Sandra Brown: Low Pressure

Panicked, he bent over her. “Are you hurt? Did he cut you?”

“No. Olivia.” Using handfuls of his wet clothing, she climbed up him until she was on her feet. “Up there. Help me.”

He put his arm around her waist and practically carried her up the remaining stairs and along the dark hallway to a bedroom.

The moment he saw Olivia Lyston on her bed, ghostly pale, lying in an ocean of blood, he knew she was dead.

A few minutes later, EMTs confirmed it.

Ray Strickland’s bellowed invectives against Bellamy and Dent echoed through the house. It took several officers to restrain him, and all the while he was hollering about injustice. But he bawled like a baby when his hands were secured behind him and he was led outside to the waiting squad car.

“I gotta kill them because it was on account of them that Allen died,” he blubbered. Bellamy heard him ask one of the arresting officers if he could have Susan’s panties back. “My brother told me to keep them.”

She and Dent were questioned separately, and the investigating officers, Nagle and Abbott among them, began linking together the bizarre chain of events. Dent’s Vette was towed away as evidence.

“I’m sorry,” she told him as they watched the tow truck’s taillights leave through the gate. “First your airplane, now your car.”

He shrugged. “They can’t bleed.”

She turned her face up to him.

“When I got here, the cops told me that a woman inside the house was bleeding out.”

“I’d called nine-one-one for Olivia.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that.” He placed his hand on the back of her head, pressed her face against his chest, and kissed the crown of her head.

“I can’t believe she killed Susan,” she whispered. “All these years…”

“Yeah,” he said on a soft exhale. Then, in an even quieter voice, “Steven’s here.”

Austin police had found him and William at the airport, where they were waiting for a flight that had been delayed due to the weather. One of the officers had called Nagle, who’d handed over his cell phone to Bellamy, who’d had the unwelcome task of telling Steven about his mother’s suicide.

For a long time he’d said nothing, then, “We’ll be there soon.”

Now, as he and William entered through the front door, she went to embrace him. It was evident that he’d been crying. Given the way he and Olivia had parted, Bellamy knew he would bear responsibility for her taking her own life.

He allowed her to hold him close for several moments before easing away. “We heard about Strickland from the policemen who drove us here. Are you all right?”

“Bruised, but otherwise okay. Dent got here just in time.”

He looked at Dent. “Thank you. Truly.”

Dent acknowledged the thanks with a nod.

Coming back to Bellamy, Steven asked, “Where is she?”

“In her bedroom, but don’t go up. The coroner is in there now. In any case, she wouldn’t want you to see it.”

“You don’t understand. I must go to her. When I left—”

“She told me. But don’t blame yourself. I think she was looking ahead to life without Daddy, and simply couldn’t stand the thought of it.”

“Howard was her life.”

“Yes. She would have done anything for him.” She hesitated then said, “She did. She killed for him.”

Steven, who’d been staring at the top of the staircase, brought his gaze back down to her. He said quietly, “Susan.”

She glanced at William, who hadn’t even flinched at the revelation. Looking back at Steven, she stated what seemed to be obvious. “You knew?”

“No, I swear it. But I suspected.”

“Since when?”

“From the start, I think. When did you find out?”

“My memory of it came back tonight.” She related everything that had happened since Dent had dropped her there. “She was already dying. I think it must have been a huge relief to her to tell someone about it.”

She paused as a realization struck her. “I understand now why you were so opposed to my book. You didn’t want anyone—me—to find out.”

“As much for your and Howard’s sake as for Mother’s. At least she died without having to admit it to him. That would certainly have killed her. I, perhaps more than anyone, knew how much she loved him. More than anything. Or anyone.” His voice cracked. William placed a comforting arm across his shoulder, and Steven smiled at him gratefully.

“Steven?” Bellamy spoked his name softly, and when he was looking at her again, she said, “I told the police.” At his pained expression, she said, “They were reinvestigating the case. I had to tell them. It was only right. The record had to be set straight.”

He didn’t dispute that, but he looked extremely unhappy about it.

She placed her hand on his arm. “Once it becomes known, the backlash won’t be easy or pleasant for me, either, but we’ve been shackled to this lie for eighteen years. I refuse to be for the rest of my life.”

A short while later, Olivia’s body was carried out and placed in an ambulance bound for the morgue. As they watched it pull away, Steven said to Bellamy, “William and I will be at the Four Seasons. There’ll be no folderol like there was for Howard. We’ll bury her beside him. Privately.”

“I understand and agree.”

“As for the other…” He looked away briefly before coming back to her and saying, “You did what you felt you had to do. In a way, it’s a relief, isn’t it?”

She hugged him tightly and whispered, “For you, too, I hope.”

With tearful eyes she watched him walk down the steps and get into the waiting taxi with William. Her relationship with Steven would never be what it had been when they were young teens. She’d been naive to believe it could be. Their personalities, their destinies, had been reshaped by what had happened on that Memorial Day.

But she would continue to hope for a relationship with him.

Detective Abbott asked that she make herself available to answer questions that would invariably arise. “Ray Strickland will be charged with a laundry list of felonies. You’ll be called to testify.”

She had expected that, but she didn’t look forward to it.

Just as the detectives were leaving, Nagle passed her a business card and said, “Specialty cleaning service.”

Considering that and all the other unpleasant responsibilities facing her, she would have been disconsolate if Dent hadn’t been there with her to lock up the house and then walk with her toward the front gate. It had stopped raining, the storm having moved off to the east.

There were still several police cars on the street. Officers were having to move along gawkers who’d been drawn to the scene of the emergency. As soon as they got past the bottleneck, Dent said, “That son-of-a-bitchin’ vulture.”

Sitting on the hood of Gall’s pickup was Rocky Van Durbin.

“No, wait,” Bellamy said, putting out her arm to hold Dent back. She kept walking until she was no more than a foot away from Van Durbin, then she said in a tone that meant business, “Get off the truck.”

Shit-eating grin in place, Van Durbin slid off it. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Of course not,” Bellamy said, meaning the opposite.

“Seriously,” he said. “I was just waiting to ask you about Mrs. Lyston’s suicide. Was it grief over your father that drove her to it?”

She took a deep breath. “Van Durbin, you’re a sly, sneaky, bastard who thrives on the misfortunes of other people. You’re a bottom-feeder, the lowest life-form I can think of. But actually…” She paused for emphasis. “I’m glad to see you.”

She felt Dent’s startled reaction.

As for Van Durbin, his ferret grin wavered, as though unsure he’d heard her right. “Where’s your photographer?” she asked.