Facing It (28 page)

His face tightened. “I’m only going to tell you one more time, Ruth.”

The phone’s sharp shrill shattered the standoff. Startled, Ruthie glanced at it.

Stephen lunged, hands curled into claws.

She threw up a hand to ward him off. His hand closed on her wrist with bruising intensity, dragging her toward him.

The phone rang again.

The blade sank home with a sickeningly wet squishing sound. The impact shimmered up her arm, and shock and surprise bloomed in his eyes. A muffled
oomph
escaped his parted lips.

He looked down, his knees buckling as he took one staggering step back. With a shuddery breath, Ruthie held tight to the shank. It slid free, thick red blood coating the wide surface. Two, then three fat drops fell to the floor, splattering. The phone half-rang, stopping in midnote.

Another step backward and he sank to his knees, still clutching his chest, still staring at the massive flow of blood over his fingers. His stunned gaze lifted to hers.

My God, what had she done?

He slumped forward, one hand going forward to break his fall, his body sliding to a heap on her mama’s spotless white tile floor.

Oh, sweet Jesus, had she killed him? One stab wound couldn’t do that, could it? Surely not. She lifted a trembling hand to her forehead, the other still gripping the bloody knife. Down the hallway, the side door slammed open. Running footsteps on polished hardwood.

“Ruthie?” Fear and concern coated Tick’s voice. She pressed against the counter. Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord…

“Are you all right?” The words shook. He stood in the doorway, face white, his gaze jumping from her to the knife to Stephen’s motionless form and back to her.

“I…yes, I’m…” Over her brother’s shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Chris. Her heart stuttered. No. He couldn’t see this, not her standing here over Stephen, blood beginning to spread over the floor, blood on the knife she held. What would he think?

Whatever he thought, she couldn’t tell from his pale expressionless face, his blank eyes.

“Chris,” Tick said, his tone evening out, taking on a hint of deep authority. “I need the scene kit from the car. And call dispatch. Tell them we need the GBI over here.”

Chris’s gaze darted from Tick to her and back again. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

She sagged against the counter, eyes closed. Just like that, he was gone and it was over. It had to be, after what he’d seen. He wouldn’t want her now.

“Ruthie, are you hurt?” Tick’s voice, from below, and she lifted heavy lids to find him crouched beside Stephen’s motionless form.

“No.” She shook her head in a slow side-to-side roll, tremors running through her whole being. “Is he…?”

With a sharp nod, Tick rose. “He’s dead.”

“Oh, God.” She clutched at the counter, the knife clattering to the tile top. Her children’s father. She’d killed her babies’ father. How would she…what would they…? She held on harder, afraid her legs were going to give out and dump her on the floor. What had she done?

“Ruthie.” Tick’s warm hands closed on her shoulders, a steady grip that kept her standing. “It’s all right, okay? I’m here, Chris is here, it’s over. Everything is over and it’s all right.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she whispered. Her heart beat too fast, thumping against her sternum, wanting to get out of its captivity. And why did she feel like she was floating, like her head was somewhere detached from her body, a helium-light sphere headed for the ceiling? “Oh my Lord, Tick.”

“I know.” He kneaded her shoulders. “I’m going to get Tori over here for you and we’ll take care of you, I swear. I can’t investigate this, but I need you to tell me everything that happened, baby girl, okay?”

Baby girl. She hadn’t heard that endearment in years, not since the last time her father had used it, on his way out of the house, on his way to the airstrip. She’d been fifteen, a little gawky and awkward, but still her daddy’s baby girl. She’d been in this very room, standing at the table, just beyond where Stephen’s body lay, and Daddy had tousled her hair and hugged her close…and she’d never seen him again. The plane had gone down and he’d died, she’d been lost without him and Stephen had called to that empty place in her once she met him…

Camille and Ainsley. She’d taken their father, put them in the same position.

“Ruthie.” Desperation sharpened Tick’s voice, tightened the angles of his face. “Please. Stay with me. I need you to tell me everything.”

