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Authors: Lisa Jackson

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Nearly three hours later, Kylie sat at Nick's bedside in the intensive care unit at Bayside Hospital. He didn't move and the tubes running in and out of his body reminded her how frail life was.
“You can't die,” she warned him, linking her fingers through his and battling hot tears that threatened her throat and eyes. “Do you hear me, you can't die!”
“Mrs. Cahill, there's someone to see you,” the nurse said.
“I don't want to see anyone. And my name isn't Mrs. Cahill. It's Kylie. Kylie Paris.” And she loved Nick. No matter what, she couldn't bear the thought of losing him. “You hang in there,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“It's the police,” the nurse clarified. “Detective Paterno.”
Kylie looked up and through the glass she saw the detective's hound-dog face staring at her.
“I'll be right back,” she told Nick, though she knew he couldn't hear her.
She hurried through the doorway and nearly ran into the policeman. “Can't I make a statement later?” she said, glancing back through the meshed glass to Nick.
“That's not why I'm here.”
“Then what? Oh, God, it's not the baby.” Panic stormed through her.
“No, no. As far as I know he's still with his grandmother and the nanny. He's fine. Eugenia had to be sedated, but the nanny, Fiona, she's a plucky thing. She and Carmen are holding down the fort.” Paterno shoved a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. “How's Nick doin'?” he asked, nodding toward the window.
“He's supposed to be okay,” Kylie said, though she wasn't convinced. “The bullet went through his spleen and they operated a couple of hours ago. The surgeon told me he would pull through, but . . .” She cast a worried glance over her shoulder. “He's not waking up.”
“He'll make it. He's tough as old leather,” Paterno predicted. “Now, I think you should come with me. There's someone I think you might want to talk to.”
“Marla,” she whispered, and a new, hot fury burned through her blood when she considered the sister who had suggested the baby scam in the first place, the woman Kylie had always wanted to best, the enemy who had tried to have her killed. Because of Marla and Alex's blind, self-centered ambition, Pam Delacroix and Charles Biggs had died unnecessarily, Alex himself had breathed his last, Conrad Amhurst had left this world a little earlier than he should have, and Nick was fighting for his life.
“Yeah. Now that her husband is dead she's talking, though she wants a lawyer. She admitted to the fake pregnancy scam and that they were lucky that you lost your memory, then they kept drugging you so that you wouldn't recall anything. They only tripped up a couple of times.”
“The ruby ring.”
“She mentioned that.” Paterno nodded. “Alex put it back in your jewelry box the next day.”
“And I thought I was going nuts.”
“She didn't know how you broke into the office, though.”
“I stole my mother-in-law's keys . . . was she in on this?”
“Nah! Clean as a whistle. Horrified by the whole mess. She knew Alex and Marla were having problems, and that the company was in trouble, but she had no idea how far it had all gone. I spoke with her and she was upset, but that nurse, Tom, he gave her a sedative and was seeing to her.”
“Good. What about Dr. Robertson?”
“We're still talking to him, but he's a big part of this, probably end up losing his license and doing time. As for the man you thought was your husband, Alex had already stopped by the nursing home earlier today and made arrangements for Conrad Amhurst. He'd already called his attorney, was anxious to get the estate probated and fast. But I guess that's all water under the bridge now. The lawyers will have to battle it out.”
“I just wish it was over,” she said.
“It will be. Someday.” Paterno slanted her a look. “This was all about money, you know. The Cahills were nearly broke, Alexander had lost a bundle in the market and other investments, then his hush money—to Reverend Favier—”
“The Reverend Donald,” Kylie muttered.
“Yes, to him and to Monty and to Phil Robertson all added up. The donations to this hospital and Cahill House were lavish, all hush money. Alex's only chance to pull out of it was for Marla to inherit. When you balked at letting him and Marla keep the baby, he faced financial ruin. He couldn't allow that and hired Monty to kill ‘Marla,' as they'd had an affair a few years back and she'd tossed him over. Even Monty was duped. He didn't know that you weren't the woman he was trying to kill until he saw her walk into the bedroom earlier today.”
“Where is he?”
“Another hospital. Under guard. His right arm will never be the same, but it won't matter. The way I figure it, he'll be locked up for the rest of his life and maybe then some. His sister is with him. Shocked, of course, but praying for his soul.” Paterno snorted. “She's gonna have to come up with a lotta Hail Marys and Our Fathers to get the guy upstairs to find forgiveness for Montgomery's black soul.”
