Fade To Midnight (22 page)

Sean snatched it out of her hands, stuck his beer into Miles's free hand, and opened it. The hole inside him deepened, widened into a whistling void. He heard voices around him, discussing, asking questions, repeating his name. He ignored them. In shock.

It was Kev, as Sean had seen him in the vision, while Osterman had performed the X-Cog interface. He saw it clearly in the deceptively simple, fluid drawings. The subtle differences between his own face and Kev's. Hard to grasp with the eye. More a thing to be sensed.

“It's him,” he said, interrupting whoever was speaking. “It's Kev.”

The small group fell silent, cast each other worried looks.

“Sean,” Tam said, in the careful voice that made him want to wrap his fingers around her neck and squeeze. “It's a graphic novel.”

“Holy shit!” Miles's big brown eyes were wide. “I never even thought of Kev. I just thought he looked like you. Wow!”

“The scars.” Sean looked wildly from Tam to Miles to Cindy. “I saw them. They're exactly the same.”

“What are you talking about?” The deep, disapproving voice was Davy, scowling over Cindy's shoulder. “What's going on? Should I put the steaks on, or have we got a crisis happening?”

“Hold off on the steaks,” Tam advised. “It's crisis hour.”

Davy scowled at his brothers. “What crisis? What scars?”

“Kev's. The scars. I saw them.” He knew that sounded crazy, that he had to rephrase, to explain so they wouldn't flip out, but that touched off a loud, confusing interchange in which Davy was brought up to date on the graphic novel, and then Connor arrived, and they did the whole damn thing again. Then Erin, then Margot, and so on.

Some minutes later, Sean found his ass planted on the couch in the living room, the rest of the group ranged around him in a circle that felt vaguely accusing. The Fade Shadowseeker books lay on the coffee table. He couldn't stop staring at them.

“So, once again. From the top,” Davy opened the proceedings, his voice heavy. “You saw what? And when?”

“Twice,” Sean explained wearily. “In dreams, I guess you'd say, or maybe they were visions, since I wasn't asleep. First when Osterman was doing the X-Cog interface. I didn't think…I mean, I saw Mom, too, and Dad. They talked to me, tried to help me, so I figured Kev was just another ghost in my head, trying to help me out. But he wasn't like I remembered him. He was my age, hair buzzed off. Flying a kite. And he had scars. Exacly like these.” He pointed at the books.

“And the second time?” Connor asked.

“On the mountain, when I was climbing after I got out of the hospital,” he explained. “I was about to go off a cliff in the mist, and Kev stopped me. Scolded me. He had scars then, too.”

Connor's head fell into his hands. “This is all we need.”

Sean stared down at his clenched fists. “I know this woo woo stuff sticks in your craw,” he said, his voice rough. “But please. For the love of God. Just swallow it down, for once in your life.”

Liv came forward, her hands cupping the swell of her belly, and sidled in beside him behind the coffee table. She picked up one of the books, frowned at it thoughtfully. “I've come to a decision,” she said.

Her voice had a challenging ring to it. Everyone felt it. The silence that followed was absolute, but for the background noise of happy babbling and screeching from the backyard outside.

“And you have decided exactly what?” Margot asked quietly.

“I've been thinking about this for a while now,” Liv said. “For years, Sean has been suffering because he believed things that everyone else thought were crazy. But you know what? They weren't.”

“We know that, Liv,” Davy said.

“Not once has he been off target,” Liv continued, as if Davy had not spoken. “He was right that Kev wasn't crazy. That he hadn't killed himself. He was right about the foul play. The bomb that almost blew up my car. Gordon kidnapping me on the road that night. Every time, it was his own pure, naked instinct, against all of the evidence.”

Davy cleared his throat. “I'm with you,” he said warily. “And this entails…what?”

“This entails getting real. Accepting the real, compelling statistical probability that Sean is right about this, too. That Kev is alive, out there, and needing to be found. And it's time to get off our asses and do it.” She grabbed Sean's hand. “I'm behind him. All of you need to be, too.” Her blazing glance swept the room. Daring them to contradict her.

No one did. Liv was an Amazon, too, when the spirit moved her.

Sean was so grateful, he had to fight the urge to burst into tears. He enveloped Liv's hand in his. “Thanks, babe,” he muttered, thickly.

She shot that blazing glance at him, too, and the heat of it flashed straight to his groin. Jesus, what a woman. Amazing.

He'd been waiting for this for years, and now that he finally had her behind him, if not the others, he had no fucking clue where to start. So much for his dead-on instincts. “So, uh…so what now?” he asked.

