Saving Grace (Madison Falls) (34 page)

Fighting back reflections of the theatre fire that by now seemed like a lifetime ago, she focused on the soothing glow. An ache at the base of her skull had started to crawl upward, and she rolled her head back to ease it. The role of Carmen was at her fingertips. Why was she suddenly so tempted to stay put?

She grabbed another piece of wadded paper and drew her hand back, stopping just short of launching it into the flames. Something compelled her to uncrinkle it, and she held the image of Kirk’s sickening smirk up in front of her.

She jerked her eyes away. Devon was right—it was best for her to get rid of this. Mementoes of him would do nothing to ease her pain.

She tried again to feed it to the fire, but stopped. The temptation to take one last look pulled at her. She smoothed out the paper. Forcing her eyes into sharp focus, she realized something wasn’t right. What was it?

Images from that weekend in Chappaquiddick rolled to the forefront of her mind. She squinted, making out the details of the two Blackthorns Kirk had been so swollen with pride over. Since the finer points of the other artwork he owned had made no real impression, they remained fuzzy to her eye.

She studied the photo, unable to shake the feeling that something was different—wrong—about it. It was obviously recent, judging from the diamond stud on prominent display in his right earlobe. She concentrated her focus.

Then it hit her like a maestro’s downbeat. Something was hanging in the spot that had been vacant when she’d visited—the spot Kirk had reserved for a third Blackthorn. Her stomach clenched. Pulling the paper closer to her eyes, it became clear.
The painting in the photo was her Blackthorn
.

Her mind raced. What was going on? The painting had burned. She’d seen it.
No
. She’d seen the
crate
burn. Realization stabbed her heart. It wasn’t really her painting that had burned because Devon had already sold it—sold it to
Kirk
.

“I hope you’re in the mood for Merlot. I…”

Her head snapped up as Devon entered the room carrying two glasses of red wine. He flicked a glance at the paper in her hands and his expression subtly shifted.

“Tracy—”

“You sold my painting.” She stood, the paper quivering in her grasp. “How could you do that?”

He set the glasses down on the end table and held up his hands in defense. “Just listen to me. I knew we could get more money from Kirk than from another collector in an auction and I was right. The guy practically jumped through the phone the first time I called him.”

“You contacted him.” She weakened like a rag doll at the thought. Add Devon to the list of people who had betrayed her by sidling up to Kirk. A rage burned in her stomach. “But how could you sell it without asking me? It was mine.”

“Tracy, I knew you’d never agree. You would have let your fear stand in the way of making a wise financial decision. I knew I could sell it without ever letting your name enter into the transaction.”

A bitter taste filled her mouth. To think she had entertained romantic notions about this man. That she’d trusted him.

“Besides, don’t you see the beauty of it?” He gave up a carefree grin. “You would have been building your safe fortress against Kirk using his money. Don’t you love the irony of that?”

Her stomach roiled. She’d refused Kirk’s money and gifts for so long, desperate not to be beholden to him. Now he was dead because of her. How could she feel right about taking his money?

Her mind clouded in confusion “So you just gave me an empty crate?”

“Not empty exactly. It had Sophia’s swap meet find in it. I needed to buy some time.”

“Buy some time? I don’t understand. If the painting was already gone, why didn’t you just tell me?”

He sputtered a laugh, looking sideways as if to imply that the answer should be obvious. “Because I wanted to surprise you.”

“
Surprise
me?” As if she hadn’t had enough surprises. “You undermined me.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” He let out a nervous chortle. “It’s not like I wasn’t going to give you the money.”

The money
. Her wrath softened. The painting wasn’t gone after all. She’d been so focused on her outrage that she’d overlooked her restored hope for the money. Maybe this situation wasn’t as bad as it seemed. “How much did you get?”

He hesitated, stammering out an answer. “You know what it’s worth.”

“Yes, but you said you got more. How much did Kirk pay you?”

His eyes darted around nervously. She held up her palms. Enough with the surprises—why couldn’t he just tell her?

Nerves tingling, she lowered her head in an attempt to catch his eye. “You must have a receipt—a bill of sale. Something like that.”

