Hiding Jessica (24 page)

“I’m so sorry, baby. It won’t happen again, I swear it won’t happen again. I don’t want to hurt you. I truly don’t. If you would just trust me...”

And she did; she wanted to. But when she tried to tell him yes, the words wouldn’t come. Until she watched in growing horror as his face suddenly changed and he wasn’t Mitch at all anymore. He was Les Capruccio, staring at her with oily black eyes and laughing.

Sometime in the course of the night, she crawled off the bed until she was hunched into a ball in the corner between the bed and wall, buried under the brown comforter.

She was up and running again with the dawn.

She drove fast and furious, her eyes grim upon the road and nervous in the rearview mirror. But throughout the all-day drive, no dark sedans appeared except in the overactive depths of her mind.

At seven in the evening, she hit Ohio, and eased up her frantic pace. She could be there in a matter of hours, and with her destination finally so close, the exhaustion hit her hard. She drove for one more hour, then once again sought out a nondescript hotel.

This night, she didn’t even try the bed. She grabbed the comforter and rolled up in a little cocoon in a dark corner of the room. But even then, the night offered no comfort. With sleep came the dreams.

She showered briskly in the morning, taking more time than was necessary with her appearance. Her hands were shaking lightly, something that surprised her. But she ignored the nervousness of her stomach and the light, growing feeling of dread.

She was here, she’d made it. Step one of her new life was about to be accomplished: she was back on plan.

At 8:00 a.m., she arrived at Ohio’s Women’s Correctional Institute. She got out of the car slowly, keeping her face composed. Carefully, her eyes scanned the parking lot. In the past week, she’d learned a thing or two from Mitch Guiness, and that was never to underestimate your opponent. Les knew about her mother. He’d blackmailed her with the information for the entire year and a half. Coming here was a huge risk on her part, but then, it was a risk she had to take.

Taking a deep breath, Jess walked into the facilities. She kept her shoulders rounded, her head down, her steps short but easy. She wasn’t Jessica Gavornée anymore, she was Jess McMoran. And even if she saw Les’s men she would walk by them as if she’d never met them before in her life. On its own, her hand began to twist the simple ring on her finger.

It was still early for Sunday visiting hours. Then Jess realized it would look suspicious for Rebecca Morgan to have a social visitor anyway. After all, the only visitor Rebecca ever had was a scarved and sunglassed blonde who came approximately once a year. Reaching into her purse, Jess withdrew her identity with a hand that trembled only slightly.

She held her breath and approached the guard at the desk.

“Good morning,” she whispered, then cleared her throat for a more commanding air. She squared her shoulders, summoning the control from deep inside. “I am Jess McMoran, attorney-at-law. I’m here to discuss some new legal developments with a Rebecca Morgan.”

She didn’t have a business card, something that became quickly apparent. She managed her way around it, however, with a good show of bravado. The business cards must have fallen out of her purse. They were more than welcome to call the office and verify her position, of course. Then again, no one worked on Sundays. She would come back later, but the matter truly was urgent. All she needed was half an hour. She promised to keep it short.

Rebecca Morgan was a model prisoner, after all. A worn shadow of a woman who’d done the laundry for eight years now without ever muttering a word of protest. She kept to herself and never caused trouble. In the end, the guard made Jess sign four forms in triplicate, then let her in. By the time the documents were traced and found to be false, she would be long gone.

She had ten minutes to compose herself; then her mother was led into the room. She was a tall woman, but her shoulders were frail and hunched as she walked. Her hair hung long and stringy by her face. Once it had been an exquisite ash blond. As a child, Jessica used to brush out that beautiful hair, sitting behind her mother on the bed. She would marvel at the pale beauty, and her mother would tease her and tell her that she would be even more beautiful one day.

Now, Jess looked at the long strands that had become muddy with time, and felt her heart constrict painfully in her chest. For one long moment, she had to look away.

In the doorway, Rebecca halted slightly upon seeing Jess. The hair was different, the eyes different. But a mother knew her daughter. Abruptly her head came down and she walked forward as if nothing else was amiss. She sat down on the other side of the table, the security guard standing a discreet distance away at the door.