She smiled, encouragingly, her fingers tightening around his hand. “Remember that kite you saw on the beach years ago? The mandala that was the same one Kev had painted? Let's start there.”

“Sure!” Miles piped in. “We can comb through the online sports catalogs. You guys got an image of Kev's mandala painting around?”

“It's Davy's computer desktop wallpaper,” Margot told him.

Liv gave him an encouraging smile, and picked up one of the Fade books again, glancing at the back cover. “And I think you and I need to go to…” She scanned the author bio on the back, “…Portland, Oregon, and talk to this Edie Parrish about the font of her inspiration.”

“Excellent idea,” he said, a rush of relief going through him. “We can crash in a hotel in Portland tonight.”

“No,” Liv said softly. “Not tonight. We have an ultrasound tomorrow afternoon, remember?”

He gulped. “Uh. Yeah. Well, then. We'll go tomorrow night, then.”

“Wait a second.” Davy's voice was sharp. “Did you say Parrish? The author's name is actually Parrish?”

There were harsh, audible gasps. The three brothers and Miles all stared at each other, mouths open.

“No way,” Miles breathed.

“Could be a coincidence,” Connor offered, without much hope.

“When is it ever, with us?” Davy got to his feet. “Let's go to the computer and see if this woman is any relation to Charles Parrish.”

Half the room, the male half, headed toward the studio to peer over Miles's shoulders while he hacked. The female half, sensing the way Liv and Sean were looking at each other, started slipping discreetly out of the room. All except for Tam, who stood there with her arms crossed. “Don't you dare fuck this up,” she warned.

“Piss off, Tam,” Liv snapped.

“I won't fuck up,” he said. Then he looked into Liv's beautiful eyes, her shining face. Full of faith and trust. His heart overflowed.

He grabbed her, and forgot that Tam or the rest of it existed.

N
o one around the table would meet her eyes. Edie felt the wrongness in her stomach. Churning like some indigestible food.

In fact, it was threatening to…oh, no. She got to her feet, her hand to her mouth. “Excuse me for a moment,” she murmured.

Her father's hand shot out, clamping her wrist. He gave her a flinty smile. The smile was for the room. The flint was all for her.

“I don't think so,” he said.

Her stomach lurched. “But I feel nauseous.”

Charles Parrish's eyebrow twitched up. His iron stomach never suffered anything so weak and contemptible as stress nausea. “Then Tanya and Evelyn will accompany you to the bathroom, and Paul will wait outside to make sure you all get back safely.” He glanced at his watch. “My speech is about to begin, as soon as Desmond introduces me, and only Ronnie will be here to hear it. Humiliating, to have my family table empty for my farewell speech, but if your self-indulgent little fits are more important to you, then so be it.”

She sank into her chair, already visualizing the gossip headlines:
Helix Heiress tosses her shrimp puffs on her plate at Daddy's retirement bash
.
Too much champagne? Bulimia blues? Time for rehab? Preggers?

She glanced around the table. No one would meet her eyes, except for Ronnie, who kicked her ankle under the table and gave her a quick, guilty wink of support. Thank God for Ronnie. So tough. And sweet.

She stared around the glittering ballroom of the Ridgemont Grand, trying to get air into her lungs. This was miles beyond the normal tension she suffered in these situations. Beyond the scratchy boning that held up the bustier of the dress, the pinch of the peep-toe Jimmy Choo sandals Aunt Evelyn had bullied her into buying. Beyond the frozen smile on Marta's face. Marta, resplendent in oyster-toned silk and a blinding diamond collar, was being given the cold shoulder by Aunt Evelyn, who didn't approve of her brother's sordid affair with his ex-secretary. Tanya followed her mother's lead, as did the other society matrons who had been Linda Parrish's friends. Icy drafts were puffing around the room. That left Edie with the thankless job of trying to compensate by being extra nice to Marta. She'd tried, but Marta had drawn her conclusions about Edie years ago. Every attempt Edie made to chat was coolly rebuffed.

And her father was in a cold white rage. Which could only mean one thing. He knew where she had been all afternoon, and with whom.

She'd sensed it from the second he'd laid eyes on her, scrutinizing every detail. Dress, shoes, hair, purse, makeup, nails. Dangerous, nonparentally approved boyfriend.

Just a little bit longer.
Her hand twitched for a pencil, a pen. For refuge in that safe place where she was in the groove, centered and strong. Knowing who she was. Happy to be that person. The way she'd felt with Kev. Oh, God. She couldn't believe she felt this. Crazy happy.

In any case, it was over. She wasn't going to see him again. They were going to lock her up. It wouldn't be the first time. She'd been here before. The long, fuzzy tunnel of enforced medication. Useless therapy sessions with the doctors Dad chose. The slammed-shut-doors in their eyes. They never heard what she said. Poor little rich crazy girl.