Letting out an audible breath, he reached for his briefcase, producing a sheet of paper which he held out to her. She stepped toward him, hand extended, and took it.

A tremble of excitement enveloped her.
Two point five million!
She could give Sam all he needed and more. She could stop the casino deal. She could start a foundation for victims of stalkers. Maybe Devon’s actions hadn’t been so ill-advised after all.

Just then her enthusiasm blurred. Something wasn’t adding up. She looked into his silver-blue eyes. “So, what changed?”

His already-tentative smile grew fainter. “What do you mean, ‘what changed’? Kirk is dead.”

“I know that.” Her pulse made an alarming
ka-thump
as she forced her tired mind to focus. “I’m talking about
Carmen
. Why do I all of a sudden have to leave this minute or lose the role?”

Almost imperceptibly, a storm crossed his face, filling her with a sickening sense of dread. She’d seen that look on Kirk’s face the night he stabbed her, and again a few hours ago in her car.

Her chest tightened as the situation gained a frightening clarity—she was in danger and Sophia knew it. Sophia had been warning her.

Her dull mind instantly whipped into a whirlwind. What was she going to do? Her eyes darted toward the front door as she did a quick calculation of how long it would take her to reach it if she bolted. It was no good. He was too close. He’d cut her off.

“Look,” his voice took on a demanding tone, “I’m offering you a major role. I don’t think you’re in any position to be asking questions.”

She straightened her spine, faking a confidence she didn’t feel. “I can leave tomorrow, but I’d like to handle my own travel arrangements.” Forcing the tightness from her shoulders, she stepped toward the door, as if intending to see him out. “Just give me my money and let me get some sleep.”

He stood fast, the storm in his eyes brewing. “You don’t want me to look like a fool, do you?”

“Of course not, but—”

Suddenly, he charged at her, grabbing both of her arms as she let out a terrified shriek.

Chapter 42

“Stop it!” Devon’s voice was filled with an unearthly rage. “You’re stalling. It’s too late. You’re trying to ruin everything, but it’s not going to work!”

Grace gasped, fighting futilely against his powerful grip. “Just…just give me my money and get out of my house!”

“So you think I’m stupid?” His voice dripped with disdain. “You’re the stupid one—handing over a valuable piece of artwork to someone you barely know. What kind of idiot does that?”

She cringed. He was right.

“So you sold my painting.” Her voice was barely a whimper as she writhed. “Why didn’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because I’m not that dumb.” His eyes crinkled in condescension as he wrenched her in closer. “I knew that pretty soon you’d figure out what happened. When you realized it was Sophia’s swap meet junk in the crate instead of your Blackthorn, I knew you’d try to find me. See, I have enough people gunning for me after my last investment deal went down the drain. You’re not the only one who’s been laying low.”

She drew in a sharp breath. Was that what Ty had meant by ‘disappearing off the face of the earth’?

“Besides,” one corner of his lip curled up. “Turns out you’re worth almost as much as that painting.”

A cold weight settled in her heart. She felt the pull of evil in his voice that brought with it a portent of doom. “What do you mean?”

Coldness filled his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Grace’s head spun in a dizzying whirlwind of comprehension. Sophia hadn’t told Kirk where she was. It had been Devon.

His face registered her realization. “Business is business, Tracy. It was a simple business transaction. A ‘finder’s fee’, if you will.”

Nauseated, she forced her over-adrenalized body to stand strong. “How much?”

“You want to know how much you’re worth? I might as well tell you.” His chuckle was disturbing in its glee. “A million up front and a million upon delivery.”

Delivery?
Her knees gave way and it was all she could do to remain upright. She choked back a gasp.
How could he deliver her to a dead man?

Given the choice, she’d rather not find out.

She’d have to focus. Pulling in a breath, she forced her arms to relax, which mercifully loosened his grip on them.

Without warning, she sliced her hands up through the space between his arms, twisting them down and forcing him to release his grip. Spinning around, she bolted toward the dining room, pushing through the door into the dark kitchen. Sensing Devon on her heels, she increased her speed, heading for the sun porch.

