I Think I Love You (28 page)

DO have the courage to cut harmful people out of your life.

Justine lay in the bed, smoking in the dark. Her tear ducts were completely tapped. It was mind-boggling how much the world could change in twenty-four hours. The love of her life was dead, and the only other man she'd ever loved, her father, was presumably on the lam. And it was her fault for luring Dean back so she could exorcise her demons.

She tapped ash into the dish sitting on her chest. She should have never come back. Monroeville was like some kind of bad karma vortex that seemed determined to suck her inside whenever she breached the city limits. Only last night Dean had been with her, warm and alive, and on the verge of making love to her. Now all her good memories would be overshadowed by the sight of his beautiful mouth slack, his unbelievable black eyes vacant and his stylish clothes bloody. She closed her eyes, but the image of him remained.

The smell of fresh blood, the deadweight of his body, the uncooperative stiffness of his limbs.

Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the screen.

Lando. Her spirits lifted curiously, and she pressed the talk button. "Hello."

"It's Lando."

"I could sure use a little good news."

"The Pirates won on the road tonight."

"You're going to have to do better than that."

"Sorry. No news."

God, if only one piece of this nightmare would end. "I'm starting to lose faith in a police department that can't find a gun-wielding housewife."

He made a rueful noise. "The consensus is she's holed up somewhere and... never mind."

She closed her eyes. "And that she's taken her own life?"

"No," he said unconvincingly. "Don't jump to conclusions. How are things in Mayberry?"

She took a drag and exhaled. "Not as quiet as you might think."

"Oh?"

"I'm in trouble, Lando."

"How can I help?"

Tell me how to fool a polygraph.
"Tell me everything's going to be okay."

"Everything's going to be okay."

That made her smile. "So why are you calling?"

"I wondered if you needed for me to do anything around your house while you're gone, like water your plants."

"All my plants are plastic."

"Oh. Guess you don't have pets, either."

"Nope."

"Hm. You have something against live things?"

"Just live things that expect something from me."

"Ah. It's not so bad. You should start off slow, maybe an aloe vera plant. Those are hard to kill." A beep sounded in the background. "Listen, I have to get that. Take care of yourself."

"I'll try."

She disconnected the phone and for some stupid reason, the tears were back. And the anger. Her glance strayed to the chest where her nutmeg was stashed. She longed to be transported from this misery for a few hours, but she resisted on principle alone—Mica had made her out to be some kind of addict, which was ridiculous. She looked at the bathroom door and gritted her teeth. Correction: this mess wasn't her fault, by God; it was Mica's.

Mica.
How ironic that she'd been so thrilled when Cissy and John had brought that wriggly little baby home from the hospital. At five years old, she hadn't imagined that the black-headed infant would wreak so much havoc upon her heart and her life. No matter who had actually pulled the trigger that killed Dean, Mica shared the blame for the events she'd set into motion years ago. And during their interrogation, the little witch had done everything to point the finger at
her.

She snubbed out the cigarette, passed the ashtray to the nightstand, and sat up. Mica, as usual, was coming out on top. She'd taken Dean when she wanted him, had allowed him to help launch her career; then she'd gotten rid of him when he became a nuisance. Now she'd simply return to LA and to her agent-lover, then go on with her charmed life. She'd probably never even miss Dean.

A person can't just go through life destroying relationships and get away with it!

Rage boiled in her stomach. Mica had been getting away with things her entire life. It was high time that she pay.

Justine walked to the bathroom door and opened it noiselessly. By the dim glow of a night-light she found her toiletry bag and rummaged until her fingers found the item she was looking for. She held them up to the light and smiled.

Long, strong, sharp scissors. She put her hand on the knob of the door leading to Mica's room and turned it quietly.

Chapter 23

After a breakup, DO try a new hairstyle.

Mica's eyes flew open, and she was relieved to see daylight streaming into her bedroom. But on the heels of her relief to be free of the general torments of the dark hours came the profound sadness of remembering: Dean was dead.

Her eyes filled instantly and stung around the raw edges. She couldn't bear it, knowing he would soon be sitting in a little urn at Williams's Funeral Home. She didn't know what else to do—Dean didn't have any family, and she couldn't afford a funeral. They didn't have a stitch of insurance. Cremation was the most economical choice, although she let Tate Williams believe it was Dean's preference—a "Hollywood" thing. No one in Monroeville had been cremated to Tate's knowledge, and since he didn't have a crematorium, he'd have to ship Dean to Boonton after the autopsy, then have his ashes carted back, but they'd be ready for "viewing" tomorrow evening. Too late she found out that ashes couldn't be buried in an inexpensive cemetery plot, as she'd hoped, and since she didn't have money to buy a tiny crypt, she told Tate she'd take the ashes with her.

She rolled over on her side and toyed with the end of her black braid. Tears curled over her cheeks and onto the pillow. Dean was dead, and her father was missing, presumably running from the law. She was conflicted—grieving for Dean, yet she couldn't bear the thought of John wasting away in prison for killing him. They wouldn't lock up an old man, would they? Not if he'd committed a crime trying to protect his daughters? Couldn't everyone see that Dean had it coming, that he plowed through other people's lives, burning through relationships and discarding them when they were no longer useful?

