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Maybe she’d tried….
With a surge of purpose, he dialed his ex-girlfriend’s cell phone.
“This had better not be who I think it is,” she whispered.
“Kelly, listen to me—”
“No, you listen to me,” she interrupted. “How dare you call me again! You said it was over. You said I couldn’t contact you, that Paris was on to us, that she meant more to you than I could ever dream of meaning. And now you’re crawling back?”
He hadn’t been especially kind when he’d broken things off. He’d needed her to realize he was serious about stopping all contact. “I was—” he still couldn’t wrap his mind around what he suddenly believed “—just wondering if you’ve heard from Paris, if she’s ever tried to call you.”
“Of course she’s tried. But I won’t pick up. Do you think I’m stupid? What would I say to her? ‘Sorry I’ve been sleeping with your husband’?”
He pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “Has she ever come by your place?”
“She’s sat out there, watching the house a time or two. Once she even came to the door. She wanted me to go for a ride with her. Said we needed to talk. But Matt came home right then, and she left.”
“Don’t go anywhere with her,” he said.
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer. He’d just thought of something else. There were other women he’d slept with that Paris hadn’t killed. Was it because she didn’t know about them? Or because, like Kelly, they’d been too careful to let her get that close?
And what about Sherrilyn Gators? She’d gone missing even though he’d never slept with her.
But the day Sherrilyn had come to the house he’d been the one to help her when her car wouldn’t start. He’d thought she was attractive enough for a quick fling, but she’d barely spoken to him. She cared about Dean and only Dean. Had Paris taken the fact that he’d replaced her car battery as more than simply the favor it’d turned out to be?
The smell of coffee was making him sick. He had to shut it off. No way could he eat or drink right now.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kelly complained. “You’re acting like you’re…on drugs, spacing out.”
She’d been talking to him and he hadn’t responded. “Just don’t go anywhere with her,” he said, and disconnected. He expected Hunsacker to call him back any moment to say they’d identified Sherrilyn’s remains. Butch had no doubt she was out there. Somewhere, if not in Dead Mule Canyon. Rotting like the others. All because Paris believed they’d had a sexual encounter.
Why couldn’t Paris understand that those women meant nothing to him? They were good for a cheap thrill, nothing more than that.
Actually, now they did mean more. They were dead because of him. And unless he could get Paris to stop, Kelly, or any woman he looked at, smiled at or passed on the street, could be next.
Blotting the sweat on his forehead with a paper towel, he returned to the bedroom. He had to confront his wife, had to hear the details so he could help her. Concealing what she’d done was the only way to save her, the only way to keep his family together. Maybe he’d have to take her and Champ to Mexico. Killing as many people as she had, she’d probably get the death sentence….
He chuckled bitterly. Elaine had no idea what she was doing when she revealed Paris’s complicity in Julia’s death. Would she have done it if she’d realized? Probably. She wouldn’t protect Paris from the consequences of murder. Even Elaine had her limits. But Butch didn’t. Someone finally loved him; he would never let anyone take that away.
The door squeaked as it swung open. He stepped inside, then locked it behind him. With the blinds down, it was difficult to see, so he concentrated on the lump in the bedding. “Paris?” No response.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey, you need to wake up. We have to talk.” He didn’t want to hear her answers to the questions he had to ask, didn’t want her to confirm the worst. But if she denied what she’d done, he knew he wouldn’t believe it. He finally understood how deeply angry he’d made her and the lengths to which she’d go to appease that anger. He also knew what she’d done with her time while Champ was in preschool. It wasn’t the shopping she’d claimed.
“Paris?” He reached out to nudge her shoulder but the bedding gave way beneath his hand. He’d touched a pillow. She wasn’t in bed.
Standing, he whirled around and noticed that her purse, which she’d left on the dresser when he brought her home last night, was gone. Her cell phone was missing, too.
Heart pounding, he rushed to the window and raised the blind. So was the Impala.
CHAPTER 34
Francesca didn’t usually drink, at least not more than a glass of wine at dinner. Inhibiting her ability to think clearly or move without stumbling seemed counterproductive. She didn’t enjoy the blinding headache and cottonmouth of the morning after, either. But she’d gotten drunk last night. That old bottle of tequila Roland had left behind had provided a way to dull the pain of sending both Jonah and Adriana away. A few drinks beat calling her parents, didn’t it? She was getting a little old to turn to them whenever she got hurt.
“Maybe calling my parents would’ve been better,” she grumbled as she squinted against the light filtering around the edges of her blinds. It was morning, time to get up and face the day. But the prospect was hardly tantalizing.
Considering how much she hated the taste of tequila, she should’ve gone to the store for something else. But she hadn’t wanted to leave the house at midnight any more than she wanted to leave now.