“I killed him. I was cooking, chopping peppers for lunches, and I heard the door open. I thought it was Mama but then when those footsteps came down the hall…I…it was him or me, I knew that but…oh my God, Tick.” She glanced up at him, around the kitchen in a wild arc. Nausea barreled into her throat. “I killed him. I
killed
him. I’m going to be sick.”

She spun, gripping the counter as she leaned over the sink, helpless as her stomach emptied itself of its own volition, acid and bile burning her throat. Sudden hot tears spurted from her eyes, mixing with the mucous that poured from her nose. Tick sheltered her, holding her hair from her face, his forehead pressed to her shoulder, so she felt the tremors that moved through his body as well.

Why was he shaking? He wasn’t the one who’d just gutted someone in their mama’s kitchen.

“Tick.” Chris’s calm voice barely penetrated the miserable haze of her retching and heaves. “I’m taping off the house. GBI and the coroner are en route, so is Cookie. I told him to bring Tori with him.”

Tick nodded, not lifting his head from Ruthie’s shoulder. “Good. Thanks.”

When the heaving finally stopped, the sobs started, choking her, tearing from her raw throat until they sounded more like wails. Through it all her brother held her, his arm about her waist keeping her from sliding to the blood-slick floor.

“It’s all right, Ruthie,” he murmured over and over. “It’s done now, it’s all right.”

How could he say that? How could anything ever be all right after this?

He smoothed her damp hair from her wet cheeks, found a rag and washed her face. He didn’t touch her bloody hands. She shuddered. She didn’t want him doing this. She wanted Chris, needed Chris, and he wanted nothing to do with her. He couldn’t, not now.

She sucked in a shuddery breath and straightened, stiffening her body and dislodging her brother’s supportive hold. She’d cope. She could. No matter what, she’d deal with it. Calverts didn’t cave. She hadn’t let Stephen break her completely and she wouldn’t let this either, even if it cost her Chris.

Even if it cost her everything.

The following minutes and hours settled into a blur of GBI agents and questions. Tori appeared at her side, strong, capable, loving, and stayed there, picking up where Tick had left off. She’d not been allowed to change clothes or clean up, really, until crime scene technicians took pictures of the scene, photographed her hands and arms. At some point, Autry Reed appeared, and under her protective presence, Ruthie repeated the story over and over, until it didn’t seem real anymore, but rather something out of a horrific movie she’d seen once upon a time.

“We’re almost finished here, I think.” Tori sat beside her on the back porch glider and pressed a cup of cool water into her hands, which she’d finally been able to wash, although she felt a little like Lady Macbeth—that not enough water or perfume existed to cleanse them. “Just a little while longer and we’ll get you some clean clothes. I’m pretty sure you’d like a shower too.”

Ruthie nodded, fingers wrapped around the plastic cup. Through the window, she could see Chris, standing in the hall doorway, arms folded over his chest as he watched the GBI investigators and crime scene unit work. Tick spoke to him and Chris lowered his head, listening a moment before he nodded. They disappeared down the dim hallway.

Her lungs emptied in a shaky exhale. Tori laid a warm hand on her knee.

“My children, Tor,” Ruthie whispered, closing her eyes. “I killed their father. How do I live with that?”

“By remembering that he put you in the position where you had no choice.” Tori’s fingers tightened. “You did what you had to. This is not your fault, Ruthie.”

“What am I going to say to them?” The tears pushed at her eyes again, scratching and burning.

Tori wrapped an arm about her shoulders, pressing her forehead to Ruthie’s temple. “We’ll deal with it together. I’ll help you. We’ll get you through this, I promise.”

Holding back a sob, Ruthie nodded but knew the acquiescence was a lie. She didn’t see how she’d ever survive this intact.

“The ME thinks the knife severed his aorta. Death was probably nearly instantaneous.” A quiet female tone drifted out to them, one of the GBI agents from Moultrie. “The initial impression of the scene supports her story.”

Her story. Like it was something she’d sit down and write, with a beginning and middle and end. Something she’d tell, with Ainsley curled up on her lap, waiting for happily-ever-after. Her sharp inhale was half-sob, half-laugh.

