“I’ve come to a decision,” he said in a flat, unemotional voice. “I’m letting you leave here. You can go anywhere you want while we wait for the divorce to be final. Nevada and Mexico are known for fast divorces—why don’t you take a little vacation and speed things up?”
She stared at him in numb surprise. Then, without thinking, she picked up the cast iron muffin tin and hurled it at his head. He dodged it easily, and it fell with a terrible clanging noise, muffins scattering over the slate floor.
Before she had time to move he had caught her wrist in a tight grasp, the long, strong fingers biting into her flesh. There was a fury about him, held strongly in check, that matched and overwhelmed her own anger, and she was suddenly afraid. He looked like a man who had reached the end of his endurance.
“There’s been enough of your tantrums around here, Molly,” he said in a low, angry voice. He yanked her down from the counter and she stumbled against him. “Now go pick that up and put it back where it belongs.”
There was no way she could resist, no way she could defy him. Without a word she did as she was told.
When he finally released her she backed away from him towards the door, ready for a quick escape if need be. “You enjoy forcing your will on helpless women, don’t you?”
He didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. “The day you’re a poor, helpless female will be the day hell freezes over,” he said shortly. “I’ll get your good friend Toby to drive you to the airport this afternoon.”
“I’m not going.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Simply that I’m not going,” she answered with deceptive calm, holding the trump card. “I doubt I’d be allowed to, anyway. Interesting things have been happening while you were off with Lisa Canning this time.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. “What interesting things?”
“Oh, not much,” she said with mock calm. “Someone’s been poisoning me, but apart from that life has been going on as usual.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” There was no play-acting in the shock that paled his tanned face. Before she could answer him the telephone rang harshly through the quiet house.
“It’s probably for you,” she added offhandedly. “The police have been trying to reach you since yesterday morning. I think they suspect you.” Actually she didn’t think any such thing; she just wanted to annoy him.
He didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. Without a backward glance he went into his office. shutting the door quietly behind him. She would have felt better if he’d slammed it. She stared after him as she contemplated listening in on the extension, then dismissed the idea. For one thing, it was terribly dishonorable, for another, more important reason, she was afraid she’d get caught. She trudged back to her bedroom and did her own door slamming.
When she returned downstairs she felt a bit braver. She was showered, dressed, armored against the world, against Patrick, against her own vulnerabilities. Ermy and Willy were still asleep—the twin snores coming from their rooms assured that. Patrick’s office door was still shut tightly, and she went on into the kitchen for another cup of coffee and to work on the Sunday crossword puzzle, determinedly oblivious to the man just out of sight. Forever out of reach.
A half hour passed, then an hour, before Patrick finally removed himself from his inner sanctum and came to stand before her. His belt came to about eye-level as she looked up from the table, and it was with great concentration that she kept her eyes above rather than below it.
“Molly,” he said, and his voice was gentler, “I want to talk with you.”
She wasn’t going to like this, she thought suddenly. And once more she felt like running, from Patrick, who’d never loved her, from Winter’s Edge. From her own, helpless longing.
But running was no longer an option.
“All right,” she said, bracing herself.
He pulled out a chair, apparently at a loss for words. He’s going to say something about that night, she thought in relief. It’s going to be all right.
But she was wrong. “That was Lieutenant Ryker on the phone a while ago. You’re right, there’s no question of your leaving right now.”
She nodded, saying nothing, determined to hide the hurt in her eyes.
“They’ve found out something else, Molly. They found out who the man was. The one in the car with you.”
She stared at him blankly. “I thought they knew who he was. A small-time crook named George Andrews.”
He winced. “That was one of his names. I can’t believe it took them so damned long to come up with a real one, but then, he was always good at covering his tracks. He was born Gregory Anderson.” He waited for a response, one she was unable to give.
“Should this mean something to me?” she asked. “If you want it to then I’m afraid you’ll have to explain the connection.”
“Gregory Anderson was your father.”
She took a deep, shaky breath, shocked. “Really? I thought you told me he was dead.”