“I don't think the Holy Trinity of God church employs the rosary.”
“Maybe they'd better start. It works for us Catholics.”
They took the elevator to the basement parking garage and Paterno led her to a squad car. “This isn't normal procedure you understand.”
“But then you're not exactly a ‘by the book' kind of cop, right?”
“You got it.” She looked through the window and found herself staring at her half sister.
“You two sure look alike,” Paterno observed.
“A curse.”
Marla's eyes thinned in a silent, horrid fury. Her makeup had long since faded and if looks could kill, Kylie would already be six feet under. “Got anything you want to say to her?” Paterno asked, and Kylie shook her head.
“It's all been said,” Kylie thought aloud, and all the envy she'd once held for Marla turned to pity and disgust. “I need to be upstairs with Nick.”
“Just thought you'd like a chance to tell her what you think.”
“Later. In court.”
Marla glared through the glass, her pretty mouth pulled into a sneer of disapproval, and though Kylie couldn't hear the words she spouted, the one she recognized was “bastard.” The barb used to hurt. Now she didn't care.
“Take her away,” Paterno said to the officer in charge.
He couldn't see, couldn't speak, couldn't . . . oh, God, he couldn't move his hand. He tried to pry open his eyes but his eyelids wouldn't budge. They weighed a ton and seemed glued shut over eyes that burned with a blinding, hideous pain.
“Nick?”
There was a touch, someone's cool fingers on the back of his hand. “Nick, can you hear me?” The voice, kind and female, sounded as if it carried from a great distance . . . far away, from a spot on the other side of the pain.
It was Marla's voice, no, not Marla, Kylie's.
He forced his eyes open and stared into eyes as green as a forest at sunrise. Pain blasted through his abdomen but he managed a thin smile as her tears rained on him. “Where ya been?” he croaked.
“I was just wondering that about you.” She sniffed loudly. “You had me scared, Cahill, real scared.”
“Are you okay?”
“Are you?” She eyed his face. “You look like hell, you know.”
“I feel worse.”
She laughed and linked her fingers through his. “Thank God, you're tough as nails.”
“I'm just glad to be back, Marla,” he said and saw the smile fall from her face. Then, when her eyes found his again, they narrowed.
“That's not funny.”
“Sure it is, Kylie.”
“I don't know where you get your sense of humor,” she grumbled, and he reached upward, surrounded her nape with his fingers and drew her face down to within inches of his.
“Well, darlin',” he drawled, smelling her perfume. “Don't worry about it. I'm the outlaw, remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“You can't,” he said with a crooked, wicked smile. “Because as soon as I get out of this place, you and me, we're gonna take the baby and Cissy up to Oregon to live and leave all this mess behind. Mother can come if she wants to, but it's my bet she won't.”
“I thought you were mad at me,” she said, trying to hold on to her soaring emotions.
“I was. But I've done a lot of thinking. We can have a good, no, make that great, life together.”
“You've been in surgery and recovery. You didn't have much time to think.”
“Didn't need it.” He winked at her and she melted. “I hate to admit it, but I was wrong when I said you were worse than Marla, Kylie. I knew you were different from the get-go and I've seen you with the baby and with Cissy and . . . with me . . .”
“Oh, did you?” She wasn't convinced, though she wanted desperately to be so.
He managed a smile. “Oh, yeah, I did and I fought it, told myself that you were playing me for a fool.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is that possible?”
“Unfortunately, it's been done before. Anyway, I guess I'm trying to tell you that I love you, Kylie Paris, and I know you did a lot of rotten things and feel guilty as hell for them, but I think, from the moment you had that baby, you changed.”
Her throat was thick and she blinked hard. “You do, do you?”
“Absolutely. You evolved into the woman you are today, the woman I fell in love with.”
“What do you know?”
“Just that you're not Marla, you're Kylie and I've never felt like this before. Not with any other woman. I would never have fallen in love with Marla again, Kylie. You're gentler, more caring and yet you have a tough side . . . you're not the woman I thought you were and that's why I love you,” he said again, his blue eyes sincere, his gaze scraping against her heart.
This time she believed him. “And I love you,” she whispered.
“I know you do, darlin'. And that's something I'm never going to let you forget.”
Dear Reader,
I've got some great news! You just read IF SHE ONLY KNEW and I hope you liked it. ALMOST DEAD, the sequel to IF SHE ONLY KNEW, is now available.