Tori stroked her arm. “I’m going to see if it’s okay if we leave. You don’t need to be here anymore.”

Ruthie stared out at the shimmering surface of the pond. She wanted to close her burning eyes, but she knew what images awaited her if she did: the fury in Stephen’s eyes, the sight of that knife slipping roughly into his flesh, the blood.

Chris’s blank gaze.

She gave herself a sharp shake. No. She wasn’t thinking about that. There was no point, too much else to worry about. She rubbed a thumb over the bruises on her wrist, perfect impressions of Stephen’s fingers.

In minutes, Tori returned, holding a small bundle of clothing and Ruthie’s purse. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

As they slipped out the back door, Chris’s quiet voice flowed from the open kitchen door, his murmured words indistinct. Ruthie didn’t look back. There was no point in doing so.

They were over.

With Beecham at her side, Jennifer jogged up the steps of Lenora Calvert’s home. During the short flight from Atlanta to Albany, they’d received word of Stephen Chason’s death at Ruthie’s hands. Knowing Ruthie was safe had settled Jennifer’s nerves somewhat, but she still wanted to see for herself. A weird sense of deja vu pulsed under her skin as they entered the house, memories of searching this house in the dark night filtering through her mind.

In the hallway off the kitchen, Calvert leaned against the wall, a tall deputy at his side, both of them watching the agents and crime scene technicians swarming over the kitchen.

His gaze skittered over Jennifer before latching on Beecham’s grim face. With a curt nod, Calvert pushed away from the wall and shook Beecham’s hand. “Hey.”

Jennifer surveyed the room beyond him, sparing only one hard glance at Chason’s corpse as it was lifted into a gaping body bag. “How’s Ruthie?”

The deputy seemed to stiffen slightly. Calvert’s dark eyes flickered over her. “Physically, she’s fine. Emotionally? She’s in shock. My baby sister took her back to her place.”

Beside Jennifer, Beecham slumped visibly, some of the tension draining from his body. During the flight he’d remained tense and silent. She hadn’t had to ask to know he’d been thinking of Tessa Marlow and how that attempt at protection had gone horribly wrong as well.

“What happened, exactly?” Beecham jerked his chin toward the body bag.

Calvert’s eyes narrowed and turned cool. “Y’all screwed up and let him get away. The son of a bitch came after my sister.”

Beecham blew out a long breath. “We’ve got two dead agents, Tick, two good men. I don’t need your shit too. You know as well as I do that sometimes crap happens, even with all necessary precautions. Now what happened?”

Jennifer listened, horrified, as Calvert briefly outlined what had transpired in the house. The images he described tumbled through her mind and she wrapped her arms over her midriff, filled with empathy for Ruthie.

When Calvert finished, she caught his gaze again. “I’d like to see her,” she said quietly.

“I’ll take you.” The deputy spoke for the first time. A look passed between him and Calvert, some indefinable nonverbal message that Jennifer didn’t quite understand. Calvert nodded.

“I’m staying here.” Beecham didn’t meet her eyes.

She stepped away from him, glad to escape his presence. “I’ll see you later then.”

Long years of training provided Chris the restraint not to abandon Agent Settles at the car and sprint up the stairs to Tori’s apartment. Images beat in his head—Chason’s body, the bloody knife, the horrified fear on Ruthie’s pale face. He’d wanted nothing more than to snatch her close, shield her, never let her go. That terror had stopped him, given him the impetus to step back and yield to Tick’s easy authority. He’d have died before doing anything to make that pain and horror worse.

Not knowing what awaited him beyond the door at the top of the stairs scared the hell out of him. He just needed…he needed to know she was okay, that she was whole and that Chason hadn’t succeeded in killing off the strength and joy that lay deep inside her. He needed her to be all right.

He made himself follow the aloof agent, made himself let her take the lead. A hollowness settled in his stomach as he approached the door. Settles knocked and the cold emptiness worsened as quiet echoed from the apartment. What if she wasn’t okay? Memories of her withdrawing, shrinking into silence, beat in his head.