Low Pressure

Rather than this upsetting her, she took comfort in realizing that what was left of him wasn’t him at all. She wasn’t prompted to embrace the still body or kiss the bloodless cheek, but rather to remember all the times she’d given him hugs or kisses when he was alive and warm and able to return them.

So she didn’t address the body. Instead she spoke to the spirit she knew still to be alive. “Daddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t meet your deadline. And if… if… if I killed Susan, forgive me. Please. Forgive me.”

She whispered that plea over and over, turning it into a chant accompanied by harsh sobs that wracked her entire body. They grew so loud that they summoned Olivia back into the room.

“Sweetheart, don’t.” She wrapped her arms tightly around Bellamy. “He wouldn’t want you crying over him. That’s the last thing he’d want. He’s out of pain now and at peace.”

Bellamy knew that not to be true, but she allowed Olivia to guide her out of the room and to comfort her until they were forced to deal with the practical issues associated with transporting his remains to Austin.

Bellamy dealt with the paperwork, welcoming the distraction. She was simply too emotionally shredded to contemplate that the culprit she’d been seeking, that the individual who had caused her family so much turmoil and unhappiness, that the person her father had hoped to identify positively before he died, was herself.

Olivia had reserved a room for her in the hotel attached to the hospital. It was four a.m. before she got to bed. Surprisingly, she fell instantly asleep and slept dreamlessly. She was too exhausted to do otherwise.

Olivia woke her at ten. “Steven and William are coming straight here from the airport, and we’ll leave for Austin immediately after they arrive. I’ve ordered some coffee and breakfast to be sent up for you. Can you be ready by eleven?”

The water in the shower was wonderfully hot. She used the toiletries provided by the hotel and had enough cosmetics in her bag to make herself look presentable. The stop at her parents’ house yesterday had been fortuitous. She dressed in a pantsuit she’d packed in the suitcase. When she greeted her stepbrother and William in the first-floor lobby, she looked appropriately turned out.

“Do you have sunglasses?” Steven asked as he ushered her through the automatic glass doors and toward the limousine parked behind the hearse.

“Is that a kind way of telling me that my eyes are dark and puffy and that no amount of concealer will help?”

“What are brothers for?”

His gentle tease warmed her, and she smiled at him as she slipped on her sunglasses. However, she drew up short and her smile dissolved when she saw the man leaning indolently against a support column of the porte cochere.

Following her gaze, Steven asked, “Who’s that?”

“Don’t you recognize him from his byline photo? Meet Rocky Van Durbin.”

“Good Lord,” Olivia said.

“Jesus,” William hissed. “Doesn’t he have an ounce of sensitivity?”

“Not a drop,” Bellamy said.

“This is too much. Steven, call Security.”

“No, Olivia,” Bellamy said. “That’ll only give him the circus he wants.” Steeling herself, she said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Before they could stop her, she walked toward Van Durbin, who pushed himself away from the column and came forward to meet her halfway.

She looked pointedly at the photographer, who was already snapping pictures. “Would you please stop that?”

He waited until Van Durbin gave him a sign, then lowered his camera and ambled off. When he was out of earshot, Van Durbin said, “Ms. Price, allow me to extend my condolences.”

“Spare me the sentiment. The only thing my father’s death represents to you is another provocative article based on rumor, speculation, and your own vivid imagination.”

“Wasn’t my imagination that I saw you and your former enemy coming out of his apartment. In dishabille,” he added with a leer.

“Denton Carter was never my enemy.”

“Aw, please,” he scoffed. “He never had a kind word for your family. Your parents hated the sight of him even before your sister got killed. You gotta admit it’s kinda kinky that you and he are all smoochy-smoochy.”

“Hardly.”

“Pictures don’t lie. I’m partial to one taken at the airport, where he’s got his hand in your hair. Very sweet. Very intimate.”

Suddenly she realized that Van Durbin might actually be of help. From the bottom of her shoulder bag, she pulled out the envelope of photos he’d left on her doorstep. She took the one in which Jerry was in the background and pointed to him. “Do you know this man?”