The Last Invitation (3)
Jessa really didn’t like this type of man at all. He seemed benign. Came off, at first, as caring and devoted. Completely shocked that his wife wanted to end the marriage and clearly taken by surprise by her choice after an unimportant fight that got out of hand, or so his explanation for kicking his wife out went. But here, today, the real Darren peeked out.
He suddenly smiled, as if they were having a conversation about the weather or some other innocuous subject.
Jessa found the fake-calm version of Darren even creepier than the fury-spewing version.
Darren’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You should know if anything happens to my son before I can fix your mess, I will kill you.”
The words, so delicately delivered, so cool and unruffled, shocked her. “Excuse me?”
But Darren had walked away. He headed in the direction of the sheriffs, holding out his hand and introducing himself. Politicking, as was his normal state.
His attorney finally stepped in front of her. “Did you want something?”
Some backup, jackass. “Now you show up?” When the other attorney frowned, Jessa tried again. “Your client just threatened me.”
“He seems fine to me.” He glanced at Darren before looking at her. “He’s making friends, as usual. He’s a natural. You should know he’s not a man who’s accustomed to losing.”
So entitled. “We’re talking about custody of his son, not a business deal.”
The attorney laughed. “You act like he knows the difference.”
Chapter Four
Gabby
Hours after she’d walked into Baines’s library, Gabby sat across from two police officers at the dining room table Baines had fought so hard to win as part of the divorce division of assets. The man hadn’t picked out anything for the house, not so much as a napkin, but he’d fought for every stick of furniture, plate, and curtain in the room.
The male officer, the one in uniform, looked at her with concern. “Do you need us to call someone for you?”
Gabby stared into the hallway and watched various forensic and other professionals walk in and out of her former house. Right now, it felt like the whole world was clomping around the property.
This time the woman on the other side of the table tried. “Mrs. Fielding?”
The sound of her voice had Gabby’s head snapping back to the conversation at the table. The last few minutes, hours, or whatever amount of time had transpired since she walked into Baines’s office blurred together. Gabby couldn’t remember calling the police or letting them in. Her last memory . . . fuzzy. She saw Baines slumped at his desk, and her world stopped.
“I’m Detective Melissa Schone,” the woman continued.
“Detective?” For the first time Gabby realized the other woman wasn’t wearing a uniform like the officer beside her. Her black suit in sharp contrast to her pale skin and white-blonde hair. The unusual combination came off as striking.
The detective cradled a glass of water, but her hands didn’t hint at her age. She could be in her forties or fifties. Gabby couldn’t tell. She looked at her own palms. They shook as she turned them over, studying every hard-earned line of her thirty-nine years.
“We know you’ve had a terrible scare, but could you answer some questions?” the detective asked.
Maybe? The visit with Baines came back to her in pieces. Distorted and uneven. Gabby didn’t know if she could trust the flashes in her mind.
Fear. Blood. Baines.
Gabby asked the first thing that popped into her head. “He’s dead?”
The male officer nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Gabby waited for the sadness to hit her, but the haze blanketing her and blunting her emotions, making every memory cloudy, hadn’t lifted. She remembered coming here to fight for time with Kennedy . . . Kennedy! Oh, God. How was she going to tell Kennedy about her dad? Baines doted on her, gave her anything she wanted. This would devastate her.
An anxious churning moved through Gabby. She gulped in air but still couldn’t pull in enough breath. “I need to go to my daughter.”
“First, tell us what happened here,” Detective Schone said.
Trapped. The word spun around in Gabby’s mind. She needed to get through this before she could leave, so she forced her body to sit still. She tried to concentrate on relaying the events even though a few of the words stuck in her throat. “I walked in and saw him slumped in his chair.”
“The door wasn’t locked?” the detective asked.
“I have a key.” A fact Gabby now regretted. “Wait . . . the door was unlocked. I never used my key. Maybe.” She shook her head. “I honestly can’t remember.”
“Okay.” The detective continued with what sounded like a preset list of questions. “Why were you here today?”
“Custody stuff.” The snippets fell into place and a final, horrifying memory flashed in front of Gabby, nearly cutting off her breath. “All that blood.”
“Yes, we believe your husband—”
“Ex.” Gabby grabbed on to the one thing that resonated with her. The only thing she could control. “We’re divorced.”
She forced herself to stop there. She had a habit of babbling when she was nervous or trying to hide something. She didn’t want any thought about the latter creeping in as she talked.