You Belong to Me (37 page)

Barb paled. ‘I understand. You’ll take care of her, won’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said without hesitation. ‘Can you answer one more question?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Did her parents come to her final recital, when she played the
Adagio
?’

Barb frowned, anger flashing in her eyes. ‘No, they never came. Not once. It was like they threw her away. It broke our hearts.’ She drew a breath. ‘And hers.’

Tuesday, May 4, 11.25 A.M.

Fitzpatrick was uncharacteristically quiet as he opened the door to her apartment. CSU had put their own lock on the door, so Lucy’s key no longer worked.

‘Maybe that’s why he put the heart in Gwyn’s place,’ she murmured. ‘He doesn’t have the key to my place anymore.’

‘Maybe. But I don’t think so any more than you do. He knew you were there, Lucy. And whether you want to admit it or not, the people who knew were there in your club.’

‘I know.’ He was right on both counts. The club’s staff had known. And she didn’t want to admit it. She went to her bedroom, thinking about the last piece she’d played for Mr Pugh.

Fitzpatrick had cried. Mr Pugh had cried, of course. But he always had, even before the Alzheimer’s. He’d cried the first time she’d played the piece in high school. But Mr Pugh’s tears were different – he’d been an artist. A musician.

And more of a father than the one who’d borne her.

But Fitzpatrick . . . his tears had given her a jolt, just as they had that day in the autopsy suite.
And the way he looked at me
. Like he’d been trying to see . . .
me
.

She opened her bedroom door tentatively, but her room looked exactly as she’d left it. ‘I’ll be quick,’ she said, proceeding to pack yet another suitcase.

Fitzpatrick’s gaze roamed the room, coming to rest on Lucy for a long moment before sliding toward the bed against the wall. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and her heart suddenly pounded in her throat.

‘I didn’t expect pink . . . or lace,’ he said gruffly.

Her bedspread was frothy, lacy and very girly. It was the bed she’d always dreamed of having all those nights she’d slept in a plain dorm bed.

‘Not everything can be black leather,’ she said, intending for the words to come out light and airy. Instead they were as deep and gruff as Fitzpatrick’s had been. His dark eyes flashed dangerously, his hands flexing before curling into fists at his sides.

With a great effort she made herself turn around and march into the closet.

Her closet was nearly empty. ‘I can’t have any more clothes become part of a crime scene,’ she grumbled. She gathered the few work outfits she had left and stood staring at the black dresses that remained. ‘How long will our club will stay closed?’ she called.

‘Another day at least,’ he said from right behind her.

Startled, she spun around. He stood inches away in the closet doorway. His face had taken on a sharp edge. Stubble already dusted his jaw. He looked like a pirate eyeing his booty.
Which would be me
. She should tell him to step back.
I should
.

‘Maybe more than a day,’ he added, leaning closer until the lapels of his coat brushed her breasts. He stretched, reaching his arm over her head to her closet shelf and she had to concentrate on not ducking. But she stood her ground and when he straightened, he held a pair of stiletto heels in his hand. ‘Better take a dress or two,’ he said. ‘Just to be sure.’

She closed her eyes, her body pulsing in all the places it shouldn’t. ‘You are so bad for me,’ she whispered.

His chuckle was dark, sending shivers down her back. ‘I think you were bad long before I arrived.’ Reaching over her shoulder, he pushed at hangers. ‘Hm. A shame.’

When she opened her eyes, he had several leather dresses hanging from his crooked finger. ‘What’s a shame?’

He grinned wickedly, his dimple coming into full view, making her want to reach up and touch it. ‘No outfits like the one Gwyn had on last night.’

Gwyn’s bustiers were the stuff of legend. ‘There’s only so far my bad goes.’

His brows rose. ‘And how far is that?’

She looked away, remembering his motorcycle helmet. And the alley.
Can’t forget about that. As if
. ‘Let me change my clothes. I’ll meet you in the living room.’

With a frown he laid the black dresses and the shoes across her bed. ‘All right.’

She changed from the scrubs into a plain navy sheath and jacket, then packed the rest of the clothes into a suitcase. Pausing, she stared at the black dresses on the bed and swore before putting them on top. ‘Just in case,’ she muttered. In case of what, she wasn’t sure.

