that you are) and pointing out its numerous flaws both times.

To my awesome team of beta readers—Sara, Debi, Trish, and Murry—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your taking time from wedding planning, marathon training, college preparedness, and life in general to indulge me by reading the manuscript and providing such thoughtful and shrewd feedback.

To my uber-talented “partner in crime,” aka cover designer extraordinaire Torrie Cooney, who put up with my endless indecision and lack of any real vision for what I wanted this darn cover to look like—you are a saint. Once I finally got it together, as usual you picked up the ball and ran with it, giving me yet another stunning cover that I’m absolutely in love with. I owe you a cocktail, girl!

To Nicole Wayland for your copyediting prowess, professionalism and patience as you answered my numerous (and I’m sure, annoying) questions. Thank you to Karyl Paige for lending me your eyes and expertise.

I drew from some pretty varied resources when it came to researching this book, including,
HowDunit—Book of Poisons
by Serita Stevens and Anne Bannon,
The Writer’s Guide to Psychology: How to Write Accurately About Psychological Disorders, Clinical Treatment and Human Behavior
, by Carolyn Kaufman, Psy.D and
What to Expect When You’re Expecting: 4th Edition
by Heidi Murkoff and Sharon Mazel. DP Lyle’s website,
www.dplylemd.com
, also proved to be a valuable resource and provided a key piece of information that inspired me to take this story in a completely different direction from what I had originally envisioned. Any mistakes here are my own and, as is the prerogative of anyone who pens fiction, I freely and willfully also made up a bunch of stuff.

On a final note, while the “love locks” ritual on the Pont des Arts bridge recently ceased, for Natalie and Jason, the tradition will live on.

Turn the page for a sneak peek of
Bianca Sloane
’
s upcoming book

Live to Tell

Visit
www.biancasloane.com
to be notified about this book’s release.

M
y wife never would tell me how she found out about my mistress.

I hate to think it was some trite cliché on my part—the scrap of a hotel receipt, lipstick on the collar of a shirt on its way out for dry cleaning, the overheard remnants of a frantic, hushed phone conversation.

No, more likely what was closer to the truth was the refrain our two boys heard throughout their rambunctious childhoods and rebellious adolescence: that Jillian has eyes in the back of her head.

Jillian’s eyes always fascinated me. Actually, everything about Jillian fascinated me. The snowy blonde hair that crawled down her back in a wild cascade of curls and cowlicks, her frost-white skin, and the icy-blue spheres that had cut through to my bone that warm fall day on Harvard Yard when she threaded her way through a throng of people to interrupt my scrutiny of
Gray’s Anatomy
to ask for a light. The first time I looked deep into those eyes, I saw cartwheels spinning inside. It had knocked me back, astounded me, so certain was I that a girl that regal, that . . .
cold
, couldn’t possibly have any sense of fancifulness or cheer inside one inch of her long, slinky frame.

I fell in love.

Of course, those were the early days. The rich, heady days when all we had ahead of us was the lusciousness of making love until the sun came up (or went down, as it were), of lounging in bed on Sunday mornings and perusing the paper—she entranced by the arts section, me burrowed in the front page. The days when we thought there would be no one else for us to get lost inside of.

It’s hard to know when the cartwheels stopped spinning inside Jillian’s eyes. I just looked into them one day, and the jubilance and light had been replaced with immovable chunks of stone.

I suppose to some degree I was the wrench that caused those cartwheels to grind to a screeching halt. I was a lousy husband. I didn’t cheat—well not until much later—but by then, it was a foregone conclusion. I don’t know if Jillian herself had any lovers. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did, and I don’t know that I would have blamed her. I do know I spent too much time chained to the hospital, tending to the maladies of my patients, growing my practice into a thriving business. My tee times and squash matches held higher esteem for me than anything transpiring under my own roof. When I was home, I did little to engage myself in the domestic dramas of report cards, Little League, or who lost what tooth, preferring to sequester myself in my study with a glass of Scotch and the latest issue of
Golf Digest
. I retained Jillian to escort me to hospital functions and charity events, to beguile the bloated gasbags my family lineage dictated I cater to on occasion. Jillian was made for that sort of thing, having descended from Philadelphia’s Main Line, little drops of American royalty coursing through her veins. Her mother was something like the fifteenth cousin, thirty-seven times removed, of Grace Kelly, a calling card the family would slide facedown across the table when they wanted to strong-arm you into doing their bidding.