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“The remains that Silas burned were once Declan’s father, not Silas’s. I don’t think Silas means us harm.”
“He doesn’t,” Ravinia assured her.
Catherine nodded, accepting her answer as the truth, which was surprising in itself. “Silas wouldn’t have given you the pages if he wanted to keep his past secret. Ophelia will check with their adoptive families.”
They stared at each other a moment, and then Catherine got to her feet. She looked down at the desk and picked up a piece of paper, staring at it a moment before turning to Ravinia and holding it out to her.
“What’s this?”
“It’s what I’d like you to do for me. It’s comforting to know that Silas appears to be helping us, but I can’t take the chance. Declan Jr.’s too strong, and if he senses that there’s someone vulnerable out there . . .” She pressed her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “I couldn’t keep her. Not with Mary so dead set on me giving up Declan. I did as she asked, but fertility is one of our assets.”
“You had a baby,” Ravinia realized.
“Elizabeth. I gave her away at birth, but now I want you to find her.” Ravinia took the piece of paper and read the name: Elizabeth Gaines. “She could be married now,” Catherine went on. “The Gaineses lived in Northern California. I don’t know if they still do. Robert Gaines was in real estate, and Joy was a stay-at-home mom.”
“How old is Elizabeth now?”
“Twenty-six.”
“I’m not sure how I’ll find her, but if I do . . . ?”
“Let me know she’s all right. And keep her safe.”
Ravinia saw the glimmer of moisture in her aunt’s eyes, but Catherine turned away, back to the papers. As she left the room, she thought she heard her aunt say, “I’m going to miss you,” but she wasn’t really sure.
Savvy drove fast and hard. The roads were dry, and though water stood in puddles all around, her tires gripped the road.
She’d tried to call Hale several times, but he had been at a job site and then had gotten on the phone hurriedly once, saying Astrid Carmichael was in his office, working on the memorial service, and asking if he could call her back.
She should have just told him about the gun, but she’d let the thought slip away. She wanted to see it for herself, anyway. She would call him from the house.
She turned into the driveway, her tires giving a squeal of protest. Victoria’s small compact was parked in the turnaround, as it had been each time she’d arrived. Savvy jumped out of the car.
And immediately sensed a presence behind her. She turned, one hand reaching automatically for her gun, and then stopped cold, seeing the familiar man with the wide smile.
“Mr. Woodworth,” she said, surprised. “Nadine Gretz put out a missing person’s report on you.”
He took a step closer. “Call me Henry. Or, better yet, Declan. How’s that? Or how about Charlie . . . ?”
She was already reaching for her gun, adrenaline sizzling through her like a jolt of electricity. Not Jacob Balboa. Henry Woodworth.
He jumped forward and grabbed her arms. Her fingers slipped on the butt of her gun. His hands were steel, squeezing so hard, she couldn’t move. Then he let go of one hand to yank her hair, snapping her head back. He slammed his fist into her jaw with the other, and she stumbled backward. Pinpoints of light flickered behind her eyes.
Go for the nose and eyes, she thought. Elbows are weapons.
She twisted, hard. Tried for the gun again. Failed. Jabbed her right elbow into his nose. A gush of blood sprayed her as he howled in surprise and pain, but then his hands were around her throat, choking her. They fell to the ground together. Savannah pried at his strangling fingers, flailing, struggling to breathe. He was holding her down, pressing his weight on her. Kissing her. Biting her. Making her stomach revolt and her throat gag.
“I knew you’d be a hellcat. Give all you’ve got. I’m going to have you. Forever,” he cooed. He released her long enough to rip at her shirt. She gasped for air as one of his hands caressed her breast, squeezing hard.
“C’mon, Ma
ma,” he whispered, and she tensed. She wasn’t going to let him rape her. She would kill him. Smash his head. Find a way to get her gun. Shoot the son of a bitch in the heart.
And then she felt something cold and insistent slide through her skin, into her bloodstream, along her nerves, firing up all the sensors in her brain with a wild, rampant sexual desire that froze her where she lay.
No . . . oh, God . . . , she thought, inwardly panicked, unable to move. Kristina . . . this is what you felt . . . !
His hands were around her throat again, squeezing. She sensed his blue eyes boring into hers. Then her consciousness spiraled downward, funneling smaller and smaller, compressing down until blackness surrounded her and she was gone.
