The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [213]
“John, I told you. Cleo wrote that she never slept around on you, that she has no idea where Tod Gambol is, but she thinks he might be dead.”
He said very quietly, “Nicola, why would you believe this letter when you’ve known me for four years now? I’ve always been kind and considerate to you, to everyone around me. Have you ever seen me lose my temper? Have you ever heard anything remotely this bad about me? Anything about my ever sleeping around on Cleo?”
“Then why didn’t you tell me about your mother? About your dead fiancée?”
“Why the hell would I? They were very painful times for me, and no one’s business. Maybe, after we were married, I’d have told you about them. I don’t know.”
“It’s true that I always felt safe around you because no one ever even hinted that you played around like many of the other men in Congress, hitting on young women.”
He faced her, palms spread out, and his voice softened, deepened, “Please, let’s sit down and discuss this like two people who are planning on spending the rest of their lives together. It’s all a misunderstanding. You’ve gotten ideas that simply aren’t true. We’ll find out who tried to hit you in that car. It will be some drunk, you’ll see. As for the food poisoning, it was an accident. There’s no big conspiracy here, no mystery, other than who sent you that letter.”
“I realize if I take these journal pages to the police that you and all your spin doctors could just claim I was a nutcase and wasn’t it so sad, and everyone would probably believe it. If only she’d sent me the original journal pages and not copies, then maybe I’d have a chance, but not with these.”
She paused. He said nothing.
“But I don’t want to see you again.”
Without warning, he ran at her, his hands in front of him, his fingers curved. Oh God. She whipped the Smith & Wesson out of her pocket, but he was on her, grabbing for the letter. He ripped it out of her hand, leaped back, panting hard. He stared down at the pages before he shredded each one. When he was done, he bunched the paper into a ball and threw it into the flames. He said, both his face and voice triumphant, “That’s what your letter deserves.”
His hands were still fists, the fingers curved inward. She would have been very afraid if she hadn’t had her gun. She was shaking as she said, “I’m leaving now, John. Stay away from me.”
She came awake that night at the sound of a noise. It was more than just a condo creak, more than just the night sounds she always heard when she was lying in bed alone, with nothing to do but listen.
She thought of Cleo Rothman’s letter, now destroyed, about that car with the accelerator jammed down coming straight at her, about the food poisoning that could have put her in her grave. She thought of John coming toward her, destroying that letter.
There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that he’d wanted to kill her. But there was no proof, not a single whisper of anything to show the police.
She heard it again, another sound, this one like footsteps. No, she was becoming hysterical.
She listened intently, for a long time, and it was silent now, but she was still afraid. She thought she’d rather be in the dentist’s chair than lying there in the dark, listening. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was beating so loud she thought anyone could hear it, track the sound right to her.
Enough was enough. Nicola got out of bed, grabbed the poker by the small fireplace, turned on the light, and looked in every corner of her bedroom.
Nothing, no one was there.
But then she heard something again, something or someone running, fast. She ran to her living room, to the large glass doors that gave onto the balcony. The doors weren’t locked, they were