Bound for Nirvana: (The Bound Trilogy Book 3) (27 page)

An image flashed before my mind, the sound of screeching tires and a blind sense of panic, and suddenly I felt sick to my stomach. My head swam with unfathomable images, muddled and disorderly, and I didn’t know whether they were memories or splintered scraps of dreams. I shook my head, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, hoping to dispel the intrusive suggestions from my mind.

I’d never known exactly where the accident had happened—along with everything else, I’d never wanted to—but something about this whole experience was telling me I was right there in the very spot.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm. “Angel?” The voice seemed distant, tinny almost. “Are you okay?”

Looking up, my gaze took a while to focus on the face in front of me, but as the question was repeated and the murkiness lifted, I found myself gazing back at Dominic Sloane. “Oh. Mr. Sloane. Yes, sorry. Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

I made to move, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, the action causing me stumble slightly. Sloane reached out again, his arm snaking around my waist and tugging me back out of the way of the pedestrian flow.

“Perhaps you should take a minute, you seem a little disorientated.”

“I’m fine, really. Just a headache,” I lied, trying to push away his confining grip.

“Is this where it happened?” The question was so direct and unexpected that for a moment, I wondered if I’d heard him correctly. My expression must have reflected my thoughts exactly, because he reinforced the question by adding, “The accident, I mean.”

I yanked myself free from his grip, my wide-eyed look turning into an accusing glare. “Are you following me?”

“No.” His answer was instant, his expression blank. “However, I did want to talk to you. I’ve left you several messages.”

“What do you want, Mr. Sloane?”

“It’s Dominic. And you know what I want. We entered into a contract. One which I paid you a sizeable deposit to fulfill.”

“It was a verbal agreement,
Mr. Sloane
, one which I believe my fiancé revoked. We didn’t enter into a formal contract and your payment was never cashed.”

“Fiancé?” His lip curled at the edge as if he was mocking me. “Oh, come now, you don’t have to continue with that charade when we’re alone. Wilde was marking his territory. I can’t blame him; he has a lot to lose.”

“What makes you think it was a charade?” His tone was pissing me off.

He hitched a brow like I’d asked a stupid question. “One vital thing was missing.” I frowned in confusion as he shook his head, laughing at my failure to catch on. He bowed his head leaning in real close, his lips almost brushing my cheek, my ear, as he added, “A ring?”

Fighting the smile that threatened my lips, I pulled back and raised my hand, splaying my fingers for emphasis. “What? You mean this ring?”

Something flashed across his face when he laid eyes on the sparkling gem, but it was gone before I could name it. Now he smiled an almost genuine smile, and taking hold of my hand closed his fingers over the diamond to conceal it before drawing my fingers to his lips to graze with a gentle kiss.

I watched in sheer astonishment before snatching my hand away. “Look, I don’t know exactly what it is you think you want from me, or how you seem to know so much about me, but let me reaffirm—our business is done.” I stepped to the side in order to walk around him, but he moved to block my path, taking a step closer until our bodies were almost touching.

“I can help you, Angel. Wilde?” He shook his head. “He’s no good for you. He doesn’t get you like I do. I can see your pain, feel it. Your mom died right here, didn’t she? I bet
he
doesn’t know that. He’s too busy telling you what you can and can’t do…”

He went on, but I’d stopped listening. I’d tuned out the second he mentioned my mom, his words getting lost, his voice blending in with the noise of the city around me. His close proximity, his warm breath on my face, his words, were prodigious, suffocating. The tears that burned my eyes fell onto my cheek and then his fingers were stroking my face, brushing them away, his arm folding around my back to bring me into a tight embrace. Horrified, I reached up, shoving him with brutal force in the chest and turned to hurry away from him.

Before I could progress, he’d grabbed my arm. “Wait. I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to… I didn’t mean to…”

“Leave me alone!” I hissed the words with as much connotation as I could muster. Then tugging my arm free, I disappeared into the streaming current of oblivious pedestrians.

