The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [69]
“I’m calling the police,” she said calmly from the doorway. “I don’t care what happens. This will stop and it will stop now.”
Her father had frozen, his leg in mid-kick, and stared at her in the doorway. “You damned little bitch. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m calling the police now. It’s over.” She’d walked back into the foyer to the phone that sat on the small Louis XVI table, beneath a beautiful gilt mirror.
She had dialed 9-1- when her hand was grabbed. It was her mother. It was Noelle, and she was crying, begging her not to call the police, begging, on her knees, begging and begging, tears streaming down her face.
Sally had stared down at the woman who was clutching at her knees, tears of pain grooving down her cheeks. Then she’d looked at her father, who was standing in the doorway to the library, his arms crossed over his chest, his ankles crossed, tall and slender, beautifully dressed in cashmere and wool, his hair thick and dark, with brilliant gray threading through it, looking like a romantic lead in the movies. He was watching her.
“Go ahead, do it,” he’d said. “Do it and just see what your mother will do when the cops get here. She’ll say you’re a liar, Sally, that you’re a jealous little bitch, that you don’t want her to have my affection, that you’ve always resented her, resented your own mother.
“Isn’t that why you’re coming home all the time from college? Go ahead, Sally. Do it. You’ll see.” He never moved, just spoke in that intoxicating, mesmerizing voice of his, one that had swayed his colleagues and clients for the past thirty years. He’d kept a hint of a Southern drawl, knowing it added just the right touch when he deftly slurred the word he wanted to emphasize.
“Please, Sally, don’t. Don’t. I’m begging you. You can’t. It would ruin everything. I can’t allow you to. It’s dangerous. It’s all right, Sally. Just don’t call, please, dear God, don’t call.”
She’d given her mother and her father one last look and left. She had not returned until after her graduation seven months later.
Maybe her father was beating her mother less simply because Sally wasn’t coming home anymore.
Funny that she hadn’t been able to remember that episode until now. Not until . . . not until she’d gone to The Cove and met James and her life had begun to seem like a life again, despite the murders, despite her father’s phone calls, despite everything.
She must really be nuts. The damned man had betrayed her. There was no way around that. He’d saved her too, but that didn’t count, it was just more of the job. She still marveled at her own simplicity. He was FBI. He’d tracked her down and lied to her.
She huddled down even more as she neared the library windows. She looked inside. Her mother was reading a book. She was sitting in her husband’s favorite wing chair, reading a book. She looked exquisite. Well, she should. The bastard had been dead for a good three weeks. No more bruises. No more chance of bruises.
Still, Sally waited. No one else was in the house.
“You’re sure she’s going home, Quinlan?”
“Not home. She’s going to her mother’s house. Not her husband’s house. You know my intuition, my gut. But to be honest about it, I know her. She feels something for her mother. That’s the first place she’ll go. I’ll bet you both her father and her husband put her in that sanitarium in the first place. Why? I haven’t the foggiest idea. I do know, though, that her father was a very evil man.”
“I assume you’ll tell me what you mean by that later?”
“Drive faster, Dillon. The house is number 337 on Lark. Yeah, I’ll tell you, but not now. Let’s get going.”
“Hello, Noelle.”
Noelle St. John slowly lowered her novel to her lap. Just as slowly, she looked up at the doorway to see her daughter standing there, wearing a man’s jacket that came nearly to her knees.
Her mother didn’t move, just stared at her. When she was younger,