Overkill(21)

Eban formed a heart with his hands. “Because he’s a married man.”

“Yeah, he is, and he’s all in. He loves Melinda, and she adores him.”

“Can you name a woman who didn’t?”

“No,” Theo said with a wry grin. “But when he met Melinda, and things got serious, he made sure she knew about his past. He owned up to all that wild shit we did, and she loves him in spite of it.” Quietly, he added, “She loves him in spite of Rebecca Pratt. That would be a damn hard thing for a woman to accept and forgive.”

Theo picked up the stem of the strawberry again, looked at it as though puzzled as to how it had come to be in his hand, then dropped it back into the dish. “Even if Cal wasn’t devoted to his wife, he’s got to stay on the straight and narrow for another year, Eban, or he’ll be slapped in prison. That goes for me, too.”

Eban stabbed his index finger into the table as though driving a nail. “Don’t forget that I’m the one who actually went to prison.”

With rare boldness, Theo said, “Which was only fair. You’re the one who actually did the deed.”





Chapter 9





Eban Clarke can’t be brought to justice as long as Rebecca is still alive.

The sound waves of Kate’s statement seemed palpable. Though softly spoken, it had substantial impact, and the odious implication of it wasn’t lost on Zach.

His declaration of refusal was equally hard-hitting. “I won’t do it.” He left his chair, went over to his front door, and pulled it open.

“Zach—”

“You could have saved yourself the drive up here.”

“Please just—”

“Take your wine with you.”

He left the door standing open and headed for the staircase. He didn’t look back as he climbed up to the second level and walked along the gallery until he reached his bedroom. He went in and shut the door behind him.

Then he stood with his back to it, rhythmically tapping his head against the wood, the heels of his hands pressed hard into his eye sockets. “Jesus Christ.”

He remained like that while a chant ran through his mind. “As long as Rebecca is alive.” Kate Lennon hadn’t said those words as a taunt, but the imps inside his head did. They repeated them in a diabolical singsong.

After minutes, he pushed himself away from the door and went into the bathroom, where he stripped off his hiking clothes and got into the shower. He turned the water on full blast, stood directly beneath the rainfall shower head, and turned his face up to it.

It had taken him four years to get his life to the point where it was at least comfortable. He had his home, he was financially secure, he was in the best physical condition ever. He could go into a coffee shop and not be hounded by either devotees or detractors. He would never have total anonymity, but he was close.

Primarily, he had what he’d most coveted: distance from the tragedy of Rebecca.

Now this.

But suddenly it occurred to him that this unexpected development didn’t have to change anything. He could leave things exactly as they were and let the future play out as it would without any participation from him. He didn’t have to do a goddamn thing. He wouldn’t. He’d told Kate Lennon I won’t do it and he’d meant it.

He would take a knee.

Having resolved that and feeling marginally better, he scrubbed himself from head to toe. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and left his bedroom. From the vantage point of the gallery, the silvery crown of Kate’s head shone like a beacon. She was still seated on the sofa, gazing into the fire, although the front door was no longer standing open, so at some point she’d gotten up to close it.

Even though he was barefoot, she heard him coming downstairs and turned her head. He said, “It won’t do you any good.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is you’re going to say. I want you to leave.”

“I know how difficult this must be for you.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You have no fucking clue.”

“Then enlighten me, Zach. Talk to me.”

“I’m through talking. Bye.” He motioned toward the front door, then headed for the kitchen.

He flipped on lights and went into the pantry, where he ripped open a box of energy bars and took out two. When he came out of the pantry, she was standing in the kitchen doorway, which actually came as no surprise because he’d heard her heels tapping against the floor as she approached the kitchen.

But he noticed that she’d swapped this morning’s heels for a pair of flats. No wonder she’d looked so diminutive while taking in his house, sitting on his sofa, standing close to him while he poured her wine. He wished he hadn’t noticed.

He held up one of the bars. “Want one?”

“No thank you.”

He tossed the extra onto the island, peeled the wrapper from the other, and put the end of it between his teeth, where he held it as he moved to the fridge and took out a bottle of orange juice. He got a glass from the cabinet and filled it with the juice.

When he turned around, she was seated on one of the previously unused counter stools, back straight, knees primly together even though she was still wearing the pants outfit she’d had on that morning.