Chapter Twenty-Two

Six forty-five on the dashboard clock. An eerie orange glow backlit the low clouds to the west.

Faith slowed the car, straining to read house numbers on the ornate mailboxes in the fading light. The GPS announced the beach house was on the right and fifty yards ahead. Rather than go past and be seen before she was ready, she pulled the car onto the apron of the road one driveway before her destination.

Was Victor already there waiting?

She shifted into park and turned off the ignition. Her heart pounded in a staccato rhythm, and her fingers trembled. Studying the mailbox ahead, she fisted her hands and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. The recorder felt huge between her breasts. She chewed her bottom lip and slid her right hand over the unit, tracing the sharp outline through the thick fabric of her quilted jacket.

Despite her attempt to conceal it under layers of cloth, would he realize the bug was there? What would he do if he guessed she was recording their conversation?

Too late now to worry about that.

She stuffed her purse under the seat, pulled the key from the ignition, and swung open the car door. Stepping into the hot air heavy with post-storm humidity was like walking into a sauna. Within seconds, her forehead and upper lip were peppered with beads of sweat. She prayed the recorder wouldn’t short circuit in the drops running between her breasts.

Cicadas screeched in the thick landscaping along the road. Although the ocean was hidden by the privacy fences and shrubs shielding the exclusive homes, surf thumped, thumped, thumped close by, and the sharp smell of salt and sand hung in the air.

Along with the scent of her fear.

She touched the recorder at her chest for reassurance one more time. Then squaring her shoulders, she wiped her moist palms down her sides, stuffed the car key in her pocket, and headed for the end of Victor’s driveway and her moment of truth.

…

When Kent suddenly realized Josie was heading to the beach house, his stomach did a sickening somersault. A sense of impending doom weighed heavy on his chest. Why would she be on this road if not to meet Victor?

The blue rental car stopped on the side of the road a short distance before the beach house driveway. Wanting to stay far enough away that he could watch undetected, he braked the Carrera hard and pulled onto the apron too.

What the hell? Victor was the only one using the house. For playing around with his mistress.

Bile rose in his throat as he watched her get out of the car and walk along the edge of the road. Her hair seemed on fire in the harsh sunlight. Her movements were slow and stiff like a prisoner being led to the gallows.

She turned into the beach house driveway and disappeared behind a clump of fan palms. He swallowed the lump of dread in his throat. Yanking his keys from the ignition, he swung open the car door and hustled to follow. He seemed to have arrived at the moment of truth.

…

There was no one in sight, but the hairs on her nape stood on end and she knew Victor was there. Her intuition whispered eyes were watching her every move.

The garish crimson clouds and the sun setting behind her reflected off the windows and gave the house a foreboding look. Combined with the suffocating heat, the color brought to mind the fires of hell.

Just where he belongs.

Her heavy jacket was soggy in her armpits, but her skin prickled with fear. Sand crunched under her feet, and the pounding of the surf seemed to grow in intensity and echo inside her skull. She turned from the driveway onto the stone sidewalk, and stepped up onto the granite stoop. Her mouth went dry. Fighting off an urge to flee, she swallowed and depressed the glowing, mother-of-pearl button next to the front door.

Muted chimes sounded inside the house. The gay little tune mocked her tension. The last notes died as the door swung open. Victor’s one-eyed gaze slammed into hers.

He returned her stare in silence for a second, then smirked, and said, “Come in.”

As he stepped aside, his teeth gleamed red in the afternoon light like a hyena’s fangs discolored with blood. Faith ordered her legs to move and took two steps into a dimly lit foyer.

The door bumped shut. Without a word, Victor slipped past her and walked away.

She followed him into a huge living room with a cathedral ceiling. A wall of windows looked out over a barren beach and an angry ocean. The drastic cold of the air-conditioning turned the sweat on her neck to ice and sent shivers up her arms. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.

He stopped on the far side of a leather sofa. Turned to face her. “What do you want?”

The sudden blast of venomous words hit like a physical blow and made her jump. She caught her breath and studied his hostile expression and rigid posture. Not the look of a man who would want to do the moral thing, clear his conscience, or confess to a crime.

Her heart sank. Her plan was going to fail.

Tears threatened, but she ruthlessly pushed them away. Whether her mission was doomed or not, she had to try. What did she have to lose?

She pried her dry tongue free from the roof of her mouth and plunged ahead. “I came here for justice.”

…

From his vantage point behind a cluster of Formosa palms, Kent watched the door open, Victor say something he couldn’t hear, and Josie step inside.

Drained and disheartened, he considered going back to his car and leaving. There was probably only one reason for their rendezvous. Did he want to know the details?

