The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [26]
“You helped save my life. That’s a bit more significant than some stuffed suit at a black-and-white soiree.”
“There’s something else.”
“What?” He looked genuinely concerned now. The evening had been so beautiful. It pained her to say what she had to say next.
She whispered, “You know my nickname.”
“What nickname?”
“Bethie. You’ve called me Bethie. Many times. Always Bethie, never Liz or Beth. I never told you that was my nickname, Tristan. And how many Elizabeths do you know who go by Bethie instead?”
The blood drained out of his face. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he appeared so horror-struck she wished she could recall her words. Simultaneously, both of their gazes slid to his side, where the scar still puckered pink and raw beneath the protective cover of his shirt.
“Blimey,” he breathed.
Bethie had a chill. The night was hot, the humidity oppressive, and still she rubbed her arms for warmth.
“This was a bad idea,” she said abruptly.
“No—”
“Yes!”
“Dammit, no!” He reclaimed her arm, his grip firm but not painful. “I’m not your daughter.”
“I know that.”
“I’m fifty-two years old, Bethie . . . Elizabeth. My favorite food is steak, my favorite drink Glenfiddich straight up. I run my own business. I enjoy fast cars, fast boats. Lord be praised, I have a deep and abiding love for Playboy, and it’s not for the articles. Does any of that sound like a twenty-three-year-old girl to you?”
“How did you know Amanda’s age?”
“Because the doctors told me!”
“You asked questions about her?”
“Bethie . . . love, of course I asked questions. Someone had to die for me to live. I think about that. Hell, half my nights I lie awake thinking of nothing but that. I am not your daughter; I swear I’m not even the ghost of your daughter. But I am a man who’s grateful.”
Bethie was silent. She needed to think about this. Then, she nodded. “It’s possible,” she offered, “that someone once referred to me as Bethie. You know, in the hospital.”
His grip loosened on her arm. “Yes, probably that’s how it happened.”
She had to know. “Did they tell you about the crash?”
“I know she was drunk, if that’s what you mean.”
“She’d being doing so well,” Bethie said softly. “She’d joined AA just six months before the accident. I had such hopes for her.”
He didn’t say anything, but his expression gentled. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the curve of her cheek. His thumb stroked her jawline.
“She was so sensitive,” Bethie murmured. “Even as a little girl. Nothing fazed Kimberly, nothing scared Kimberly, but my Mandy was always different. Shy. Timid. Bugs scared her. Thanks to Hitchcock, birds scared her. One year, she was terrified of the slide at the school playground. We never knew why. She slept with a night-light on until she was twelve.”
“You must have worried about her a great deal.”
“I wanted her to feel safe. I wanted her to see herself as strong, independent, and capable. I wanted her to be able to dream bigger than I ever did.”
“What happened to her isn’t your fault,” Tristan said.
“That’s what I try telling myself.” She gave him a halfhearted smile. “I blame my ex-husband instead.”
“Why?”
“His job. He joined the FBI when the girls were little, became a profiler, and for all intents and purposes, disappeared. Granted, he did important work, but I’ve always been a bit biased—I thought our children should come first. Silly me.” She heard the bitterness in her voice and grimaced. “Sorry. You didn’t need to hear all that.”
“Hear what?”
She smiled again, with none of the gaiety of before when the evening was new, but still a smile. “You’re very kind to listen to me,” she murmured.
“Ah Bethie, I stand by what I said before. This is the nicest evening I’ve had in ages. Good things can come from bad, you know. It’s taken me fifty-two years and one extremely dangerous surgical procedure