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Tyson glared through the dirty glass to the sultry August night and saw nothing out of the ordinary. But there was someone out there. He was sure of it. He could feel the unseen eyes watching his every move. He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead.
“You’re paranoid,” Ashley said from in front of the charred, oversize fireplace, where he’d seen his damned father and that whore fucking like damned rabbits so many years ago.
“What?”
“I said, ‘You’re paranoid.’ No one followed me!”
He whipped around, his eyes focused on the woman he’d loved for so long, too long. “Don’t,” he warned, and he listened hard, still thinking someone was out there, someone intending to ruin all he’d worked so damned hard for.
“You called me out here,” he reminded her. “After that reporter bitch rattled your cage. You could have been followed.”
“What? By whom?”
“Nikki Gillette. Face it, Ash. You were played.”
“And you’re paranoid. This is out of control!”
“We’ve been through worse.”
“Have we?” she charged, and rubbed her arms as if she’d felt a sudden chill when the interior of this old forgotten inn was sweltering. When she fumbled for a cigarette and shook one from her pack, her hands were trembling.
“Of course we have! Just calm down. I told you the cops are going to think Owen offed himself, so we’re clear there.” Tyson was thinking. Second-guessing himself. And he hated that. “Everyone knew Duval was nuts, and they’ll take his suicide as a confession, that his guilt drove him to it.”
“You’re out of your mind. Do you think Margaret will let it go? No way.” She lit up, took a long drag, then blew out a long stream of smoke. “Not that woman. Did she ever once think to thank me for supplying Owen with an alibi? Hell, no! She twisted it all around and blamed me.” Another pull on the cigarette. Another cloud of smoke. “She made my life a living hell.”
“A living hell? Out on Tybee? Tennis? Golf? Boating?” He snorted. “If that’s hell, count me in!”
“Shut up! You know what I mean!”
“Hey, we’re in this together.”
“I don’t think so. I never signed up for murder. You were supposed to kidnap Rose and find a place for her, a home . . . that was the idea.” She squared her shoulders. “Holly and Poppy were never supposed to be a part of it.”
“Things evolved.” Tyson was calm for the moment, but he was sweating and he felt that small tell-tale tic developing beneath his left eye. He rubbed it with the back of his hand holding the gun, but it remained, a testament to his own tension. They needed to end this. He needed to end this. “If Gillette followed you . . . if she’s on to us? I’ll deal with her.”
“Deal with her?” Ashley repeated, obviously distressed as she looked up at the ceiling as if searching for strength or divine intervention. “Oh, God, Tyson. You mean kill her. Jesus, Tyson, listen to yourself. T
hat’s always your answer, isn’t it? But it has to stop!”
What was she not getting about this? “Ash, it has to be permanent. You know that.”
“No! No more!” Ashley’s voice was quavering. She took a final drag, then tossed the rest of her cigarette into the firebox, the cig’s red ember glowing in the charred remains of a long-ago fire. “There’s been too much killing.” She was shaking her head, her blond hair shimmering in the lantern’s light. “There’s been too much.” And she looked up at him with accusing eyes. “It all started with Nell, didn’t it?”
“Nell? What’s Nell got to do with any of this?”
“Didn’t it?” she demanded.
What the hell did Ashley know about his sister and how he’d let her drown? It was true Nell had been the first to die because of him, but no one knew about that. Not Jacob, who’d been there, not his parents and certainly not Ashley. She was driving blind. Had to be.
“How dumb do you think I am?” she said, getting to her feet and challenging him. “If you were going to ‘take care of Rose’ because of your father’s damned estate, then why wouldn’t you start with Nell?”
“Nell drowned,” he said simply, and silently kicked himself for explaining to Ashley years ago about his need to be Baxter’s only heir, that he felt the estate, the grounds, the rights, and everything with the name Beaumont in Savannah belonged to him. Now, with Ashley in such an agitated state, her eyes blazing with accusations, there was no reason to confess.
“You were there, Ty.” She walked closer, poked a finger at his chest.
“You’re crazy.”
“Am I?” She was only inches from him now, her face upturned, her lips tight, this woman he’d loved for decades, the girl he’d killed for so they could have a future together. And she was pissed as hell.