Waves crashed on the beach, ticking away the seconds, pounding an ugly picture of Josie and Victor into his mind. Disgust whispered forget her and go. But the questions swirling in his brain rooted his feet in place. He couldn’t leave. Regardless of what he discovered, he needed answers about Josie. About her fixation on Victor. His blood heated. Damn it, he was here and he was going to get those answers.

He set his jaw with iron-willed intent. Staying hidden in the landscaping, he moved closer to the house. He’d try observing through the windows first. The sun was sinking below the horizon and darkness was falling quickly. Any lights on inside the house would help his cause. A lot would be explained by a kiss, physical contact, or two silhouettes moving into a bedroom.

He tasted bile and wanted to crash through the door, grab Josie by the arm, and drag her away. Maybe he could stand her being with any other man, but not with Victor. Despite her lies, he yearned to believe Josie was pure and good, ached for proof she didn’t belong in Victor’s sordid world.

Behind a drooping clump of pampas grass, he paused to think. All the top executives had been issued a set of keys so they could use the house to entertain. Maybe he could use his to sneak in through the back patio door and hear what was going on. He stuck his hand into his pocket, pulled out his key chain, and took inventory. Carrera, his own house — front and back —his desk at home, the boat. No beach house key. Memories flared in his brain. Damn it, he’d been sick of carrying the extra weight and tossed the keys into his office desk drawer months ago.

He huffed out his breath, squashed a mosquito biting his sweaty neck, and stuffed the keys back into his pocket. He needed to get a grip, make a plan, and act rationally. His best shot was to figure out which room they were in, sneak in near a likely window, and try to eavesdrop. Hearing their voices over the thump-swish of the surf and the chirping of the insects would be difficult, maybe impossible. So to have any chance, he had to get close.

No jumping to conclusions, he warned himself. Maybe she’s not here for sex.

…

“What kind of justice?” Victor asked.

Faith hesitated, debating whether to proceed slowly or call his hand right away with an outright accusation. Impatience rushed to the surface. After all these years when he’d been living free while her mother had been imprisoned by fear, the moment for confrontation had come. “You committed a crime. I think it’s time you admit what you’ve done and get it off your conscience.”

He twisted his mouth in disdain and challenge. “What crime is that supposed to be?”

“Rape.” Her stomach flip-flopped, and she wanted to vomit the filthy residue the word left in her mouth onto his spotless tile floor.

His eyes widened. Beneath his three-hundred-dollar shirt, the muscles stiffened in his shoulders. His voice was tight and menacing. “Listen bitch, I can guess what kind of game you’re playing, and I can tell you this, you won’t win. I don’t shake down. I do the shaking. Now get the hell out of here and don’t come back.”

She shook her head. Her knees felt boneless. She gripped the back of the leather sofa that separated her from Victor and leaned toward him. “You must remember.”

“If you leave in the next ten seconds, I might forget you ever cooked up this scam.”

His lips were thin and bloodless, his eyes colder than a glacier.

A shiver ran the length of her spine. Her mouth was parched, her tongue numb. “It’s not a scam. I’m talking about a rape you committed in Williamsburg. Twenty-six years ago.”

She saw a nanosecond of hesitation, then a spark of knowledge flickered in his eyes, but his expression remained unchanged, void of remorse or conscience.

He snorted. “What do you think you know?”

“You viciously raped a seventeen-year-old girl named Suzanne Rochambeau. And you left her lying on the side of a dark road, bruised and bleeding.”

His crossed his arms over his chest, jutted out his chin, silently studied her for a few seconds. “Why would you want to concoct that story?”

Her heart thumped hard, surging against her breastbone. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and her stomach twisted into a hard knot. This was the moment when her father would know the damage wrought by his sperm.

Dread, fear, anger, and hatred fought for control of her body. She wanted to run screaming back out the door, or maybe lunge at him and slap the smirk from his face.

“It’s a fact, not a story. I know because Suzanne Rochambeau was my mother. My real name is Faith Rochambeau, and I was born nine months to the day after that night.”

Understanding crept into his eyes. He looked her up and down. Then a grin split his face, and he laughed. Chuckles swelled to fill the room. He stuck out a hand, pointed at her, and laughed some more. His face grew red. His mirth expanded into a belly laugh, and he pressed his hands to his bouncing sides.

Her blood froze in her veins. How could he laugh?

“Stop it,” she shouted. “You hurt her. You ruined her life. Why is that funny?”

He squeezed his lips into a thin line and squelched the laughter as quickly as it had appeared. Then he glared at her. “You really expect me to believe this crap, that you’re my kid? That’s the scam?”

“It’s true. You’re my biological father.” She swallowed hard. “Believe me, I don’t like it either. I’d much rather never have known about my connection to you than have to spend the rest of my life hating my own genes.”

He snorted. “So what if you are my kid? Am I supposed to give you a payoff and you’ll go away?”

“I told you what I want. Justice. I want you to admit your guilt.”