“Jess McMoran,” Jessica said, sticking out her hand as she forced her face to appear composed. Rebecca’s eyes were wary but patient as she shook her daughter’s hand with a watery grip. “I’m here to discuss some new legal developments in your case,” Jessica continued smoothly.

“You shouldn’t be here at all,” Rebecca replied quietly, the midwestern drawl slow and soothing in her voice. Jessica had worked for one long year to eliminate that accent from her own voice. Her mother, however, would never be her mother without it.

Jess acknowledged Rebecca’s statement with a small nod. “How are you doing?” she asked, her own voice dropping low. On her lap, her fingers continued to twist her ring.

“Fine,” Rebecca replied. She always said fine. Every year for the last six years she’d said fine. And every year Jessica still asked. It was like a little ritual. The motions of talking, of communicating, without any of the actual connection.

“You’re up for parole soon,” Jess said softly. Her heart seemed tight in her throat. But she didn’t know what words to say to ease the pressure, so she stuck to the pattern they both knew so well.

“Six months,” Rebecca acknowledged.

“I’ll have a place then,” Jess rushed out. “A place in the countryside with a garden. Maybe even a goat or two and lots of fresh air.”

Rebecca simply nodded. Jessica mentioned this house each time she came. And each time Rebecca nodded. As if someday she would be out of prison. As if someday she would be with her daughter again, and they would live out the future as if that one dark night never happened. They would carry on simple little conversations, never quite meeting each other’s eyes. Never talking about all those years that had shaped them both, and the night that had changed it all forever.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Rebecca said again. “I follow the news, Jess McMoran. I know you shouldn’t be here.” She’d followed everything about Jessica Gavornée’s life. She’d gotten every magazine cover, clipped every article. In the quiet solitude of her cell, she’d followed her daughter’s life and never talked about it at all.

“I wouldn’t leave you,” Jessica said stubbornly. “You know that.”

Rebecca shook her head. “I made my choice, and I’ve made my peace. You should get on with your life.”

This was old ground, the discussion they always had without actually ever mentioning events. That ten years ago Rebecca had lifted a gun against the man about to rape her daughter. That she’d shot her husband. But they never talked about that one night, and they never spoke of the fourteen years leading up to that one violent moment of truth.

And then there were the times Rebecca had grabbed her daughter and fled into the darkness of the night. But by the light of day she always went back. In the sunlight she always believed Harry’s sobbing claims that he would never hurt them again. And sometimes he wouldn’t anymore. Sometimes it would be as long as months in a high-strung peace. But eventually the darkness fell once more. Each year spiraling deeper, bringing more drunken episodes.

Until that one night, he’d come home from a bar and gone to his daughter’s room. Rebecca had come at her daughter’s startled cry, and this time she’d brought the gun she’d been staring at night after night, wondering if she would ever have the courage.

That night she did. And Harry Morgan never beat anyone again.

But even after all these years, she could still see her daughter’s huge blue eyes as her father had fallen before her. Rebecca never forgot the horror in those young, blue depths. And she never forgot the sight of her daughter’s mouth opening into a long, silent scream.

She’d failed, as a wife and as a mother. And when they pronounced her guilty of manslaughter, she’d hardly protested the sentence. She served her time, knowing her hands were stained with the blood. Then, the horrible phone call had come, telling her that her sixteen-year-old daughter had run away from the foster home. For two years she’d despaired, feeling the hopelessness, certain that all her sacrifice had been in vain. On Mary Morgan’s eighteenth birthday, however, a visitor had arrived at the prison. A tall, elegant blonde who looked far older than Mary’s eighteen years and introduced herself as Jessica Govern. Her eyes, however, were Mary’s eyes. Rebecca’s daughter had returned, and she would have cried except she wasn’t allowed to cry anymore. And looking at the controlled, empty depths of Mary Morgan’s sophisticated eyes, Rebecca knew how much she’d failed her family and the beautiful daughter she’d loved so much.