I didn’t stop for breath until I reached the safety of the elevator in our apartment building. My mouth was dry, my heart beating frantically from my haste. Drawing in deep, replenishing breaths, I swiped at the smudged mascara beneath my eyes, pinching my cheeks to restore the color to the pale complexion staring back at me in the elevator mirror. I’d toyed with the idea of being upfront with Ethan about my confrontation with Sloane—for all of two seconds. I wasn’t sure what his strange… obsession was all about yet, but the last thing I needed at the moment was Ethan up on a murder charge. One thing at a time.

When the elevator slid to a halt on the penthouse floor, I braced myself for whatever news I was about to hear. Ethan was staring through the grand glass wall when I entered the lounge, a glass filled with amber liquid clutched firmly in his hand. He turned to face me, his expression unreadable, his eyes searching mine before narrowing in question. “Angel? What is it? What’s wrong?”

Who was I kidding to think I could successfully mask my emotions? Either he knew me too well, or I was wearing them with as much lucidity as Joseph and his coat of many colors.

I shook my head and shrugged. “Just nervous, E.”

“Course you are. Sorry, baby. Come here.”

Without pause, I moved across the room and into his embrace, his arms folding tightly around me as he lowered his face to kiss me softly on the lips.

“We have a name, don’t we?”

“Yes, baby. We have a name.”

Ernest Schrader lived in a 1940’s-built house in Hicksville, Nassau County. It had taken over a week to psyche myself up enough to make this journey, the name
Ernest Schrader
rolling around in my head like something I should be familiar with but wasn’t. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d expected when I heard the name for the first time. Perhaps I imagined I’d know the guy, to yell, “Hey, yeah that’s him, Ernie. I know Ernie.” But of course I didn’t. I’d never heard of him. The thing I guess I’d anticipated the least was to have an address. Somewhere in the part of my brain, which may have afforded some time to consider this man, had assumed he’d either be untraceable or dead.

Yet here I was, sitting outside his somewhat shabby property, with its neglected stucco walls and flaky window panes. The garden appeared to be the only thing that received any attention. It was small, but neat, with finely trimmed edges and a variety of rose bushes. For some reason, I hated rose bushes.

In my mind, I’d gone over and over what I was going to say, praying that I would hold it together, be polite, and remember Ethan’s words.
He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been anyone
. I’d pictured a large, balding man with an overhanging belly, his shoulders constantly hunched as he hooked his fingers into belt loops to hoist up his pants.

The sound of clattering garbage cans disturbed a neighborhood dog from his mid-morning nap while a teenage boy on a bike rode leisurely past the Bugatti for the second time, his perusal of the gleaming bronze vehicle ominously curious. Ethan leaned out of the open window, tilting his sunglasses to make a point to the boy that his interest had been noted. He pulled up his hood and rode swiftly down the road and out of sight.

I turned to meet Ethan’s gaze, warm with patience and reassurance, his hand reaching out and folding around mine protectively. Instinctively, I pulled it to my face, breathing in the scent of his skin, and thanked God he was mine and there to do exactly this—to hold my hand.

“We don’t have to go in if you’re not ready,” he murmured gently. “We could drive around for a while and come back. Or we could just go home.”

Smiling faintly, I shook my head. “No. I’m ready.”

The buzzer didn’t appear to work, so Ethan rapped gently on the front door. After a few seconds, the sound of a bolt sliding in its groove and a key rotating in its lock had my already frayed nerves feeling as if they were being torn to shreds. My pulse picked up its pace, hammering wildly in the dip of my collarbone, and my throat closed tightly around my windpipe.

The door opened, only a fraction at first, a gap probably designed to ascertain if we were welcome visitors or nuisance callers. Ernest Schrader must have decided on the former, as within a moment the door swung open and a pair of worn, brown loafers stepped forward.

I knew what Ernest Schrader was wearing on his feet that day because it took a while for me to gather the courage to drag my gaze away from his shoes and slowly up a pair of loose fitting pants and sweater, which practically smothered the stick-thin body before me. I gaped at him in bewilderment. This tall, skinny old man with papery skin and watery eyes was nothing like what I’d expected. I remember wondering why he was so old, the man in my imagination was in his fifties, but Ernest Schrader must have been late seventies, at least.

The expression on his face was one I recognized. I’d seen it recently, when Ethan’s parents had laid eyes on me for the very first time.

