Lisa Jackson: Treasures aka See How She Dies

“You can’t-”

“Come on, Mr. Danvers.”

He tried to struggle but his ankle gave out, sending pain jarring up his leg. The officers shoved him into a waiting car and Zach was certain he’d never see her again. Never be able to admit that he loved her, never for the rest of his life feel the way he did when he was with her. No doubt Adria Nash or London Danvers, whatever she wanted to be called, was gone forever.

Zach hadn’t slept in days. One twenty-four-hour period seemed to bleed into the next and he had no idea of the time, or the date, just lived with the sickening knowledge that Jason was behind bars and his mother, once she recovered from her wounds and was released from the hospital, would face prosecution. Jason’s accomplice, a burly man on parole, had been shooting his mouth off in a bar near Fisherman’s Wharf and a police informant had nailed him. It hadn’t taken much persuasion to get him to talk and Jason’s name had come up.

Nicole, already having packed Shelly off to Santa Fe, was clamoring for a divorce and Kim had made a quick disappearance. No one had seen her, though many suspected it had been she who first told the press about Adria being London Danvers. As far as Zach was concerned, his older brother and his mistress deserved everything they got and more.

Trisha had sworn off Mario Polidori for good, telling him bluntly to get out of her life when he’d asked her to marry him. Zach didn’t believe it would last. Trisha was and always had been a fool where Mario was concerned.

As for Nelson, he finally seemed to get some backbone and was actually trying to help Eunice. For years he’d been a lost soul, trying to balance who he was with who he thought he should be, still trying to please his father.

Most people thought that Adria was dead.

Pain cut through his heart and spread through his body.

The police and volunteers had searched the river, dredged where they could, but the news reporters and the police speculated that her body had been washed out to sea, claimed by the giant Pacific. He closed his eyes and felt the hot pressure of tears against his eyelids. He hadn’t cried for years and yet now he felt reduced to bawling like a baby.

In his mind’s eye he saw her, a little wicked, a little innocent, her eyes round and blue and filled with desire as she’d lain beneath him, begging him to love her. She’d sacrificed herself for him, flinging her body into that ugly river when it should have been the other way around. He should have been the one trying to save her. He should be dead and she should be alive and vibrant and starting life as London Danvers.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled as he uncapped his friendly bottle of Scotch again and poured a long stream into his empty glass-one that he’d picked up in the bathroom of this-his albatross-the Hotel Danvers. He wondered if his father could see him now. “Hope you’re laughing your ass off!” He glared at the ceiling, then thought better of it, because if there was an afterlife, Witt Danvers wouldn’t be wandering around on the other side of the pearly gates, no sirree, he’d be down in hell, trying to cut a deal with the devil.

Zach’s teeth ground together in silent fury.

The press had enjoyed a field day with even more scandal, compliments of the infamous Danvers family, and still they were camped outside the hotel, the yacht, the ranch, the sawmills, logging operations, and the damned company headquarters. Zach tossed back three fingers of Scotch and checked the clock. It was barely ten. Christ, he was a mess. His mouth tasted like crap and his guts burned. The phone rang near the bed and he picked it up, silently hoping to hear her voice, knowing that he never would again. “Yeah?”

“You in charge now?”

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me?”

“Sweeny,” Zach said with a sinking sensation.

“That brother of yours, the one in jail, he owes me.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Thought you might like to do the honors.”

Zach found the half-empty bottle and took a long pull. “I don’t think so.”

“Got new information.”

“Screw you.”

“It’s about London.”

Every muscle in his body clenched. Don’t fall for this. He wanted to slam down the phone, but he didn’t. Just held his breath and waited.

“You gotta pay me first.”

“Fine. I’m in room 714.”

“I’ll be there.”

Click . Zach eyed the bottle and wondered if he could finish it before he had to deal with the likes of Oswald Sweeny.

Ignoring his crutches, he climbed off the bed, looked in the mirror, and winced. His face was still discolored and what he’d thought was a two-day growth of beard looked like it was really about six. “Shit,” he muttered as he stripped off his clothes and sat in the shower, trying not to get his damned cast wet, hoping the hot jets of water would sink into his flesh and flush away all thoughts of her. But the steamy spray did little to quiet the images that seemed to be with him always.

He shaved, looked at his reflection, and glowered. He still looked like hell.

Sweeny arrived to find him dipping into the bottle again. Balanced on the crutches, the bottle swinging from one hand, he opened the door. Without preamble, he asked, “How much do we owe you?”

Oswald hesitated as he walked into the room.

“I’ll check it out when I see Jason,” Zachary said, knowing the man was going to bluff him out of a few extra bucks. He hobbled to the desk and rested a hip on the corner. “Want a drink?”

Sweeny smiled, showing off his little teeth, but something in Zachary’s gaze, probably the hard, dead edge, convinced him to decline. “I got a bill right here.”

He handed it to Zach, but he didn’t bother opening it. “Tell me what else you know.”

“Not before I get paid.”

Zach didn’t move a muscle, just stared at Sweeny, glaring at him like the cockroach he was.

“The papers will pay plenty for what I know.”

“The tabloids?” Zach snorted. “Don’t cut off your balls to spite your face.”

“All right, all right.” He held up his fleshy palms. “Look, I couldn’t just give it up. The whole London thing was too intriguing. I thought, hey, I might just write myself a book, one of those tell-all exposés.”

The look Zach sent him stopped him short.

“Anyway, I kept digging and guess what I found out? Your old man was impotent.” He let that sink in for a minute, but Witt’s limp dick wasn’t big news. Not to Zach. What was Sweeny getting at?

“That’s right,” Sweeny said when Zach’s eyes narrowed over the rim of his glass. “Witt Danvers couldn’t get it up, at least not very often. Not often enough to ensure him siring another child-fathering London. I checked, and it took a while, but I found out that your stepmother, while she was supposed to be visiting friends in Victoria, really ended up at a clinic in Seattle where she got herself artificially inseminated by a private donor.”

Zach’s head snapped up. “What are you saying?”

Sweeny grinned that evil, little smug grin as if glad that he’d finally got Zach’s attention. “I’m telling you that Adria Nash is London Danvers, but she’s not Witt Danvers’s kid, not technically-or biologically-speaking.”

The glass fell from Zach’s hand and Scotch splashed on the floor and the bottoms of his jeans. His head pounded.

“If she were alive, she’d still inherit it all, I suppose. It would take a team of lawyers to figure it out, but since she was the kid Witt was so crazy about, she’d still be his princess-heiress to it all, and since half your family is dead or behind bars, she’d get it. No doubt?”