“I’m going to the police.”
The back of his neck tightened, but he controlled himself. “They’ll laugh you out of the room. You’d better be careful what you say, Acacia, or you may find yourself institutionalized.” His smile was cold. “There is a history of mental illness in the family.”
A sharp rap was followed by one of the double doors being pushed open by a tall woman, made even taller by her three-inch heels. With high cheekbones, and a nose reminiscent of the man seated across the desk, she swept inside as if she owned the place. “Sorry to interrupt you, Dad, but we had an appointment. Oh! I didn’t know you had someone in here. Roxie’s left for the day.” She rained a smile on Kacey.
Gerald stood. “You’re not interrupting anything, Clarrie. In fact, it’s probably a good thing you showed up. I’d like you to meet your sister. Clarissa, this is Acacia. Acacia, my daughter Clarissa.”
What the hell had he gotten himself into? Trace wondered as he once again checked on Eli, who was curled on the couch, sleeping, Sarge next to him, the huge cone still in place around the dog’s head.
Trace had left the police station knowing that the two cops—Pescoli and Alvarez—had been disappointed that they couldn’t nail him for Jocelyn’s death and Leanna’s disappearance. But that was not what was worrying him now.
No, it was Kacey and how she was involved in this mess.
Obviously, she wasn’t safe in her own home, dog or no dog, no matter if she did have her grandfather’s shotgun. Someone had gotten inside, planted microphones, and listened in.... Why? And what, if anything, did it have to do with the other women’s deaths?
It just smelled bad.
“So, what about some mac and cheese?” he asked his son. Eli was supposed to drink tons of fluids, but the untouched soda, Gatorade, apple juice, and vitamin-water bottles on the table near the couch were testament to the fact that it still hurt his throat to swallow.
“Not hungry.”
“Well, you’ve got to eat, and you’ve got to drink, a lot.” Trace cracked open the bottle of reddish vitamin water and held it in front of his boy’s nose. “Remember you promised the nurse when you left the hospital. I just don’t want to see you have to go back.”
“No way!” Eli said with a frown. His voice was hoarse and he still coughed, but he got the message and took the bottle from his father’s hands, managing a couple sips from the bottle.
There was homework piling up, compliments of e-mail from Eli’s teacher, but Trace figured he’d fight that battle later. First, he wanted his boy healthy. Last night had been scary for all of them.
Now that he had his son home, his mind was working overtime with worries for Kacey, a woman he barely knew but was already fantasizing about.
Eli picked at the macaroni and cheese, drank part of his juice and Gatorade, and generally vegged out in front of the television, which was tuned to his favorite kids’ channel. He slept a lot, but each time Trace took his temperature, it had gone down a little bit more and now was hovering near one hundred degrees.
Now, if there were just some way to make sure Kacey was safe, he’d feel a whole lot better. He tried her cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail, so he hung up without leaving a message.
Relax, he told himself. She’s at work.
He just couldn’t quite shake his misgivings. He didn’t know what to believe, but the hidden microphones were real. There was no escaping that.
All the wind had been stripped from Clarissa’s sails. She stared first at her father, then let her gaze move to Kacey.
“Are you serious?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing a bit.
“What do you think?” For some reason Gerald seemed a little amused, as if he liked pulling one over on his firstborn.
“Dad, really . . .”
“She’s Maribelle’s daughter.” Gerald stated the fact as if his affair with Kacey’s mother were a known fact.
“The nurse who worked for you? I remember her. . . .” This time when Clarissa rained her gaze on Kacey, it was more than a passing, dismissive glance. As if she were mentally ticking off the genetic similarities, her expression slowly changed from shock and confusion to revulsion.
“Oh, God, Dad, tell me this is some kind of sick, twisted joke,” she said, crossing the expanse of carpet to her father’s desk, keeping her gaze focused on Kacey.
“No joke. Acacia’s my daughter. As much as you are.”
“But . . . no . . . Jesus, does Mom know?”
“Suspects, I’d guess.”
“You don’t know?”