Perfect in My Sight (30 page)

Perhaps Sarah was being a bit melodramatic, but she refused to take a single sip until
Ruth did. She didn
’
t trust the woman. Someone had drugged her tea once before, and she had been completely
oblivious to it.

Not this time.

Ruth lifted the cup to her lips and then paused, lowering it and settling it once
more within its saucer. Sarah
’
s gaze focused on her cup.
“
Would you care for sugar?
”
she asked Sarah.
“
How remiss of me! One lump or two?
”

“
One,
”
Sarah answered, placating her. She blinked, lifting her gaze to Ruth
’
s face. Her eyes revealed nothing—nothing at all.

“
I take mine without,
”
Ruth disclosed.
“
So I completely forgot to ask. Forgive me.
”

“
Not at all,
”
Sarah replied, and turned again to peer out the window. The street was much too empty
for her comfort. Someone passed by the window every so often, but not nearly often
enough to give Sarah any sense of ease.

Ruth
’
s smile faded a bit.
“
You seem nervous,
”
she remarked, watching her, and Sarah sucked in a breath.

“
Not at all,
”
she lied.

Ruth smiled.
“
Good!
”
And she pushed Sarah
’
s cup and saucer nearer to her.
“
But you should drink anyway,
”
she demanded.
“
It
’
s a special blend to soothe the nerves.
”

Sarah reached out to pull the saucer closer, her hands trembling.

“It will do you good, I think
... You have been through so very much, my dear.
”

Sarah lifted a spoon to stir her tea, stalling. She didn
’
t have to drink.

She wasn
’
t going to.

Ruth couldn
’
t force her.

But this was a dangerous woman, with blood already on her hands, and Sarah
’
s fingers trembled as she stirred. The chink of silver against porcelain rang like
a death knoll in her ears.

Peter entered through the Twelfth Street entrance and hurried toward his bedroom,
hoping to find Sarah there.

Once he was certain she was safe, and his son as well, he intended to confront Ruth
with the message she had given him. She had to recall who delivered it. It was imperative
he discover who had sent it. His gut told him that whoever had penned that message
had malicious intent, and he was going to find the bastard if it was the last thing
he did.

The police may have closed the investigation, but he didn
’
t believe their conclusions for an instant. Two murders in one home in the space of
six years was entirely too much of a coincidence. Perhaps it didn
’
t matter to the New York police that two innocent women were dead now, but it damned
well mattered to Peter—particularly when the first had been his wife and the mother
of his child, and the second intended to be the woman he loved.

He loved her, dammit—knew it without a doubt. He couldn
’
t stop thinking about her, couldn
’
t get her out of his mind. And the possibility that she might be harmed frightened
him as much as it might to lose his son.

Opening his door, he found his room empty. Desperation made him call out her name.

“
Sarah?
”

He burst through the door and walked through his room, toward the adjoining room,
calling her name once more.

“
Daddy!
”
a little voice called out.

Peter froze.
“
Christopher?
”
His gaze scanned the room, searching for his son.
“
Christopher?
”

“
Daddy!
”
he called out again, sounding frightened. His voice was coming from beneath the bed,
Peter realized suddenly, and fell at once to his knees.

“
Christopher!
”
He crawled toward the bed, reaching under to drag him out. His son
’
s expression was filled with confusion and fright.
“
What the devil are you doing under there?
”

“Miss Sarah told me to stay
!
”
Christopher said at once. Peter seized him by the arm, pulling him out. He came willingly,
dragging a small book with him.

Peter was confused. What was he doing under the bed? And why would Sarah ask him to
hide there? And why would she leave him alone? Where was she?

“
Why did she tell you to stay there?
”
Peter demanded at once.
“
And what is that in your hand, son?
”
he asked, reaching for the book.

“
It
’
s the boogeyman
’
s, Daddy!
”
Christopher exclaimed, releasing it to him.
“
I showed it to Miss Sarah and she made me hide it under the bed. She said I hadda
show you when you came, and told me not to come out from under the bed
’
cept if you came.
”

Prickles of fear shot down Peter
’
s spine.
“
What are you talking about, Christopher?
”
He took Christopher into his arms and sat on the bed with him, examining the book.
He opened it.

June 10, 1879

He’s going to marry the bitch!

His brows lifted. Good God! Whose words were these? Though he sensed he knew. He closed
the journal, searching for a name on the binding. There was none to be found. Who
was going to marry what bitch?