Tuesday, May 4, 11.40 A.M.

He looked up from the photo he’d been studying when Lucy dragged her suitcase into her living room, the duffle that he now knew held her violin over one shoulder. She’d changed into a dress with another skinny skirt. He eyed the suitcase, hoping she’d packed the black dresses.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at the frame in his hand. She was annoyed that he’d intruded into her personal life, but he didn’t care. This case revolved around Lucy. The more he understood about her and the faster he understood it, the better. They needed to catch a killer before he could burn letters into any more backs or slit any more throats.

Especially Lucy’s. The very thought made his blood run cold.

He turned the frame so she could see. ‘It’s you and Mr Pugh.’

She took it, brushing at non-existent dust. In the photo was a young Lucy wearing a school uniform. She sat in a chair, a violin under her chin, her bow at her side. Her very serious eyes were fixed on Mr Pugh who was playing his own violin, his expression one of great joy.

‘I remember this day,’ she said wistfully. ‘It’s hard to remember him like he was, then see him like he is today.’

‘You love him.’

Her eyes flashed up to his, filled with pain. ‘He’s been . . . like a father to me.’

While hers peeked at her from behind window blinds. ‘You were young in this picture.’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Barb said it was a residential school.’

Lucy’s cheeks flushed. ‘Barb sometimes talks too much.’

‘Why were you in a residential school?’ he asked intently. ‘Please tell me.’

She lifted her chin. ‘You could ask Mrs Westcott. She’d be happy to tell you.’

‘I’m not asking Mrs Westcott. I’m asking you.’

‘Fine.’ She squared her shoulders, as if facing a firing squad. ‘I got into trouble and got sent to a home for “troubled girls”.’

His brows crunched slightly. ‘How did you get into trouble?’

‘I broke into Mrs Westcott’s house. Then she accused me of stealing from her.’

His brows crunched more. ‘Why did you break into her house?’

‘There was something there I wanted.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Lucy, are you going to tell me the whole story or do I have to dig it out of you with a grapefruit spoon?’

She put the frame back on the shelf with a weary sigh. ‘Westcott’s got a son.’

JD rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Let me guess. He knew your brother and Edwards and Bennett and Agar.’

She frowned. ‘Yes. Sonny’s the same age, played on the team with my brother.’

‘Linus.’

One side of her mouth lifted sadly. ‘He hated that name. My mother’s maiden name is Buckland, and that was his middle name. Everyone called him Buck.’

‘You loved your brother.’

‘Yes. Buck was . . . bigger than life. My parents’ living room is filled with his trophies, all sports. I sat in the bleachers for every game. He got all the cheers. Everyone loved Buck.’

‘But?’ he asked.

‘When he was gone, everything . . . stopped.’

‘What stopped?’

‘My m—’ She caught herself and shrugged. ‘Life. My parents worked their important jobs and when they came home, it was all about Buck. My father watched videos of his games and my mother polished his trophies. His room became a shrine. Nobody was allowed in there.’

‘Even you?’

She let out a breath. ‘Especially me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my mother said so. But I’d go in his room when my mother was . . . not home. I missed him, so much. I’d sneak into his room to be near his things. Weeks became months and suddenly a year had passed. His funeral had been a few days before my fourteenth birthday, so it was my birthday again and I snuck into his room and found this.’ She jangled the bracelet on her arm. ‘It was in a cigar box under some baseball cards. He must have gotten it for my birthday right before the accident.’

JD lifted her hand so that he could read the charm. ‘ “Number one sister”.’ When he lowered her hand, he held it loosely so she could pull away. Instead she held on tighter.

‘Buck probably got it out of a Cracker Jack box, but for a girl missing her brother, it was like a gift sent down from heaven. I never took it off except to shower.’

‘What did your parents say?’

‘Nothing. They didn’t notice it. They weren’t noticing much of anything by then.’

‘So what did Mrs Westcott have that you wanted back?’

Her smile was sardonic. ‘I knew you’d come back to that. My bracelet disappeared, just a few days after I’d found it. I’d taken a shower and came back to my room to find it missing – and a boy climbing out of my window.’

‘Mrs Westcott’s son?’ he asked and she nodded.

