Lie to Me (30 page)

She felt sticky dampness all over her body. “Alex, please,” she said, after she’d awakened enough to concentrate. “I need to know why Reese did this.”

Alex nodded his resignation and moved to the edge of his chair. “I know you do.” He let go of her hand, rested his forearms on his knees, staring at her with steel-colored eyes that looked both angry and puzzled…

Chapter Seventeen

“How could Reese have hurt Damian?” Casey looked into Alex’s face for answers. “I thought she loved him.”

“She did.” Alex shrugged half-heartedly.

Casey waited for more.

“The cops got hold of Reese’s mother in Alabama. Reese is mentally ill, but she was stabilized on medication for seven years. When she takes her meds she’s all right, but recently she stopped. See, they made her gain weight, and she wanted to lose, thinking it would help her keep Damian—seems that’s a common reason for people to stop taking psychiatric medication, even if it’s helping—”

“God!” Casey’s head spun.

He nodded. “She started to lose touch with reality, and she locked her son in the closet for a punishment. Child Protective Services found out and took her kids away, hoping she’d start taking her meds again and get stabilized, but she left town right away. Case, she’s been in Wisconsin for several days. Flew in, rented a car, took a room at that no-name place and worked her poison from there. She hired a private eye who’d lost his license—paid him big—and he and some other unscrupulous cohorts followed Damian at all times. They knew how to do it with discretion too.”

“How—how did you find all this out?” Chills climbed up and down her arms.

“A cop friend stopped by and talked to me while you were still sedated. At the psychiatric hospital where they transported Reese, she got an anti-psychotic injection and became more lucid. She admitted that she’d had extensive plans to scare Damian back to Alabama, even if she had to use violence, and she hoped he thought it was Sam.” He shrugged. “He did.”

“The shovels to your head were—”

“Part of her demented plan. When I visited Damian’s hotel room that night, somebody knew about it and called Reese, suggesting that attacking me and leaving a note threatening all the Ballantines would be more effective than attacking
him
.” His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Contrary to popular belief,
I
was the target.”

Casey couldn’t speak. She mouthed words that she didn’t recognize, but no sounds emerged.

Alex’s lashes lowered over glazed eyes. “She knew Damian well enough to realize that if people started getting hurt because he was here, no matter who made the threats or why they happened, eventually he’d leave. He wouldn’t risk the welfare of his loved ones for too long.”

“That’s true,” she whispered. “Especially if she’d ever made a move toward me or Miles—”

“
I
was enough to make him think of leaving,” Alex said, in a grim voice. “But he thought Sam had planned the attack, and that it was meant for him and that he could stop him. Then last night with the tires—Reese hired a few goons that the PI recommended. They followed you to the mill—”

“It felt like something was wrong—”

“Something was.” He let out a long breath. “Reese named everyone, angry that they’d failed her, and they all confessed. The ones from last night are two-bit thieves; pickpockets and purse stealers, losers. No wonder they knew how to disappear fast. They’d also been fired from the mill for illegal activity, so they had grudges against all the Ballantines—when they called Reese, she gave them instructions to slash the car’s tires and to leave a note that she’d dictated to them.”

“But she didn’t want them to hurt Damian last night.” Casey tried to fit all the puzzle pieces together.

“Not then, no. She still hoped that he’d leave Weipeka and go back to her, so she wanted him unharmed.”

“She didn’t harm me either. You’d think she would have tried.”

“No, she wanted the blame focused on Sam, and knew nobody’d believe Sam would harm you. For that reason, you were spared, thank God.” Alex hung his head and, when he spoke again, he sounded tired. “When Reese called Damian last night, and Damian said he had to talk to her today, well, she knew she’d lost him to you. That changed everything.” He ran a hand through his short hair and his throat worked hard. “Just fuckin’ unbelievable.”

Casey shook her head. “Where did Reese get the money to pay for all of these spies? Sounds like she’s as rich as the Ballantines!”

