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Delacroix broke in, picking a lock and using a flashlight for illumination as she made her way down the narrow stairs and across the moldy basement to the crypt where her sisters had been buried. She opened the concealed tomb with its secret latch and shined her beam over what had been the final resting place of Holly and Poppy Duval, her half sisters.
The truth was she barely remembered them. They’d been older and interested in boys and friends and Rose had probably been a pain to them, a little chattering person they had to babysit or occupy. Be that as it may, Rose was the reason they’d died and that still hurt.
“Sorry,” she said, and placed a kiss on the old bricks over the gravesite. “I did the best I could.”
They couldn’t hear her, of course. They were no longer alive. Their bodies didn’t even remain here, but she thought there just could be a piece of their souls left behind.
“I love you,” she said to the dank, shadowy cavern, “and I’ll always remember you.” She felt a cold brush of an autumn breeze filtering through the cracked mortar and touching the back of her neck. She pretended it was her sisters, letting her know that they’d heard her, even if they couldn’t forgive.
“I’ll be back,” she promised, and left, locking up and jogging through the knee-high dry grass and tumbling weeds to her car. She climbed inside, blinked back tears, silently cursed herself for being a sentimental idiot, then switched on the ignition.
The drive back to the city was by rote, her mind caught in a swirl of what-ifs.
What if she had gone with her sisters and Tyson that day?
What if Owen hadn’t saved her?
What if Reggie Scott hadn’t found someone to adopt her—someone with shady connections who could make the sudden arrival of a five-year-old daughter legal?
What if she hadn’t landed the job in Savannah?
What if Wynn Cravens hadn’t died and Bronco hadn’t found the bodies?
What if, what if, what if?
She’d never know. And, really—it didn’t matter. She’d felt a lot of hostility over the years and lately she’d targeted Nikki Gillette. The damned woman had kept getting in her way, so she’d had to use the nosy reporter to help track down the truth. She’d probably even allowed Nikki to get into serious danger, and at times she’d wanted to throttle the nosy reporter herself.
But, of course, she never would have let any real harm come to Gillette.
She thought about that, thought about how razor-focused she’d been to track her down. It had been to stop her, right? So that Nikki wouldn’t intentionally or just plain stupidly get in her way.
And just how far would you have gone?
She glanced in her rearview, caught a glimpse of the doubts in her blue eyes and refused to dwell on it. Not now . . . not ever . . . not even if she ended up on a psychiatrist’s couch.
She pulled into her parking space, surprised no reporter was camped out near her unit. But then other stories had broken over the past two months and so she was less interesting, thank God. She passed by the leafless trees along the path to her front door and felt lonelier than she had in months. A squirrel scrambled to the top of her roof and scolded her as she unlocked the door and sent him a withering glance.
Inside, Delacroix surveyed her few belongings—a sofa, bookcase, TV and side chair, along with three computers—her passion. The Internet was knowledge and knowledge had led her here.
To the tangled mess that was her life.
A mess that hopefully Austin Wells, her new attorney who had once represented Owen Duval, would help her out of. His fees were astronomical, but then, she really was a Beaumont, if she chose to go that route, and her story was worth a small fortune, one she alone could write despite what Nikki Gillette might think.
She shrugged off her jacket and tossed her keys on the table, then she reached into her freezer and brought out a bottle of vodka. After scooping ice cubes into a glass, she poured herself a shot and stared out the window to the common area, where a mother was watching two toddlers playing hide-and-seek in the shrubbery.
She took a long, cool swallow. Felt the alcohol slide down her throat to settle and warm her belly. She could be a rich woman if she gave a crap. She might be able to find another job as a cop, because she was a good one, but she had too much of a blemish on her career here to think that would happen.
But she could become a PI.
That sounded good.
She sucked in an ice cube and cracked it between her teeth. Then watched the
mother gathering her two kids into a double stroller. Her eyes narrowed. She thought about a family of her own.
What if . . .
“Get real.” She swallowed another long drink from her glass and looked at the door to her bedroom.
