‘Can I give you a lift?’ Philly asked.
‘You can do better than that,’ said the woman, pulling open the door before ramming something cold and hard against Philly’s cheek. ‘You can give me the car.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE call came at three o’clock in the morning from the security desk downstairs. He hadn’t really been sleeping, more like tossing and turning, running over words and conversations in his mind, trying to make sense of the tangle of his thoughts. So the call hadn’t really woken him up, but the words the security officer had spoken snapped him immediately to attention.
Two officers. To see him.
He wasn’t all that familiar with the workings of the police force but he knew enough to know that they didn’t go making social calls at this time of night. He just had time to pull on jeans and a sweater when his doorbell buzzed.
‘What’s this about?’ he said before the uniformed officers had cleared the entrance.
‘Mr DeLuca, are you the registered owner of a Mercedes vehicle?’ He rattled off a registration number Damien recognised instantly.
‘That’s my wife’s car—yes. I bought it for her as a wedding present. Is there a problem?’
‘Can you describe your wife for us, sir?’
‘Well, yes. Five-sixish, slim figure, sandy-blonde hair. What’s this about?’
The officers exchanged glances. ‘You might like to sit down. The car was involved in an accident this evening. I’m afraid we have some bad news.’
His blood ran cold. ‘What kind of bad news?’
‘The car spun on a bend and went over an embankment. The driver wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She was thrown from the car.’
Damien turned away, chilled to the core, trying to swallow though there was nothing to lubricate his throat as the ashes of his past choked him. ‘Spun on a bend,’ ‘Over an embankment’. Was he truly hearing this or were these images dredged up from another disaster, another tragedy over a lifetime ago?
Why did it seem that history was repeating itself?
‘A woman was driving. Do you recognise this?’
The officer placed something in his palm and he tried to concentrate as he looked down on the loops of thin satin ribbon and a key—the same key he’d placed around Philly’s neck just last night. His fingers curled tight around the cold metal. ‘My wife… Is she badly hurt… Or…?’
‘Mr DeLuca,’ said one officer, his voice laden with compassion. ‘It’s more serious than that. The driver was killed. Under the circumstances we fear it may be your wife. We’d like you to come and assist with identifying the body.’
Philly!
They thought it was Philly. But he’d left her back at the house. It couldn’t be her. He’d left the car out of the garage. Someone must have stolen it. But then why would they have the key?
There was one way to find out.
He explained and reached for the phone. She had to be at the house. Someone else must have taken the key and stolen the car. That had to be what had happened. He called up the number from the phone’s memory, knowing he’d never key it in as quickly while in this state. Eventually his manager answered, businesslike but clearly half-asleep himself.
‘It’s Damien,’ he said. ‘I need to know if Mrs DeLuca is in the house. It’s important. And check the garage too,’ he added as an afterthought.
He found shoes while he waited, avoiding the pity-filled eyes of the policemen as they looked everywhere but at him. But it wasn’t Philly. It couldn’t be.
Eventually the manager came back, his worried manner immediately sending shivers down Damien’s spine. The words only confirmed his tone. No sign of her. Hadn’t slept in any of the rooms. And the car was gone.
He held on to the phone for a good minute longer, only half-aware of the concerned voice on the other end of the line. ‘Phone me on my mobile immediately if you hear from her,’ he said at last, hanging up.
He looked over to the officers, his mind blank, his gut cold and empty. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
She must have followed him. Why the hell hadn’t he considered she might do that? She’d followed him and now she was dead. Their child was dead. Grief welled up within him with the force of a tidal wave.
And it was all his fault!
She’d wanted to talk and he’d run. She’d wanted him to stay and he’d fled. She’d told him she loved him and he’d turned his back on her.
And so she’d followed him. Why would she have done that? Why had she been so determined to make him see reason if she already had everything she wanted? Unless the baby and the house weren’t enough. Had she really needed him too? Had she really loved him?