No!
Under the ice, Santana saw her give up. Watched as the woman he loved let out her final, dying breath.
CHOSEN TO DIE
445
No, Regan, damn it, you’re not going to die on me! Tugging on the rope that had wound around her arm, he pulled hard, simultaneously swimming toward the surface, to the hole that was only a few feet away. His lungs burned, but he wouldn’t give up, swimming hard, as hard as he had on the high school swim team. Reaching the surface, he broke through, gulping air, dragging her with him, cradling her head close to his chest as he hung on to the uncertain ice. The rescue team from the helicopter had lowered a man near them.
“Hold on,” he whispered into her wet hair. “Damn it, Pescoli, don’t you die on me. You got that?” His voice broke and he cursed himself for his weakness, but he kissed her head and said, “I love you, Detective. Damn it all to hell, I love you.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Freedom!
Finally.
After half her life spent in that miserable institution, Padgett Long would never again have to pretend. She stood at the railing of a small bistro in Sausalito. No one else was outside, the outdoor furniture bundled in a corner, the other patrons clustered at tables surrounding a huge gas fireplace in the center of the restaurant.
The night wind was brutal. Cold. Smelled of the Pacific as it tore at her hair. But she lifted a glass of champagne to her lips and stared across the dark, choppy waters of the bay to the lights of the city, glowing bright, towering toward the heavens. God, the taste of freedom was sweet.
And finally she could start the rest of her life. Somewhere within the hilly slopes of San Francisco was Cahill House and within its secretive walls: answers. About her baby.
CHOSEN TO DIE
447
He would be a teenager now, lengthening out to become a man, probably growing whiskers, maybe fighting acne. Did he look like his father? She smiled to herself and shivered. No one but she knew the identity of the man; no one could guess. Everyone would probably think, if they knew, that her child had been sired by Billy Hicks who called himself Liam Kress.
Fool!
He’d been interesting. Intriguing with a cruel, guiltlessness to him that had intrigued her as a rebellious youth and had come in handy later on, when she’d found it necessary to use it for her freedom. A few infrequent references to the fact that as long as Brady was alive, she was imprisoned in the act she’d created.
Truly, she’d never really thought Billy would kill Brady. Not that her bully of an older brother hadn’t deserved to die. A bullet had been too kind. In Padgett’s opinion, Brady should have suffered. He’d tried to kill her when he’d found out she was pregnant, that there was another heir to their father and grandfather’s fortune. But she’d survived, had her child and feigned her condition. Not that it hadn’t existed, she thought now, as she felt the wind tear at her hair.
When she’d first been dragged from the water, near death, she’d barely been able to see or hear or connect the dots. She hardly remembered her son’s birth and that still tore at her soul.
Well, Brady certainly got his.
Compliments of Billy Hicks and his belief that Padgett had loved him. Sorry. Billy was just a means to an end. And he, too, had suffered a well-deserved fate. To think he was a serial killer. A real whack job!
448
Lisa Jackson
Jesus!
She had known he was twiggy; had seen his savage streak and even understood why it existed, but she’d never thought he would actually go out and hunt women in some bizarre scheme. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Now, Brady’s death, that had been necessary. Payback. But all those women . . . She studied her champagne and frowned. A little sad. But mostly angry that she hadn’t understood how vile Billy had been. Not that she could have done anything to alter things. Had she uttered one word or ever attempted escape, she was certain her brother, Brady, would have killed her. As long as Brady had thought she was out of it, mentally unable to pull a clear thought together and certainly not capable of speech, Brady hadn’t worried about her. Stupid, stupid man.
A real bastard.
All that blood is thicker than water talk was nonsense, perpetuated by ninnies who liked to stitch soothing quotes on pillows. Blood runs pretty damned thin when money is in the picture.
So now . . . Padgett was rich. And no longer hiding behind the walls of a sanitarium. She took in a long, chilling breath and held it in her lungs as she closed her eyes, then smiled as she exhaled. She could, finally, begin her life. And it started just across the cold, windswept bay.
To Cahill House.
Where she hoped to find answers.