“She is. She has family money and money from her wealthy ex.”

Casey shut her eyes, wishing she’d wake up from this nightmare.

“Why didn’t Damian taste the medicine in his coffee?” she mumbled, shaking her head.

“The drug doesn’t have an overbearing taste. She brewed this ultra-strong coffee, put cream in it and told Damian that the slightly bitter flavor was due to saccharin. He’d never tasted saccharin and he trusted her, so he believed her. Of course, vodka has no flavor. Fuckin’ shame that she got booze into his system again.”

“I know.” The room twirled a few times. Thinking of how Reese had tortured him ate at her. “I want to be with him so badly.”

“He’s not in shape to see anyone—”

“When he is.”
If he lives.
No, she couldn’t even consider his death.

Alex smiled at her, and she tried not to analyze a slight hesitancy in his eyes. “Let’s see how he feels when he’s medically stable. The main thing now is that he recovers.”

“Oh,
yes
!” She drew in a deep breath and suddenly realized that falling apart wouldn’t help Damian one bit. She needed to be strong for him, for Miles, and for everyone else. And, as she always did, she had to pull herself together to fit that role. She’d cried her last tear for now. Trying to ignore her throbbing arm, she said, “Alex, push the phone closer to me. I’m going to call home. I have to talk to Dad and Mom, and check on Miles.” She sat up as straight as she could and inhaled a steady breath, ready to do her part.

Chapter Eighteen

Damian had no idea how many days had passed. He heard bits and pieces of conversations and knew he’d had a close call and that he was in a hospital bed in intensive care. It wasn’t his leg this time though. He kept hearing Reese’s name and remembered she’d done something to his coffee. Sometimes he thought he saw a flash of Casey covered in blood and he knew it was because of him. He prayed she was all right and thought about her every waking moment, although, admittedly, those moments were few.

Several days or weeks later, or it could have been the same day at another time, he overheard a man talking. Although he only heard bits and pieces of the discussion, he could feel his bones chill. Under sedation, he couldn’t speak up.

“Reese put a lot of vodka in the coffee he drank.” It was his doctor.

“Do you feel he should go to detox after he’s better because he ingested alcohol?” Michael asked, in a worried voice.

Damian couldn’t believe it.
Alcohol?
He didn’t remember that. His heart sank. He’d certainly be at high risk to drink again now.

“I hear Casey’s doing well. The girl is tough. Her gunshot wound didn’t keep her down for very long.”

The words shocked Damian.
Gunshot wound?
Reese must have shot her, explaining the bloody picture that tormented him.

“Thankfully Reese has poor aim. Congressman Riske is going to make sure the woman is sent back to Alabama for sentencing or treatment. He doesn’t want her near his daughter.”

“Good. Casey saved Damian’s life.” Michael again. “If I ever had reservations about whether she and my son should be together, I can’t now. He’s put her through a lot, yet the young woman is crazy about him. Of all my boys, Damian’s the one who needs unconditional love the most.”

Damian wanted to cover his ears and go back to sleep. He didn’t want to hear anymore. Not only had Reese given him booze, but Casey had been shot on his behalf. He was hazardous to Casey’s health and just as lethal to Miles. And his father really believed he’d allow the love of his life and his son to be around him. In spite of his earlier promise to Casey, he could never be selfish enough to allow her to be involved with him, and he’d see Miles only in small increments. Thinking about his dismal future, if he survived, zapped him of the little energy he had.

“He’s losing consciousness again,” the doctor’s voice said from far away.

Damian eagerly embraced the nothingness.

One week later, in an oppressive hospital room on a regular medical floor, Damian pressed the remote on the television. He didn’t really care about watching it. Today, for the first time, the drugs seemed purged from his system and he felt clearheaded and lucid. Until now, even when he’d been discharged from ICU, he still hadn’t been alert. He actually preferred foggy oblivion to dreary reality. Now fully conscious, he had to deal with the grim truth of all that had happened to himself and Casey.