Ethan cleared his throat. “Mr. Schrader, we’re sorry to bother you. My name’s Ethan Wilde. This is my fiancée, A—”

“I know who she is. I’ve been expecting her for nearly a quarter of a century.” He paused, glancing once at Ethan before adding, “You’d better come in.”

The room encompassed too much furniture, a smell of beeswax and stale food lying heavy in the air. A dark mahogany fireplace stood stark and foreboding, thick with the remnants of powdery, charred wood. On top lay an array of juxtaposed ceramics and tankards, disregarded and layered with dust. On a small table in the corner was a half-eaten bowl of soup.

“Can I get you a drink? Tea? I don’t have coffee, don’t get many visitors.” His voice was croaky, but surprisingly firm, considering his slight stature, and I suspected he’d once been rather a stalwart man. I shook my head.

“Do you have water?” Ethan asked.

Ernest Schrader blinked his watery eyes. “Course I got water. Got a tap, don’t I?” He shuffled off into what I supposed was the kitchen, calling out as he went. “Take a seat.”

The sofa was brown velvet, shiny in patches where the fabric had worn thin over the years. We sat down, both of us perching uneasily at the edge of the seat as Mr. Schrader returned with a glass of water and handed it to Ethan.

“You look a lot like her.” He sat down in the armchair opposite. “The woman… your mom. I’ve thought about her a lot over the years—every day. The image of her face has never left me.”

There was a long pause, both men waiting patiently for me to respond, but all I could do was stare at the old man.

Ethan cleared his throat again. “Mr. Schrader, the reason we’re here—”

“I thought about tracking you down many times.” He cut Ethan off again, his focus concentrated solely on me. “To explain. Bite the bullet before it comes to shoot me in the ass, so to speak. I didn’t know what the best thing was. I knew you’d be here to find out why one day. The guilt over your mom was harsh enough to bear, but the lying… That’s been eating me up ever since—both of us. Well, until—”

The expression on Ethan’s face reflected mine, confusion blended with horror. He held up the flat of his hand. “Wait. What lies? What are you talking about, Mr. Schrader?”

The deep wrinkles in the old man’s face seemed to smooth out somewhat, his expression changing to one of surprise. He turned swiftly to Ethan. “Why
are
you here?”

Ethan rubbed his fingers over his chin thoughtfully, his jaw bunching as the cogs of his mind worked frantically. “Mr. Schrader, would you mind telling us exactly what happened on the day Mrs. Lawson died. There are some… discrepancies with the police report and what my fiancée remembers. We were hoping you could fill in the blanks.”

Mr. Schrader looked worried for a second, cautious. Then suddenly his features softened, as if he’d resigned himself to some inevitable, long awaited fate. His watery gaze moved from Ethan and back to me. “What exactly do you remember?”

“Why don’t you just start at the beginning,” Ethan said, his voice gentle, coaxing.

The silence in the room was deafening; the only sound cutting through the stillness was that of my heart pounding frantically as I waited to hear Ernest Schrader’s story. This was the moment which could elicit the forgotten horrors of that fateful day. Memories that had lain dormant in my unconscious mind, but which had plagued my conscious mind with blurred snippets for almost my entire life. Part of me still wasn’t certain I wanted to hear it. But that was the part that sat frozen to the spot, unable to move or speak on the brown velvet sofa, inside Ernest Schrader’s shabby house.

The old man rummaged inside his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his pale, runny eyes. “Betty wanted to go into New York City to celebrate her birthday; meet with friends—drink. Always drink.” He saw the question in both our eyes and answered without prompting. “Betty’s my wife… was my wife. She was a drunk.” He looked down at his hands as if it was a confession of some sort. “We had a fight. About the drink. She wanted to stay in the city for the night, party until the early hours, but she’d been throwing them back all afternoon and I said she’d had enough, wanted to take her home. I was trying to get her into the truck when she grabbed the keys and started the engine. I didn’t want her to get pulled over by the police or have an accident…” His words trailed off slightly as he realized what he’d said. “… So I just jumped in next to her. She was doing okay. I was managing to get her to keep the speed down, was talking her into pulling over so I could take the wheel. I saw the man first—”

Ethan glanced at me, the same look of bewilderment on his face as I was sure was on mine.
What man?
For a moment, I wondered about the state of Ernest Schrader’s mind and what the hell he was talking about.