You already met rebellious teenager Cissy Cahill. Well, she's back in ALMOST DEAD. The story starts ten years after IF SHE ONLY KNEW. In the intervening years, Cissy has grown up, dropped her bad attitude, and gained a handsome, irreverent husband. On top of that, she has a brand new baby who is her pride and joy. She should be blissfully happy, right? The trouble is that her past is back to haunt her. If it isn't hard enough to be a new mother, her marriage to Jack Holt is in a major crisis. Worse yet, another killer is stalking the Cahill family! Cissy's scared out of her mind. Everything she believed in is falling apart. She also has to deal with Anthony Paterno of the San Francisco Police Department, the same man who investigated her family in IF SHE ONLY KNEW.
ALMOST DEAD was such a fun story to write! Not only did I get to bring back Cissy and Paterno (who also appeared in FATAL BURN), but I was able to set the book in one of my favorite cities, San Francisco. In fact, the Cahill House on Mount Sutro is patterned after a friend's four-story home on that very hill. I've actually stayed in the upper story with its old, watery glass, and incredible view of the bay!
I think you'll like ALMOST DEAD. To read an excerpt, just turn the page or log onto
www.lisajackson.com
. My Web site also features a new contest and information about both books.
Thanks for reading IF SHE ONLY KNEW, and please pick up a copy of ALMOST DEAD. You won't be disappointed!
Keep reading,
Lisa Jackson
A WOMAN WHO WANTS TO GET EVEN . . .
The first victim is pushed to her death. The second suffers a fatal overdose. The third takes a bullet to the heart. Three down, more to go. They're people who deserve to die. People who are in the way. And when she's finished, there will be no one left . . .
WILL DO WHATEVER IT TAKES FOR REVENGE . . .
Cissy Cahill's world is unraveling fast. One by one, members of her family are dying. Cissy's certain she's being watched. Or is she losing her mind? Lately she's heard footsteps when there's no one around, smelled a woman's perfume, and noticed small, personal items missing from her house. Cissy's right to be afraid—but not for the reason she thinks. The truth is much more terrifying . . .
INCLUDING MURDER . . .
Hidden in the shadows of the Cahill family's twisted past is a shocking secret—a secret that will only be satisfied by blood. And Cissy must uncover the deadly truth before it's too late, because fear is coming home . . . with a vengeance . . .
Look for ALMOST DEAD in bookstores everywhere!
Prologue
Bayside Hospital, San Francisco, CA, Room 316
Friday, February 13
NOW
They think I'm going to die.
I heard it in their whispered words.
They think I can't hear them, but I can and I'm listening to every single syllable they utter.
“No! ” I want to scream. “I'm alive. I'm not giving up. I will fight back.”
But I can't speak.
Can't utter one damned word.
My voice is stilled, just as my eyes won't open. Try as I might, I can't lift the lids.
All I know is that I'm lying in a hospital bed and I know that I'm barely alive. I hear the whispers, the comments, the softsoled shoes on the floor. Everyone thinks I'm in a coma, unable to hear them, to respond—but I know what's going on. I just can't move; can't communicate. Somehow, I have to let them know. My condition is bad, they claim. I understand the terms ‘ruptured spleen,' ‘broken pelvis,' ‘concussion,' ‘brain trauma,' but, damn it, I can hear them. I feel the stretch of skin at the back of my hand where the IV pulls, smell the scents of perfume, medicine, and resignation. The stethoscope is ice cold, the blood-pressure cuff too tight, and I try like hell to show some sign that I'm aware, that I can feel. I try to move, just lift a finger, or let out a long moan, but I can't.
It scares me to death.
I'm hooked up to machines that monitor my heartbeats and breathing and God-Only-Knows what else. Not that it does any good. All the high-tech machines that are tracking body functions aren't providing the hospital staff with any hope or clue that I know what's going on.
I'm trapped in my body, and it's a living hell!
Once again I strain . . . concentrating to raise the index finger of my right hand to point at whomever enters the room. Up, I think, raise the tip up off the bedsheets. The effort is painful . . . so hard.
Isn't anyone watching the damned monitor? I
must
be registering an elevated pulse, an accelerated heartbeat, some-damn-thing!
But no.
All that effort. Wasted.
Worse yet, I've heard the gossip; some of the nurses think I would be better off dead . . . but they don't know the truth.
I hear footsteps. Heavier than the usual. And the vague scent of lingering cigar smoke. The doctor! He's been in before.
“Let's take a look, shall we?”
he says to whoever it is who's
's
accompanied him, probably the nurse with the cold hands and cheery, irritating voice.
“Oh, she's still not responsive.”