She should never have come, knowing that her father was sure to find out what had happened, but she couldn't pass up the chance to see Ronnie. And she'd been flying so high. Not thinking straight. She'd wanted to love everybody, make peace, forgive the whole world.

The world wasn't going to forgive her back. She was in the doghouse, and the choke chain was going on.

She put her shoulders back. “Dad, I wish you'd just tell me what you're so angry about, instead of—”

“Your timing is unbelievable,” Dad said, through a smiling grimace. “You pick the most public moment of the most public event of the year, cameras trained on us from all sides, to ask me this question.”

“I just want to run to the bathroom, and I—”

“You cannot be trusted to do the simplest thing on your own. You demonstrated that today.” His whisper punched into her ears.

“But I—”

“I know who you were with. I know what you did with him. I am disgusted, Edith. Revolted.”

She shook her head, bewildered. “Why? What do you know about him, other than what Osterman did to him, which wasn't his fault?”

“I don't need to know more. He was damaged by that madman. And I know that he's dangerous, Edith, because he attacked me, personally, and I remember it very well. He holds a grudge, and he's found the ideal way to humiliate, punish, and control me. Through you.”

“No.” She shook her head, wildly. “No, it's not like that. It's—”

“I am not going to allow him to do it. This stops, here and now.”

“But you've got the wrong idea!” she protested. “He isn't—”

“Bad enough that you've been advertising for years in a public forum for his attention, through those damned comic books. It was just a matter of time. And now that he's found you, I have to protect you from him. Since you appear to be incapable of protecting yourself.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if he taped the whole thing,” Marta offered, her eyes glittering with unpleasant enthusiasm. “We could have your dirty little adventure posted on the Internet, for the world to enjoy.”

She stared at one, then the other. “That's not true! That's a disgusting thing to say! He would never do that to me!”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed. “You slept with him! How could you have been such a goddamn idiot?”

Her back straightened, as something inside her turned to ice. “I did nothing wrong,” she said, with quiet dignity. “And neither has he.”

Her father snorted. “No? Well, I'm done trying to let you work your little fits out in your own way. I am going to get you the help you need, once and for all. Now
smile,
goddamnit.”

But she couldn't. It was one of the things her father hated most about her. Her feelings, written on her face for all to see.

One of the catering staff leaned in front of them, a strikingly handsome Asian man. He scooped up her father's wineglass, filled a new one. Marta's eyes roved over the man's broad shoulders and trim ass as her glass was filled, eyes glinting in her Botoxed mask.

Edie took advantage of the distraction to pull her cell out of her purse, holding it under the table. She texted without looking:

Wine gurgled into her glass. Edie looked up. The waiter's dark, inscrutable eyes met hers. For an instant, she felt a yawning emptiness in the pit of her stomach, as if she'd stopped short of walking off a cliff.

Then the waiter gave her a professional smile, and turned away.

Overimaginative, unstable, fanciful Edie. Just one of her little fits, her mother would have said. Let it go and move on. Don't dwell.

Less than forty seconds later, the phone gave a quiet burp in her trembling hand. She clicked open the message, glanced down.

Her heart leaped up, frantically. As if it were bumping against the lump in her throat.

“Edith! Are you texting?” Marta said sharply. “With that person?”

Edie popped open the case of the phone with her thumb, and pried out the SIM card. She felt Ronnie's waggling fingers, dropped the card in her sister's hand and snapped the shell back on. “No.”

Her father held out his hand. “Give me the phone, Edith.” His voice seemed all the more angry, for how controlled it was.

“Dad, I—”

“Give it to me, or I'll have security deliver you to the psychiatric clinic right now, with everyone watching. The more outrageous this soap opera becomes, the less I care about the bad publicity.”

“Charles!” Marta flashed a blinding smile. “People are looking!”

“The phone,” he repeated, louder.

There was no reason not to oblige him. She wasn't going to have a chance to use it again anyway. She handed him the phone.

He tried to turn it on. “What's the code?”

She shook her head, and his eyebrows tightened. “Do not play games with me,” he growled.

“You've already done your worst, Daddy,” she said quietly. “You're all out of threats. What are you going to do now? Break my legs?”

Aunt Evelyn gasped with outrage. “Edith! How could you?”

Dad opened his mouth for a reply, but cut off when Marta nudged his arm. He glanced up. Des Marr was on the dais, starting his intro speech. No one would guess from Dad's genial, smiling face that an ugly family drama was playing out at the table. Unless they looked at Edie.

Fortunately for everyone, that didn't happen very often.