“
Where did you find this, Christopher?
”

Christopher launched into a frenzied explanation of his and Sarah
’
s morning discussion and his nightly visitor, and of the smelly book he had discovered
deep within his wardrobe.

Peter listened with a growing sense of unease. He lifted the book to his nostrils,
breathing in its strong floral scent, and then flipped the book open once more, turning
pages. Frowning, he stopped at a recent date
...

March 20, 1886

I was right! I knew it!

I saw them
returning today from their walk
...
Peter might deny his interest in that woman, but the flowers in her hand prove otherwise.
Men are such pigs! How can he so easily find himself swayed by a stranger with a pretty
face? God, he does not even seem to care that she is blind!

I will not be discarded!

I will not be abandoned!

And yet I know he will, and so easily. Just like his father!

No! I must not allow her to wheedle her way into this home.

There must be a way to be rid of her. I did not work so hard all these years to lose
everything now. Nor did I bloody my hands with Mary’s death to see it all wasted.

There must be a way, and I shall find it...

The hair on his nape stood on end as he read, and his heart began to hammer. Just
like his father... Mary
’s death...
Whose words were these? A sense of urgency forced him to flip to another page and
read.

March 23, 1886

I don’t know what to do! Everything seems lost.

The fire didn't work! The drug was supposed to keep her asleep until morning...
How did she smell the smoke? She’s wheedling her way into his graces—don’t seem to
know how to stop it. There must be some way! I won’t lose everything—won’t!

I know someone who might help—he did
once before... greedy little hoodlum.

Tomorrow I’ll search him out.
There must be some way to be rid of Sarah Hopkins!

Peter swallowed convulsively. His head registered what he was reading, making sense
of the words. His heart refused to believe it... the fire ...

April 3, 1886, was the next entry...

Nothing works!

God! She has the lives of a wretched cat!

Today’s accident was almost too much—I am running out of opportunities. And Peter
is growing suspicious. She gets closer and closer and there is nothing I can do. Nothing!
That shameless harlot is a danger to all I have built. Peter would have had nothing
were it not for me! They say it was Mary’s money that saved him, but the stupid fool
would never touch Christopher’s funds—all the more for me! What bloody good is money
to a boy who cannot see! Peter would have ended with nothing but the clothes upon
his back were it not for contacts I have given him. Me! Without me, Peter would have
nothing!

He bloody well owes me. And he owes me everything! I will not stand by and watch him
give it all to some witch with a pretty face.

I will not lose everything!

This time I’ll not leave it in somebody else’s hands.

Peter thought he was
going to be ill. The carriage a
ccident
...
Ruth? Were these Ruth
’
s words? How vas it he had never seen her hatred before now? What had he ever do
ne to incur it? She had always b
een distant, never sharing much of her thoughts or
her
time with him, but she had given so much to Christopher. He had never guessed at
the fury she lid behind the em
ptiness of her eyes—had always b
elieved she
’
d simply lacked a pas
sion for life. How wrong he was...

Her next entry seemed confused...
fragmented thoughts... angry and yet subdued...
The laudanum, he thought...

What is today’s date?

My head is killing me.

One day has passed since that night. One day and another...
half. Is that right?

My last entry is marked the 3rd So it must be the 5th April 5, 1886. How ironic that
it should be nearly six years to the date since Mary’s death.

God, I can’
t believe it. Everything I
have tried has failed. If I don’t do something, I will lose everything. How unfair
to be in this position—why me? Why?

Damn the unfairness of it all!

Damn Sarah Hopkins—Woodard—or whatever the hell her bloody name is!

Peter already suspects—yet I cannot kill him. No, can’t kill Peter. They will put
him away...

Sarah should be the one dead. Not Mel. Little liar! She wasn’t blind! God, she isn’t
even blind, and Peter seems not to care that she lied her way into this house!

How much did she see the night of the fire? How much does she know? I must find out
tomorrow. Over tea. I’ll talk to her. Find out. Tea would be good. Can’t fail.

If I fail, it will be the end.

I refuse to fail.

Scratched into the bottom of the page with sue! force it made Peter
’
s gut twist was
...

Die, Sarah! Die!

Peter
’
s reaction was physical. He felt it like a punch to his gut. All these years he had
harbored his wife
’
s murderer. She was his goddamned sister! How had he been so blind?

His hands shook as he set down the journal, and his heart pounded as he looked at
his son.

“
Christopher,
”
he said sternly, taking him by the shoulder and gripping him firmly,
“
this is very important, son.
”

Christopher nodded.

“
Everything will be all right, but I want you to stay here in this room. Can you do
that for me?
”