“I’m not admitting anything. Maybe she was less than enthusiastic, but you can’t prove rape.” A vein pulsed in his temple. His look was pure malevolence. “I have power and the money to hire an army of lawyers. I’ll crush you like a roach, drag your mother’s name through so much mud she’ll regret the day she cooked this up every minute of the rest of her life. Drop it, bitch. Go home to your pathetic mama.”

Faith fought down tremors of panic and pulled out the only ammunition she had left. “Even if you won’t admit to rape, I can punish you another way, show the world your true colors. I know you were married in New York before you ever met your rich wife. You’re a bigamist. And when your wife finds out, you’ll go to jail. At the very least, she’ll kick you out. You’ll end up broke and out on the street.”

His cheeks turned scarlet, and his eyes narrowed to black slits. He leaned toward the end table under the only circle of light in the room, opened a small drawer, reached inside. “We’ll see about that.”

His hand came back into sight holding a gun.

Visceral fear grabbed her by the throat and strangled her breath. Her stomach did a roller coaster dip downward, flipped up and over, went into a spiraling free-fall. Paralysis seized every muscle until she feared she’d collapse in a heap.

She stared at his finger on the trigger of the ominous weapon, trying to calm her screaming nerves. Was the gun real? Loaded? Maybe it was a toy. Maybe it was just for intimidation.

“You don’t have to worry about living with my genes much longer,” he said in an icy tone. “Nobody gets away with coming in here and threatening to blow up my life.”

Hysterical laughter wanted to burst from the clog in her throat. How could she have been so naïve? Kent had told her Victor had killed. Why didn’t she foresee a gun?

He laughed again, this time it sounded more like a snarl. “Yeah, I took what I wanted from your mother, some people would call it rape. She fought like a wildcat, but she was no match for me. I was young and strong and determined, and her resistance made my cock even harder. I got my rocks off good.” He touched the black patch over his eye. “She scratched me good. So I’ll never forget the bitch.” He bared his teeth and chortled. “To be safe and make sure this ends once and for all, I suppose I’ll have to find her and take care of her, too. Teach the both of you a lesson.”

Tears flooded her eyes. He’d confessed. Really confessed. But all her efforts could be for naught. If he killed her, who would ever know? She stalled. “You can’t kill her, she’s already dead.”

An evil grin tugged at the edge of his mouth. His face was lit from the bottom by the dim lamplight and the shadows around his eye sockets made him look like an effigy of the devil. “Good. That saves me the trouble.”

A noise came from outside, like something falling through the bushes. His gaze jerked toward the sound.

Her brain registered his distraction. With no time to spare, she lurched and slammed her arm against the table lamp. As if in slow motion, it took flight then crashed to the floor. The bulb shattered and went out, plunging the room into darkness.

Darkness.

The setting of evil.

The setting of nightmares.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out. This nightmare was real.

She needed to escape. Praying he wouldn’t shoot blindly, she bolted in what she hoped was the direction of the foyer. He swore. Over the roar of her breathing, she heard footsteps following behind.

He knew what direction she’d go. He was familiar with the layout of the house; she wasn’t. He’d catch her while she fumbled around in the dark, or he’d get to the door first and block her exit.

She needed a different plan.

Reaching out to her side, her fingertips banged the curved, raised surface of a door molding then found open space. The entrance to a dining room or kitchen? She swerved, lurched through the doorway, and flattened herself against a nearby wall.

His heavy breathing was only a few feet away. She held her breath and tried to think. There had to be another exit. Which way to go? She searched her brain for the image of the wall of windows looking out over the beach. Had there been a door to a patio?

No, going backward and searching blindly for a patio door was too big a risk. If she couldn’t make it out the front door, her only chance was to somehow get the gun.

Yeah, sure. Good luck with that.

Her heart beat so frantically she was sure he would hear the racket. Her eyes were starting to adjust to the lack of light, and gray shadows appeared scattered in the black. But her deep-seated fear of darkness kept her from welcoming the cover of night.

He’d find her in a minute. No time to delay.

A ceiling fixture flashed on in the foyer and light spilled through the doorway. Her time was up.

He chuckled. “You can’t get away. Come on back out. We’ll talk. I won’t shoot.”

Right. He must think she was a moron. Sick with dread, she scanned around her and spotted a dining room sideboard topped with a tall vase of flowers. She tiptoed the three steps to the sideboard, thankful for a plush area rug that reached almost to the wall and muffled any sound. She needed two hands to lift the heavy crystal vase.

Footfalls behind her.

She spun around, caught sight of Victor’s leering face, tossed the vase at his head.

He raised his left forearm to shield his face and jumped to the side. “Shit, white fucking wallpaper.”

Frozen in fear, Faith stared as the gun barrel swung in her direction.