Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
The way Isabelle spoke to me upsets me. I don’t like being threatened or intimidated, so I just collect my things and decide to drive to my parents’ house.
I see Linc’s bodyguard in the foyer and tell him I need to pick up some personal items from the store.
He calls the front gate and I drive through without a problem.
I turn in the direction of my parents’ house and then change my mind when I see a beat-up old Dodge following close behind.
I noticed it parked a short distance from the front gate as I left.
I make a few unnecessary turns and it follows so I head for the mall.
If this is some creep, I don’t want him knowing where I live and the crowded mall will offer me plenty of protection.
I park and scoot across the parking lot and disappear.
I hope the mass of mostly tourists will cover my back.
I walk slowly, watching behind me in the reflection from the store windows, and purchase a nice loaf of bread and a pastry.
The aroma of coffee calls to me and I order one from a quaint little place I frequented before I went to college.
Nothing has changed in the mall, apart from a few new stores, and I take my coffee to a table and sit down to drink it.
With people all around, I’ll be safe enough.
It’s nice being away from Isabelle’s scrutiny, and even with the buzz of conversation and chinking of silverware around me as people eat their meals, I can think.
There are so many questions to be answered.
The entire setup of the Boswells’ home is unsettling and the strangest thing is none of the males in Isabelle’s family seem to like her—they just tolerate her.
Oliver is a strange one, lost in his world of gaming but making a fortune.
I’ve noticed him watching me, whenever he leaves his room.
It’s unsettling to feel eyes on me and turning to see him staring at me unblinking.
He seemed honest enough when we talked but it’s as if he has a secret to tell me and can’t muster the courage.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I scan the food court.
A man is staring at me. He is unkempt and wearing dirty coveralls, with a ballcap pulled down low.
Is this the driver of the old Dodge? My heart races at the thought.
I drop my gaze to the pastry in the open paper bag and tear off another small piece and then peer at him from under my lashes.
His gaze is intent and he’s just sitting there, both hands flat on the table each side of a to-go cup.
I want to get up and walk away but instinct tells me to wait for him to leave first. I sip my coffee and stare in the opposite direction but I can still feel his eyes on me.
A chill runs down my spine as a male voice, low and husky, calls my name.
I flinch and turn to see a man in his late thirties with dark hair, thick set, and medium height staring at me.
I know who he is. My brother. The resemblance to my father is incredible.
I stare at him, the cup halfway to my lips.
“Do I know you?” I take in the man’s dress.
He’s wearing neutral tones and is quite trendy in tailored shorts and a crisp cotton shirt.
This can’t possibly be the guy from the beat-up old Dodge.
“Not yet.” The man indicates toward the table. “Mind if I join you? I figure it’s time we talked.”
My heart is thumping so hard in my chest I figure it will burst out and bounce across the floor. “I don’t make a habit of inviting strangers to sit down and have coffee with me.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m your brother.” He places a to-go cup of coffee on the table and drops into the chair opposite. “I’m Damon. Dad asked me to hunt you down, and to make sure you don’t cause any trouble.”
I grip my cup tightly to avoid him noticing my hands shaking and take a long sip. I force myself not to get up and run as fast as I can to my truck. “I never told him my name.”
“He might be in prison for attempted murder but he is allowed to know the name of anyone who wants to visit him.” Damon shrugs nonchalantly and his lips curl into a smile.
“I found you in a few hours and had you followed but I figure you spotted the old Dodge—right? I know you headed this way, so all I needed to do was wait for you to show and all I have is time, Alani.”
He’s had someone follow me. Words escape me. It’s as if my father is sitting in front of me. A much younger version but he might as well be his clone. The voice is exactly the same, as is the smile. “How could I possibly make trouble for him? Isn’t he in jail for life?”
“Twenty-five years and that’s almost over.
” Damon raises both eyebrows. “He was found guilty of kidnapping and raping your mother. They didn’t have enough evidence to convict him on the murders.
” He leans back in his chair and shrugs.
“He did murder those women and admitted it in a podcast but they can’t convict him because it’s double jeopardy.
It’s made him the man in prison. The thing is, when he gets out, they’ll be watching him like a hawk. ”
I place my cup on the table. “I didn’t bother to research him. I have no interest in him whatsoever. The only reason I went to visit him is to discover the name of my birth mother. I was adopted, as you probably know, and I wanted to reach out but then I discovered she’d been murdered.”
“Yeah, that was pretty spectacular, wasn’t it?” He chuckles. “I figure after so long had gone by, she must have believed she was in the clear. Setting the scene like the Linc Boswell’s song was a nice touch, wasn’t it?”
I can’t breathe. He’s speaking about my mom as if she’s trash. Suddenly dizzy, I stare at a drip running down the side of my cup. It’s in slow motion and I run my fingertip over it. “Did you murder her?”
“Me?” He stares deep into my eyes. His dark blue eyes are almost black, soulless. “I wish—but I’ve seen the crime scene images. Maybe you should ask Linc Boswell.”
I blink, not understanding why the Boswells would have anything to do with my mom’s murder.
I have already established that he was over on the other side of the country the night she died.
“What could Linc Boswell have to do with my mom’s death?
As you have obviously been following me and know what I’m doing you’ll know that I’m working on Isabelle Croft’s memoirs.
He was on the other side of the country the night Rachel died.
The police did a thorough investigation and cleared him. ”
“Oh, the link to the Boswells goes way back—well, let’s say Isabelle Croft’s involvement. I can see you haven’t researched her very well either. For someone in your business, I’d say you’re not doing a very good job. I mean, you didn’t know about me, did you?”
I stare at him, uncomprehending. “What on earth are you talking about? I don’t really care if you exist. I’m disgusted that I’m the product of a rape by your father.”
“Our father.” He sips his coffee. “You really don’t know anything about the night you were born, do you?
It was Isabelle Croft who talked your mom into giving evidence against our dad.
It’s her fault he’s in prison—you see, he was very careful.
He planned everything and never left any evidence behind.
He was like a ghost. Your mother should have died.
He was just cleaning vermin from the streets.
Can you imagine the amount of disease she spread over the last twenty or so years?
She should have met her end earlier. I went into foster care when he was arrested.
She didn’t care about me, did she?” He shakes his head.
“Revenge is sweet no matter how long it takes.”
Trembling all over, I gape at him. Then who killed her?
Anyone meeting Damon would get the impression he’s a nice guy—but that’s a psychopath’s trait.
I can hear Barnes’ words echoing in my mind: He’s just like me.
I want to get up and leave but something makes me remain in the seat just staring at him.
“He’s a psychopath. He should never be allowed back on the streets. ”
“It’s genetic you know.” Damon smiles at me with all the guile of a fox.
“Our grandfather went to war because he enjoyed killing people.” He leans across the table and eyes just like my own bore into me.
“Admit it, Alani, you’ve felt the urge to kill too, haven’t you?
When something goes wrong, or another woman looks at your man—I bet you wish you could pull out a knife and stab them.
Don’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes.
You would do it to me if you could right now, wouldn’t you?
You see, that would be very foolish. If you ever plan to kill someone, make sure you do the groundwork.
” He finishes his coffee and pushes his chair away from the table as he stands.
Placing two hands flat on the table, he stares down at me.
“Don’t step out of line with these memoirs.
Our dad doesn’t want gossip leading to other charges.
The cops will grab at anything to delay his release.
Who knows what else that narcissistic faded movie star will do to get noticed.
I’ll be watching you and, sister or not, to me you’re no better than your mother.
” He turns and slowly walks away, stops and looks at me over one shoulder. “Don’t make me take out the trash.”