Reese!
How could he have been so clueless? She’d introduced alcohol into his system, drugged him, and shot Casey. If her goal had been to ruin his life, she’d accomplished it. Although he knew Casey was mending well, it didn’t matter. She could have easily been killed, all because of him and his poor judgment of people.

As he leaned his back against the wooden headboard of the too-small hospital bed, swearing under his breath, he thought of all the things he hated about hospitals. He actually despised everything about them. Confined to his private room, he had too much time on his hands, but his father had begged him not to walk out.

His father’s concern had touched him and he’d stayed. If the doctor didn’t let him go soon, he’d have to break his promise. There was nothing the hospital could do. Alcohol had coursed through his veins. It was his worst nightmare, and he hadn’t even consciously done it. That didn’t make it any less dangerous.

Damn, he needed somebody to distract him or he’d start tearing his hair out of his head.

As if on cue, Sam stepped into the room. His usually annoying brother was truly concerned about him. It felt good, and had become the one bright spot in the disaster. Even when not alert, he’d known that Sam had been with him a lot of the time…

“Hey there, shithead,” Damian mumbled, giving him the best smile he could. Sam wore a posh navy suit.
Shit.
He must have come straight from work. It was such a turnabout for Sam.

“Hey, asswipe.” Sam crossed to his bedside, bringing tempting smelling food in a white fast food bag. French fries assailed his senses. “I know how delicious hospital cuisine is, but I took the liberty of getting you something else.” Sam sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’m not hungry.” Even though his stomach growled, he felt too tense to eat.

Sam ignored him and laid the bag on a wooden tray that he rolled over the bed, right in front of him. “Bull. You need solid food, after being on that IV.”

“I’d rather drink than eat.” He had no idea why he’d said that. It had just popped out. Maybe, he’d said it because it was true. He’d been craving alcohol again, almost as badly as before his forced sobriety. He wanted to apologize to Sam, who frowned at him, but he couldn’t.
It was true. Why sugarcoat it?

Sam’s features relaxed and he reached inside the bag of food. He pulled out a hamburger and took a bite. Chewing, he said, “May as well drink again and join the family tradition. Mom died in a car accident. Drunk driving. She hit a semi.” He swallowed, his gaze on Damian, who gaped at him in disbelief. Sam shrugged. “Mom was an alcoholic.”

Damian’s mind rejected it; it had to be false. One of Sam’s sick jokes. “Bullshit! Mom had cancer.”

Sam dumped the rest of the food onto the tray. “Dad wanted you to think she had cancer, but I knew better. I even saw her on life support just before they pulled the plug.” He shook his head, as Damian stared at him. “Dad wanted to protect her reputation. Hid the drinking from the public. You and Alex too, but Alex found out, and now it’s time you know.”

“Stop the bullshit.” He would have hit him if he’d been stronger.
This isn’t funny…

“Dad also didn’t want you to know because he didn’t want you to think you would end up like her.” He watched him as he stuck a few fries into his mouth.

A buzzing sound filled Damian’s brain, causing his head to ache. “Liar.” He looked away from him, but, as he flung the accusation, he knew that Sam had told him the truth. It made so much sense. His father had always skirted over questions he’d asked about his mother, even to refusing to even tell him what type of cancer had killed her. He’d always get a haunted look in his eyes and say, “I can’t talk about her.”

“Dad loves you best because of Mom.” Sam’s eyes seemed to snap at him. “You look like her and—Dad says you have her personality. He loved her so much.”

Damian shut his eyes, wanting everything about his shitty life to just go away. It kept on getting worse and worse. “Mom—an alcoholic. Like me.”

“Not like you. You lived.”

“Barely.” He crossed his arms and, under his white hospital blanket, he also crossed his ankles. A chill made him tremble. He wished Sam hadn’t shared this with him, but it explained why his father had always treated him as if he were special—at least until his drinking had gotten completely out of control.