Dad lifted the wineglass to his lips, but Marta nudged him before he took a sip, whispering in his ear. Edie focused on the bulb of the wineglass in Dad's hand. Burgundy sloshed, viscous and dark, like blood. It made her think of the spilled wine on her drawing.

The wine.

Desmond Marr's voice came to the forefront of Edie's consciousness. “…sure you're ready for me to button my lip and get to the good stuff, but it's really hard to stop talking about Charles's remarkable accomplishments. Almost as hard as it is to contemplate Helix without the benefit of his amazing leadership…”

Funny, how she hadn't even heard the guy's smarmy speech, she was so absorbed in her own predicament. Hypnotized by the wine sloshing in her father's glass. Every line of her sketch burned in her mind's eye. Her father's face and torso, drowning in a pool of blood.

The wine.

Her father lifted his glass once again to his mouth—

“
No!
” She had no idea how she moved so fast, but she found herself sprawled headlong across the table, the stem of Dad's wineglass in her shaking grip. Wine had sloshed over their hands, her father's cuffs. It splashed his chin, the front of his tux. Water glasses wobbled and tipped, flower arrangements and candles toppled. Gasps, murmurs, shocked exclamations. Marta's red mouth dangled open.

“Edith?” her father's eyes were white-rimmed with shock. “What on earth…for the love of God, let go! Sit down! Sit…
down!
”

“Don't drink that, Dad!” Her voice shook. “Don't drink it!”

Her father peeled her wet fingers off the wineglass. Aunt Evelyn grabbed her from one side, Tanya from the other. They pried her up, off the table, and set her down in her chair. Everyone was looking.

“…the upshot of it is, Charles Parrish has set the example for us all,” Des yapped blithely from the dais. “And he's set the bar high. Not only for his innovative business practices, his rock-solid ethics and his plain good sense, but also just because he's just so damn elegant. A real class act. So please, everyone, welcome Charles Parrish!”

Desmond Marr put down the mike, and clapped enthusiastically.

Her father dabbed wine splatters over his tux, and gave Edie a look that froze her inside. Edie bit her shaking lip. What had come over her? And she thought she'd been in the doghouse before.

She stared up at Des's grin. She'd never liked Des, though she'd known him since forever. They'd been at the Haven together, but he'd been one of the cool kids, one of Dr. O's favorites. She'd been fourteen, geeky, out of it. Wanting desperately to be someplace else.

Since she could remember, Des Marr had been held up as a perfect progeny. Handsome, athletic, socially adept. Lucky Raymond, Daddy's Helix cofounder. At thirty-three, Des was poised to take over for Raymond and run a corporate empire worth billions. He wasn't leaping across tables in public, spilling wine, blurting grim prophecies.

Des couldn't be blamed for showing her up for a decade. But she still didn't like him, even making allowances for her own resentment. Something about the way he used people's names repeatedly. He'd taken too many people management seminars. It creeped her out.

Aunt Evelyn and Marta were glaring. She wrenched her attention back.
Shit.
She was supposed to be clapping for Dad. Lost in space.

She clapped til her hands tingled, smiled til her face ached. Her father was halfway through the room. He slowed. Then he stopped, swaying slightly. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

The applause tapered off, uncertain of its cues.

Desmond picked up the mike, and spoke again. “And now, what we've all been waiting for…some words of wit and wisdom from our guest of honor! Come on up, Charles! We're waiting for you!”

Applause surged. Charles grabbed the back of a chair, as if he were afraid to let go. Fear lurched in Edie's chest. She jumped to her feet.

Her father's glare made her butt thud back down onto the chair. Ronnie grabbed her hand, squeezed. Her eyes were big and worried.

Charles's flare of anger at his clueless daughter seemed to focus him. He started weaving his way through tables. Des clapped and smiled, but it took Dad so long to make his way to the dais, the applause from the room started to slacken again. Replaced by murmuring.

She felt a tingle, and turned. The gaze of the Asian catering guy slid away so fast, it was impossible to be sure the guy had been staring at her. He walked away, his blue-black ponytail gleaming in the light of the ballroom chandeliers. The memory lingered, the pressure of his eyes pressing against Edie's skin. The contact did not feel friendly.

“…honored to be here, and greet old friends and new.” Her father gripped the podium, mouth working. Her urbane, articulate father, who was never at a loss for words. “Ah…thank you for your kind words, Desmond. They, ah…they mean even more to me, since I've known you since you were a hell-raising teenager.”

Polite laughter reverberated through the room. Charles Parrish mopped his brow. “It has been my privilege to…see you grow and develop.” He slumped over the mike. Speculative murmuring swelled.