Just as she was about to run through the doorway, a figure appeared, blocking her way. Unable to stop her momentum, she collided with the solid form. Reflexively, she stumbled back, squaring a horrified look at the tip of a switchblade. The shape stepped from the darkened sun porch into the dimly-lit kitchen and Grace froze. It was Kirk.

“Surprised to see me?”

Shock filled her chest. She raised her hands to her mouth, feeling the heat of Devon’s presence at her back. She was trapped.

Looking like he’d returned from the dead, Kirk towered over her. His jeans and T-shirt were torn and filthy, and the gruesome gash on his forehead was impossible to ignore. Even in this light, she could see that blood had dried on his face and shirt.

“Sinclair,” Kirk spoke past her while his eyes remained set on her. “Get the rental. It’s parked around the corner.”

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it over Grace’s shoulder. A sickening
jangle/thud
was followed by the sound of Devon moving through her house and out the front door.

Kirk let out a maniacal chuckle. “Imagine my disappointment when I opened my eyes to find you gone.” He raised the tip of the blade, pointing it at her throat. “If you were smart, you would have taken my cell phone with you. It was just plain luck that your friend Devon answered when I called.”

She took a backward step toward the kitchen door, her foggy mind fighting to form a plan.

Kirk let out a laugh. “I suppose you heard they found my expired body in that beater car of yours?”

She managed a weak nod, confusion narrowing her eyes.

“Obviously, they didn’t really find me. They found some guy who was unlucky enough to look like me.”

Grace’s blood ran cold.
Carson?

“It was Sinclair’s idea. He saw that guy at his cabin.”

Grace’s stomach curdled as the story unfolded.
Poor Carson
.

“Devon…
killed
him?”

“You catch on fast. We knew a Podunk operation like the local sheriff’s office wouldn’t check dental records or anything that sophisticated, but we did think they might make you identify the body. We had to be thorough.”

She shuddered. Faking an interest in his story might buy her some time. “So you traded clothes and put his body in the car and—”

“Gave it a little push. Simple.”

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll check for footprints, or tire tracks?

“Nice of you to worry, Jessica Fletcher. Let’s just say we covered our tracks. We both know what we’re doing when it comes to making things go our way.” He assumed a look of mock regret. “Oh, sorry about your car. Good thing you won’t be needing it anymore.”

She calculated. If she made a dash for the front door, he’d have her before she hit the foyer. She’d have to distract him, and she’d have to be quick.

Hours of acting class congealed in her mind. Her flare for the dramatic was about to come in handy.

In one swift movement, she pinned her gaze on the kitchen window behind Kirk and, as if she suddenly saw something horrendous beyond the glass, let out a blood curdling scream.

Her action served its intended purpose, catching Kirk so off guard that he momentarily lost focus and turned to look. She was off like Secretariat, racing through the dining room as if her life depended on it and trying to forget that it did. She made it to the foyer when he caught her by the arm, whirling her off her intended course and into the hallway. He somehow whipped her around, forcing her to face him. One hand gripped her arm like a vice while the other leveled the point of the blade directly at her throat.

“Bravo.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his eyes flaring. “Quite a performance. Too bad the diva has to die in the third act.”

Fear coiled up her spine as she tried to pull away but his grip only tightened. She let out a sob. The futility of her struggle fueled her panic.

His eyes flickered in a quick double take toward the bathroom. “Hey, I have an idea for the climax scene.”

Grace felt her body grow weak.

He pulled her into the bathroom, slamming her back against the open door and releasing his grip. He held the blade in front of her nose. “This could be the greatest performance of your career,” he sneered. “Too bad there won’t be any critics to commemorate it.”

Her chest heaved with pure panic.

He sent a cold glance toward the bathtub “Remember Julie—how you found her? I like the poetry of you going out the same way.”

Grace heard a mournful wail of a voice she barely recognized as her own. The sharpness of the blade pushed at her throat and she felt her air being cut off. An acute pain shot through her, along with the awareness that she was going to die.