‘I threw on clothes and went to the Westcotts’ to get it back. Old lady Westcott wasn’t home, so I opened the door and went in. Sonny was there along with Russ Bennett. I demanded my bracelet back and Sonny bald-faced lied and said he didn’t have it. I got so angry.’

JD lifted his brows. ‘You broke his nose?’

Lucy winced. ‘More like I bruised it. But it bled an awful lot. Russ was dragging me off him and that’s when Mrs Westcott came home, saw her baby bleeding and went ballistic. Called the cops and everything. My father was very unhappy.’

‘But Westcott’s “baby” was your brother’s age.’

‘Nineteen by then. And none too happy that a girl had bloodied his face.’

‘He was a football player,’ JD said incredulously.

‘Yes, he was. Which, I imagine, made it worse. The boys taunted him. I heard that even after he went back to college the story followed him and he was always getting into fights because people called him a wuss.’

‘How did you get your bracelet back?’

‘Like I said, I broke into Mrs Westcott’s house. The time before the door was unlocked and I walked in. After the bloody nose brouhaha died down, I broke Sonny’s window and snuck in after Westcott had gone to sleep. By this point Sonny had gone back to college, so I figured it was safe. I found the bracelet under his skin magazine collection. Unfortunately, Mrs Westcott caught me climbing out of the window and called the cops again. I dropped the bracelet behind a bush. If the cops caught me with it they’d have taken it.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Took the Fifth, got a stern talking-to by my father, hysterics from my mother. I waited till it all died down and went back to get my bracelet. After that, I kept it hidden. I couldn’t wear it anymore anyway. Sonny had pulled it apart. The chain was broken and the clasp was crushed.’

‘So . . . why were you sent away?’

‘Because Sonny came home for Thanksgiving. He must have heard that I’d broken in, and he came over and threatened me. I told him I didn’t know where the bracelet was and all of the sudden he smiled and said, “Okay”.’

‘That doesn’t sound good,’ JD murmured.

‘Because it wasn’t. The next morning – Thanksgiving – a deputy showed up at our house. Mrs Westcott had filed a complaint. She was missing a ring and some cash. Since I’d broken in before, she accused me. The deputy found both the ring and cash in my underwear drawer.’

‘Sonny had planted it.’

Fury had her eyes flashing again. ‘Yes.’

‘Is that when you were sent away?’

‘Yes. To St Anne’s School for Troubled Girls. For three years.’

‘For a first offense?’ he asked, shocked.

‘I’d had some trouble in school, too. Lots of detentions the year after Buck died. A few fights. Let’s just say I had a little practice before I bloodied Sonny’s nose.’

‘When did you meet Mr Pugh?’

‘After school one day. I was scrubbing a floor because I’d gotten in trouble again, and I heard this horrible music coming from one of the rooms. The screeching had been a girl getting a music lesson, but then Mr Pugh played, showing her what to do. I hid, listening. I didn’t think anyone could see me, but after the lesson he walked straight to where I was hiding. Turns out he knew I’d been in trouble. I was apparently the topic of lunchroom teacher conversations.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He asked if I liked music. My mother had always forced me to take lessons, but all of a sudden I wanted to play. I started lessons the next afternoon.’ She swallowed hard. ‘My parents were asked to pay for my lessons but my father wouldn’t. Mr Pugh taught me for free, for three years. Later he told me it was a joy to teach someone who was so thirsty to learn.’

‘That was kind of him. And explains a lot. Did you come home during the three years?’

‘The first summer I went home supposedly to stay, but my parents didn’t really want me there. Plus, the first week at Anderson Ferry High was harsh. Everyone knew I’d been away and the kids looked at me as an oddity, like a caged animal they could poke with sticks.’

‘They tried to get you to fight.’

She nodded. ‘Finally they succeeded and it was one dilly of a fight. One of the kids filed charges and I got hauled before a judge. I was so miserable at home. I wanted to go back to St Anne’s and I told her so.’ She shrugged. ‘The teachers were kind to me there. The judge said the school was expensive, but if my parents would continue to pay, she’d send me back. My father said he would, so I packed up what little I had and went back.’

‘Wait. What do you mean your parents
continued
to pay?’

She met his confused eyes, realization dawning in hers. ‘It wasn’t juvie, JD. It was a private facility for kids with behavior problems. My parents paid for my years there.’