The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [54]
“Graham’s baby, of course.” He spoke the words knowing what their effect would be, wanting, after all these years, to watch, wanting to see the confusion, the disbelief. Wanting to see pain . . .
“Graham’s baby . . .” This hitherto-unknown piece of the puzzle hit like a shot and shattered into a million pieces.
“A girl. A beautiful girl.” He might have told how he’d held the child many times and wished with all his heart that the child had been his, how fiercely he’d fought against the envy that had, in the end, consumed him and coaxed him to do something for which he’d never forgiven himself, something he’d spent a lifetime trying to forget.
But tonight Miles Kendall was tired of fighting the past. Tonight was a night for regretting words he never should have spoken, secrets he never should have shared. Tonight the guilt he’d harbored for almost thirty years surfaced with startling energy and shook him to his soul. At the same time, it made him strong. Strong enough to mourn the woman he’d once loved, the friendship he’d betrayed.
Strong enough for vengeance.
“What do you know, old man?” Patience began to draw thin.
“I know you,” he said with certainty.
“Do you now?” A wicked smile. “How unfortunate . . .”
“Yes. I know you.”
“Why did you keep this to yourself all these years, old man? Why didn’t you tell me about this baby?” Anger rippled along every nerve; rage built with every heartbeat.
“Because I knew what you’d do to her.” He leaned forward, his voice sure. “I couldn’t let you hurt her. I owed him that much.”
A snort of derision. “You have an odd way of repaying your friends, old man. Now tell me, who else knows?”
“I’m not going to tell you.” He spoke defiantly.
“Where is she?” The face loomed close, the voice a hiss. “Tell me where she is. I’m not going to ask you again, Miles.”
Miles shook his head slowly. “No.”
Standing now, the visitor reached into a deep pocket and removed a leather pouch from which a long needle was extracted with anxious hands. The tip was plunged brusquely into the folds of the old man’s neck before he could protest. Miles winced at the force, but he did not blink.
For a very long moment, he stared into the blank eyes of his killer.
Waiting for me to die, Miles told himself. He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t work. Just as well, he thought. He’d waited long enough to atone for his sins. Now was as good a time as any. . . .
When his head fell forward, the visitor pushed a firm finger into the old man’s chest to help direct his body backward onto the bed.
Content in the knowledge that the old man would not be telling anyone else about Blythe or her baby, the visitor stepped into the hallway and waited for the orderly.
“All done for tonight?” the orderly asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m quite finished.”
“This way, then.”
The orderly led the visitor through the quiet hallway to the back door he’d opened earlier. The visitor stepped through it, then turned to hand the orderly an unusually fat envelope.
Without either a word or a backward glance, the visitor stepped through the door and disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Simon stood on a rise overlooking the cemetery and watched the dignitaries gather near the open grave.
The news that Miles Kendall had died quietly in his sleep just hours after Simon himself had left St. Margaret’s had given him a serious jolt. While a check with June at St. Margaret’s assured him that Kendall had serious heart disease that could have taken him at any time, still Simon could not help but marvel at the timing. Had he waited even one more day to visit Kendall, he’d never have discovered that Graham had acknowledged that he was in fact the father of Blythe’s child. Or how Graham had flirted with the possibility of redirecting his future to be with the woman he loved.
How close had Simon come to not hearing this story at all?
The near miss—the coincidence—had raised gooseflesh on Simon’s arms and on the back of his neck. As a reporter, he’d found there were so few true coincidences