“You should go,” Rebecca said now, her faded blue eyes glancing down. “Don’t put yourself at risk for me.”

Jessica looked at the woman before her, and for the first time she felt the anger. The pattern, the six-year pattern said she should leave. Jessica Gavornée always had. Jessica had always pulled back on her silk scarf, like a priest donning the collar, and had walked out the door in a breathless rush of shimmering silk, never looking back.

But suddenly she didn’t feel like leaving, and she didn’t feel like playing the mystery woman in an overdone drama that never got any closer to happily ever after. She looked at the woman before her, the faded eyes, the limp hair, and she felt the anger build and build and build.

“What do you mean?” she demanded in a low voice, her new brown eyes dark. “If I don’t put myself at risk for you, then who do I do it for? You’re all I have left.”

For one moment Rebecca looked so stricken, Jessica wished she could take the words back. But abruptly she could hear Mitch talking about his sister, the love and affection so clear in his voice. And she felt the frustration grow even more.

“You’re my mother,” Jessica found herself saying, leaning tightly forward while Rebecca’s eyes darted nervously to the guard. “You’re the only family I have. And—” her voice suddenly stumbled, the words choked and hoarse in her throat. “—I love you, Mama. I really do.”

Rebecca looked stricken again, shaking her head at words so long unsaid. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, baby,” she whispered. “You don’t.”

Jess’s head slumped forward, bowing in defeat. Her life had fallen apart ten years ago. Her father had died before her eyes, her mother had been carted off to jail. And she’d been stuck in foster homes with people that could be just as quick with their fists as Harry had been. So she’d learned to be quiet and controlled. And all the while she’d plotted and schemed until at last she made her bid for freedom, running all the way to New York City where she’d started her new life.

But maybe she wanted part of her old life back. Maybe she wanted something besides the bitter memories and aching emptiness. It didn’t matter. She’d vowed to always take care of Rebecca. But not just because of guilt, not just because this woman had killed for her, given up her own future so her daughter could escape the darkness. Maybe Jessica also wanted her mother back.

And suddenly she could see Mitch, tall and strong as he grinned down at her. And she could remember the taste of him on her lips, the feel of him driving the emptiness away with each heartfelt thrust. She wanted him. She wanted to climb into his arms and cling to him like a child. Because he could find her card in the deck and make coins go through tables and hold her like no one else ever had.

And no one else ever would.

She rose from the table, pushing back her chair as she looked at her mother with expressionless eyes.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “sometimes I hated you for that night. I hated you for killing him, for making him actually die after all those nights when I would lie in bed and wish it upon him. I hated you for not being strong enough to walk away, and I hated you for being too strong to take it a minute more. I hated the violence, you know. I always did.

“But I knew what he was going to do that night, Mama. We never talked about it, and you never said, but I knew. As I got older, I certainly knew. You stopped him with that gun, and maybe that was the only thing that was ever going to work. I don’t know. We never will. And I remember all the times you stood before me, all the times you took his anger even if it simply meant he beat us both instead. And—” her voice broke, the tears suddenly welling up when she’d never allowed herself to cry much before “—and I remember the time we made blackberry pie and ate the whole thing, just you and I, laughing and giggling. And I remember brushing your hair and you reading me stories late at night. I remember you putting salve on our burns and makeup on the bruises. I remember so many things, Mama. And not all of them are so bad.”

Her voice broke completely and she had to look away. She didn’t know why she was saying all these things now, why she was breaking the covenant of silence they’d shared for so long. She couldn’t quite seem to help herself.

And once more she found herself thinking of Mitch and longing for the warm comfort of his touch. Her arms wrapped themselves around her; the gesture was unconscious but Rebecca saw it, and it made her own worn-out eyes glitter with unshed moisture.

For one moment she almost spoke up. For one moment she almost reached out to the strong, beautiful woman her daughter had become. But she’d given up that privilege a long time ago, when she’d taken her child back to the man who beat them both. And she’d forfeited the claim altogether that night she’d picked up the gun, and shot her own husband before her daughter’s bright blue eyes.