Trespassing(82)

It’s wrong.

But I want it. I want to feel real. Like a woman. Not like a shell in which to implant and nurture embryos that won’t develop.

I nudge a knee between his legs.

Feel the heat of his breath on my lips. His warm hands on my body. His thumb daring to brush along the contour of a breast.

I shiver with anticipation of letting go of the chaos . . . if only for a night.

The trill of a phone startles me.

Christian lets out a breathy laugh, but he keeps kissing me. “You should get that.”

“Go ahead,” I say against his lips.

“It’s not mine,” he says between kisses. “It’s coming from your purse.”

So it is. I unzip my purse and yank out my cell phone.

My fingers instantly tense.

“Oh my God,” I manage to say.

The call comes from a blocked number.

“Hello?”

A whisper, familiar only because I’ve heard it before, answers me: “I see you.”

“Who is this?”

The caller is still whispering: “Veronica?”

“Yes.”

“I’m watching.”

“Who is this?”

Click.





Chapter 44

“You’re sure?” Christian asks his niece.

I hear Andrea’s voice, filtering through the speaker on Christian’s phone. “I’m looking at her right now, Uncle Chris. She’s sleeping on the sofa.”

“Is the door locked?”

She asks her sister: “Emily, is the door locked?”

“Lock the door!” Christian says.

“Okay, already. It’s locked. What’s going on? Should I call the police?”

“Just don’t let anyone in.”

“Obviously.”

“We’re on our way back.”

By the time we arrive at my place, I’ve lost my sandals—maybe I left them on the beach—and my feet are killing me. I’ve heard the girls insist that my daughter is fine, but I’m not convinced, won’t be convinced . . . not until I’m holding her in my arms.

This is my punishment. I shouldn’t have been doing what I was doing on the beach. I shouldn’t have been enacting revenge for Micah’s irresponsibility . . . let alone allowing Christian Renwick to take part in it with me.

The entire run back from the beach has exhausted me, and I don’t even think about the sand I must be trailing in with me until after I unlock the door and after I’m seated on the sofa, cuddling my safe and sleeping little girl.

Whatever effect the mojitos had on me, it’s gone now, slapped out of me with the fear of losing everything.

“What happened?” Emily’s asking.

Christian’s explaining, but everything happens in a fog, in the distance.

It’s almost as if I’m tuned in only to the sound of Elizabella’s yawn and the sweet sigh she emits as she tosses her arms over my shoulders. She’s fine. Thank God, she’s fine.

I hear the police in the periphery, but I can’t focus on what they’re saying.

I stroke her baby-soft hair and rock her in my arms. I kiss her warm, rosy cheeks and study her, as if memorizing every detail of her face.

Members of the KWPD walk through my house, while another takes notes from here in the living room, as if keeping an eye on me.

What’s the crazy lady going to do next?

But I didn’t imagine any of it. It happened. Christian was there when I answered the phone. He knows—and maybe Key West PD will assure Detective Guidry—that I couldn’t have generated that call.

Emily and Andrea sit on the floor opposite me, trading glances. If twin telepathy exists, I’m sure they’re sending each other messages about me. Maybe they’ll take their uncle aside and urge him to sever all ties with me. It might be good advice.

The officer stationed in the room with us asks questions: Any idea who might’ve called? Did you recognize the voice? Has anything like this happened before?

In the interest of furthering the investigation, I answer the questions, but I know my answers will only serve to put more suspicion on me. No one can help me. History keeps repeating itself.

I have no doubt Detective Guidry will find a way to trace the call—just like the one before—back to me. Because everything leads back to me. Just like after Mama died.

My prints were on the knife.

Her blood was all over my body.

The mix of emotions I experienced back then stirs in my heart now. Never had I known I could love someone and fear for her, fear because of her, worry for her, and despise her all at the same time.

It’s the same way I now feel about my husband.

Between horrific scenes of my past, I tune into the present, hear the police inquiry and my answers, as if I’m watching the whole thing on the nightly news:

Yes, we’d been drinking.

No, not so much that I could have hallucinated.

Yes, I’d told Christian about Micah.

Yes, I’d originally told him my husband had died.

Christian’s going to think I lied to him because it’s apparent now that Micah’s death is not confirmed. I should have updated him. I should have told him sooner. He’s going to think I’m hiding something—especially after I just spilled my guts about my mother.