Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

He shook his head, but Rupe sensed he was lying. He let it go. It would actually be better if Ray did have something that could place him in the hangar that night. But Rupe didn’t want him arrested just yet.

“You’ve changed the tags on your truck?”

“Five times,” Ray said. “But the old man couldn’t have seen it anyway, ’cause I parked a long way off.”

For several moments, Rupe pretended to struggle with a decision and finally gave a deep sigh. “You should have checked with me before taking these actions. But you didn’t, so now Dent Carter, and possibly Gall Halloway, are on the lookout for you.”

“I’m not scared of them.”

“What if they’ve notified the police? Aren’t you scared of them? Do you want to go to prison and wind up like Allen?”

That subdued him.

“You’ve committed felonies, Ray. I can’t protect you. In fact, I should turn you in myself.”

“After everything I’ve done for you? Fuck that.”

He had an excellent point. But Rupe didn’t give him time to realize it. “Relax. We’re friends, and I wouldn’t betray a friend. Besides, I understand why you’d want to get revenge on Bellamy Price for writing that book and dragging your brother’s name through the mud all over again.” After a strategic pause, he said, “But she shouldn’t be your primary target. She’s not the one who destroyed Allen’s life. And yours.”

He left the counter and came to stand beside Ray, settling a hand on his shoulder. “Earlier you asked who’d messed up my face. I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count. It was the same person who sent your brother to prison, to his death.”

Ray snarled, “Moody.”

Rupe squeezed the beefy flesh beneath his hand. “Moody.”

The drive to Houston took Bellamy almost four hours.

Within seconds of receiving Olivia’s phone call, she was out of her house and on her way. She hadn’t even taken time to change out of the clothes that had been slept in while she was in Marshall.

Slept in with Dent while she was in Marshall.

Disallowing herself to think of him and the shocking discovery brought about by their last argument, she forced herself to concentrate on driving. She stopped twice for coffee, although her mind was far too troubled for there to have been any danger of her falling asleep at the wheel. The real hazard lay in the tears that continued to fill her eyes and blur her vision.

Her father was dead. She had failed to grant his dying request. And it seemed possible, even probable, that she had killed his firstborn daughter. He’d died possibly believing that she had.

When she arrived at the hospital she went directly to the room where he’d died. The lights had been dimmed, but they were sufficient to reveal her stepmother’s grief. Deep lines of misery were etched into Olivia’s face, making her appear to have aged drastically.

For several minutes, the two women clung to each other and wept, their shared heartache making words superfluous.

Eventually Olivia eased away and blotted her eyes. “The funeral director arrived ahead of you, but I wouldn’t let them take him away. I knew you’d want time with him. Take all you want.” She touched Bellamy’s arm gently, then left the room.

She walked over to the bed and looked at her father’s body for the first time since entering the room. People said kind things about the deceased. How peaceful one looked, how one appeared only to be sleeping.

Those were lies. Told out of compassion, perhaps, but lies nonetheless. Her father didn’t look asleep; he looked dead.

In the few hours since he’d breathed his final breath, all vestiges of life had deserted his body completely. Already his skin had a waxy appearance. He seemed not to be made of flesh and blood or of anything organic, but of something artificial.

Rather than this upsetting her, she took comfort in realizing that what was left of him wasn’t him at all. She wasn’t prompted to embrace the still body or kiss the bloodless cheek, but rather to remember all the times she’d given him hugs or kisses when he was alive and warm and able to return them.

So she didn’t address the body. Instead she spoke to the spirit she knew still to be alive. “Daddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t meet your deadline. And if… if… if I killed Susan, forgive me. Please. Forgive me.”

She whispered that plea over and over, turning it into a chant accompanied by harsh sobs that wracked her entire body. They grew so loud that they summoned Olivia back into the room.

“Sweetheart, don’t.” She wrapped her arms tightly around Bellamy. “He wouldn’t want you crying over him. That’s the last thing he’d want. He’s out of pain now and at peace.”

Bellamy knew that not to be true, but she allowed Olivia to guide her out of the room and to comfort her until they were forced to deal with the practical issues associated with transporting his remains to Austin.

Bellamy dealt with the paperwork, welcoming the distraction. She was simply too emotionally shredded to contemplate that the culprit she’d been seeking, that the individual who had caused her family so much turmoil and unhappiness, that the person her father had hoped to identify positively before he died, was herself.

Olivia had reserved a room for her in the hotel attached to the hospital. It was four a.m. before she got to bed. Surprisingly, she fell instantly asleep and slept dreamlessly. She was too exhausted to do otherwise.

Olivia woke her at ten. “Steven and William are coming straight here from the airport, and we’ll leave for Austin immediately after they arrive. I’ve ordered some coffee and breakfast to be sent up for you. Can you be ready by eleven?”

The water in the shower was wonderfully hot. She used the toiletries provided by the hotel and had enough cosmetics in her bag to make herself look presentable. The stop at her parents’ house yesterday had been fortuitous. She dressed in a pantsuit she’d packed in the suitcase. When she greeted her stepbrother and William in the first-floor lobby, she looked appropriately turned out.

“Do you have sunglasses?” Steven asked as he ushered her through the automatic glass doors and toward the limousine parked behind the hearse.

“Is that a kind way of telling me that my eyes are dark and puffy and that no amount of concealer will help?”

“What are brothers for?”

His gentle tease warmed her, and she smiled at him as she slipped on her sunglasses. However, she drew up short and her smile dissolved when she saw the man leaning indolently against a support column of the porte cochere.

Following her gaze, Steven asked, “Who’s that?”

“Don’t you recognize him from his byline photo? Meet Rocky Van Durbin.”

“Good Lord,” Olivia said.

“Jesus,” William hissed. “Doesn’t he have an ounce of sensitivity?”

“Not a drop,” Bellamy said.

“This is too much. Steven, call Security.”

“No, Olivia,” Bellamy said. “That’ll only give him the circus he wants.” Steeling herself, she said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Before they could stop her, she walked toward Van Durbin, who pushed himself away from the column and came forward to meet her halfway.

She looked pointedly at the photographer, who was already snapping pictures. “Would you please stop that?”

He waited until Van Durbin gave him a sign, then lowered his camera and ambled off. When he was out of earshot, Van Durbin said, “Ms. Price, allow me to extend my condolences.”

“Spare me the sentiment. The only thing my father’s death represents to you is another provocative article based on rumor, speculation, and your own vivid imagination.”

“Wasn’t my imagination that I saw you and your former enemy coming out of his apartment. In dishabille,” he added with a leer.