Sure enough, the chipper one.
“I haven't seen any positive change in her vitals. In fact . . . well, see for yourself.”
What! What does she mean? And why does her voice sound so resigned? Where's the fake peppy inspiration in her tone?
“Hmmm,”
the doctor says in his baritone voice. then his hands are on me. Gently touching and lifting, poking, Then lifting my eyelid and shining a harsh beam directly into my lens. It's blinding and surely my body will show some response. A blink or flinch or . . .
“Looks like you're right,”
he says turning off the light and backing away from the bed.
“She's declining rapidly.”
What? No! That's wrong! I'm here. I'm alive. I'm going to get better!
I can't believe what I'm hearing and should be hyperventilating, should be going into cardiac arrest at the words. Can't
't
you see that I'm stressing? Don't the damned monitors show that I'm alive and aware and that I want to live? Oh, God, how I want to live!
“The family's been asking,”
the nurse prods.
“About how long she has.”
No! My family? They've already put me in the grave? That can't be right! I don't believe it. I'm still alive, for God's sake. How did I come to this? But I know. All too vividly I can remember every moment of my life and the events leading up to this very second.
“Doctor?”
the nurse whispers.
“Tell them twenty-four hours,”
he says solemnly.
“Maybe less.”
Chapter One
Four Weeks Earlier
Click!
The soft noise was enough to wake Eugenia Cahill. From her favorite chair in the sitting room on the second floor of her manor, she blinked her eyes open. Surprised that she'd dozed off, she called out for her granddaughter. “Cissy?” Adjusting her glasses, she glanced at the antique clock mounted over the mantle as gas flames quietly hissed against the blackened ceramic logs. “Cissy, is that you?”
Of course it was. Cissy had called earlier and told Eugenia that she'd be by for her usual weekly visit. She was to bring the baby with her . . . but the call had been hours ago. Cissy had promised to be by at seven, and now . . . well, the grandfather clock in the foyer was just pealing off the hour of eight in soft, assuring tones. “Coco,” Eugenia said, eyeing the basket where her little white scruff of a dog was snoozing, not so much as lifting her head. The poor thing was getting old, too, already losing teeth and suffering from arthritis. “Old age is a bitch,” Eugenia said, and smiled at her own little joke.
Why hadn't Cissy climbed the stairs to this, the living area, where Eugenia spent most of her days? “I'm up here,” she said loudly; and when there was no response, she felt the first tiny niggle of fear, which she quickly dismissed. An old woman's worries, nothing more. Yet, she heard no footsteps rushing up the stairs, no rumble of the old elevator as it ground its way upward from the garage. Pushing herself from her Queen Anne recliner, she grabbed her cane and walked stiffly to the window, where through the watery glass she could view the street and the city below. Even with a bank of fog slowly drifting across the city, the vista was breathtaking from most of the windows. This old home had been built on the highest slopes of Mount Sutro in San Francisco at the turn of the century; well, the turn of the
last
century. The old brick, mortar, and shake Craftsman-style house rose three full stories above a garage tucked into the hillside. From this room on the second story, she was, on a clear day, able to see the bay and had spent more than her share of hours watching sailboats out across the green-gray waters.
But sometimes this old house seemed so empty. An ancient fortress with its electronic gates and overgrown gardens of rhododendron and ferns.
Oh, she had servants, of course, but the family had, it seemed, to have abandoned her.
Oh, for God's sake, Eugenia, buck up. You are not some sorry old woman. You choose to live here, as a Cahill, as you always have.
Maybe she'd just imagined the click of a lock downstairs. Dreamed it, perhaps. These days, though she was loathe to admit it, her dreams often permeated her waking consciousness and she had a deep, unmentioned fear that she might be in the early stages of dementia. Dear Lord, she hoped not! There had been no trace of Alzheimer's in all of her lineage; her own mother had died at ninety-six and had still been “sharp as a tack” before falling victim to a massive stroke. Eugenia's gaze wandered to the street outside the electronic gates, to the area where the unmarked police car had spent the better part of twenty-four hours. Now the Chevy was missing from its parking spot just out of range of the streetlight's bluish glow.
How odd.
Why leave so soon after practically accusing her of helping her daughter-in-law escape from prison? After all the fuss—rude detectives showing up at her doorstep and practically insisting that she was a harboring a criminal or some such rot—they'd camped out at her doorstep watching the house and (she suspected) discreetly following her when Lars drove her to her hairdresser, bridge game, or Cahill House. At the last, she offered her time by administering sanctuary for unmarried pregnant teens and twentysomethings.