Mica closed her eyes and thought of all the issues plucking at her. She needed to call Everett and break the news of Dean's death and to brace him for a potential scandal. And see how quickly he could get her back to work, even if her health wasn't yet stellar. Before she returned to LA, though, she'd have to take a polygraph regarding Dean's murder. Luckily, she'd seen a movie where the person put a tack in the toe of their shoe and pressed down when they wanted to distort the readings of the machine.

She'd be fine if she didn't bleed to death.

Then there was the Bracken case hanging over her head, which would be yet more bad publicity for her and for Uncle Lawrence. Rising starlet, love triangle, sensational murder, political relative, family skeletons, missing father, jealous sister, disoriented mother. All the makings of a celebrity scandal show.

She wondered how Justine was holding up—it was obvious that she was still in love with Dean. Seeing her sister in her wedding gown the other night, wearing rings that had never been exchanged, had shaken Mica to the core. Over the years she'd imagined Justine immersed in her successful corporate career, dating powerful men and commanding respect from everyone around her, with no time to dwell on the past. And although she'd expected Justine to harbor hurt feelings toward her for leaving with Dean, she hadn't expected that Justine would still harbor such deep feelings for him.

Before Dean arrived on Tuesday, she and Justine had been making progress toward healing their relationship. Today she would make an extra effort to reach out to her. After all, they could at least attend the memorial service together, grieve together. And they would need collective strength to help John and Cissy through whatever lay ahead. Maybe something good could come from all this sadness—maybe their sisterhood would be restored.

She sat up with a sigh, her limbs gloomy from the painkiller she'd taken last night. The medication had worked better than usual, though, she thought as she rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder, stretching the muscles. Her neck hadn't felt this good in a long while. Maybe it was the extra sleep she'd been getting. Or the extra calories she'd been forcing herself to consume. Or perhaps the infection had affected other areas of her body and was now leaving.

She reached for her purse and pulled out her cell phone. It was still early on the West Coast, but she wanted to get the call over with. And Everett had told her to call him anytime, day or night. As the phone rang, she cleared her throat and reminded herself to sound strong and in control—she wanted to come across as healthy and billable.

"Hello?"

His voice gave her such comfort, she wished she'd called him sooner. "Everett, it's Mica."

"Mica, how are you? Where are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm at my parents' house in North Carolina. But I'm afraid I have some bad news." Out of habit, she reached up to rub her neck, marveling once again at how good it felt. And how...
breezy?

"Mica?"

Panic and confusion gripped her as she groped thin air where her hair used to be. She twisted and froze at the horrific sight in her bed. A long severed black braid, vivid against the white pillow.

"Mica?"

She screamed.

Chapter 24

DON'T underestimate the therapeutic value of placing blame.

Regina stood in the kitchen, drinking mostly cream laced with a little coffee, waiting for bread to toast so she could take a tray up to Cissy, who was bedridden and desolate over John's disappearance. Regina knew how her mother felt—as if things would never be good again.

She heard a noise on the side porch, and her heart jumped. John? She walked to the door and was a little disappointed to see Justine sitting in a glider with her feet tucked under her. She opened the door and Justine started.

"You're up early."

Justine lifted a half-smoked cigarette to her mouth. "Couldn't sleep."

"That makes two of us. I made coffee—want some?"

"Sure."

She set the toast aside for the time being, then poured another cup of sludge. She carried hers out, too, and sat across from Justine in a chair. Two birds trilled to each other from separate trees.

Come over here.

No, come over here.

No, come over here.

Typical male and female.

A breeze stirred, prodding a new day to life. Nature had already forgotten yesterday. If only humans could be so lucky.

After a few silent sips, she sighed. "Justine, I never slept with Dean."

"As if I care." Her voice was flat.

"I care, and I want you to know the truth. It happened two years before you were to be married, and it was only a kiss."

Justine's cheeks went concave as she drew on the cigarette. "But he
wanted
to sleep with you."

She was silent, then added, "I'm sorry, Justine, for not telling you, for not warning you. I was ashamed, and I didn't want to hurt you."

"Forget it, Regina. I know that it was Dean's doing—you don't have it in you to be bad."

Why didn't that sound more like a compliment?

"Have you seen this?" Justine picked up a copy of the Asheville daily newspaper—Monroeville's weekly paper wouldn't come out until Monday—and extended it. "It's the Metcalf family special edition."

The front page featured Dean's death and what must have been the only picture of Dean the reporter had been able to get his hands on, a high-school-annual shot taken before Dean had dropped out of school. He couldn't have been more than fifteen. Handsome and cool-looking, with challenging black eyes. Mean eyes, she decided. There was also a picture of the back of the antiques shop cordoned off with police tape, a graphic quote from the hefty dump truck driver, and a paragraph about local businessman John Metcalf, who had been missing since the incident and was considered a person of interest.