Of course the police had discovered nothing.
Because she was totally innocent. Still, she'd been irritated. Staring into the night, Eugenia was suddenly cold. She saw her own reflection, a ghostly image of a tiny woman backlit by the soft illumination of antique lamps, and was surprised how old she looked. Her eyes appeared owlish behind her glasses with the magnifying lenses that had aided her since the cataract surgery a few years back. Her once-vital red hair was a neatly coiffed 'do closer in color to apricot than strawberry blond. She seemed to have shrunk two inches and now appeared barely five feet tall, if that. Her face, though remarkably unlined, had begun to sag—and she hated it. Hated this growing old. It was just such a pain! She'd considered having her eyes “done” or her face “tightened”; had even thought about Botox, but really, why?
Vanity?
After all she'd been through, it seemed trivial.
And so she was over eighty. Big deal. She knew she was no longer young—her arthritic knees could attest to that—but she wasn't yet ready for any kind of assisted living or retirement community. Not yet.
Creeeeaaaak!
A sound of a door opening?
Her heartbeat quickened.
The last noise was
not
a figment of her imagination. “Cissy?” she called again and glanced over at Coco, barely lifting her groggy little head at the noise, offering up no warning bark. “Dear, is that you?”
Who else?
Sunday and Monday nights she was usually alone, her “companion” Elsa usually leaving the city to stay with her sister and the day maid leaving at five. Lars was off every night at seven unless she requested his services, and she didn't mind being alone, usually enjoying the peace and quiet. But tonight . . .
Using her cane, she walked into the halllway that separated the living quarters from her bedroom. “Cissy?” she called down the stairs, feeling like a ninny. For God's sake, was she getting paranoid in her advancing years?
But a cold finger of doubt slid down her spine, convincing her otherwise; and though the furnace was humming, she felt a chill icy as the deep waters of the bay settle into her bones. She reached the railing, held onto the smooth rosewood banister, and peered down to the first floor. She saw, in the dimmed evening lights, the polished tile floor of the foyer, the Louis XVI inlaid table, and the Ficus tree and jade plants positioned near the beveled glass by the front door.
Just as they always were.
But no Cissy.
“Odd,” Eugenia thought and rubbed her arms. Odder yet that her dog was so passive. Coco, though old and arthritic, still had excellent hearing and was usually energetic enough to growl and bark her adorable little head off at the least little sound. Now she lay listlessly in her bed near Eugenia's knitting bag, her eyes open but dull. Almost as if she'd been drugged . . .
Oh, for heaven's sake! She was getting away from herself and letting her fertile imagination run wild. She gave herself a swift mental kick. That's what she got for indulging in an Alfred Hitchcock movie marathon for the past five nights!
So where the hell was Cissy?
Reaching into the pocket of her jacket for her cell phone, she realized the damned thing was missing, probably left on the table near her knitting needles.
Turning toward the sitting room, she heard the gentle scrape of a footstep, leather upon wood.
Close by.
The scent of a perfume she'd nearly forgotten wafted to her nostrils and made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Her heart nearly stopped as she looked over her shoulder and saw movement in the shadows of the unlit hallway near her bedroom. “Cissy?” she said again, but her voice was the barest of whispers, and fear caused her pulse to pound. “Is that you, dear? This isn't funny—”
Her words died in her throat.
A woman, half-hidden in the shadows, emerged.
Eugenia froze, suspended in time.
“You!” she cried as panic swarmed up her spine. The woman before her smiled a grin as cold and evil as Satan's heart.
Eugenia tried to run, to flee; but before she could take a step, the younger woman was upon her, strong hands clutching, athletic arms pulling her off her feet.
“No!” Eugenia cried. “No!” She tried to fend off her attacker with her cane, but the damned walking stick fell from her hands and clattered uselessly down the stairs! Nearby, Coco began to bark wildly.
Oh, God.
“Don't do this!” Eugenia cried.
But it was too late.
In a heartbeat, she was hoisted over the railing, pushed into the open space where the crystal chandelier hung. Screaming, flailing pathetically, her dog still snarling loudly, Eugenia hurled downward.
The Louis XVI table and tile floor of the foyer rushed up at her.
Sheer terror caused her heart to seize as she hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud.
Crack!
Pain exploded in her head. For half a second she stared upward at her assailant standing victoriously on the landing, holding Coco and stroking the dog's furry coat; and then there was only darkness . . .

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