Until Dark - Mariah Stewart [115]
“McMillan’s,” she rasped, her throat sore and raw, though she could not remember quite why. That she had recognized the locale, however, gave her a tinge of satisfaction.
“What?”
“McMillan’s barn.”
“Oh, right, McMillan’s barn,” he said sarcastically. “As if it matters.”
“What do you want from me?” She shivered in the cool air of dawn. Her clothes and hair, she realized, were wet and damp, her jeans clinging to her legs like soggy plastic wrap.
“Nothing, not anymore. All that talk about how much you care about family, it was just bullshit. The first chance you got, you tried to hurt me.” His voice was indignant. “You did hurt me. My eyes still burn. My face is burned. That wasn’t nice, Kendra.” He got down on one knee and growled into her face. “That . . . was . . . not . . . nice.”
She turned her head, and with his hand, he turned it back again.
“Do not look away from me when I am speaking to you.”
She looked up and blinked, still trying to focus. There were two of him, she was pretty sure. Both had angry red blotches where the coffee had scalded his skin.
Good. She hoped it hurt like hell.
She blinked again, and there was only one.
She tried to sit up a little more, but the pain shot through her head and she leaned back upon the ground again.
“Have a little headache, do we?” he asked.
“I’m cold,” she said, ignoring the question.
“Tough. This little outing was your idea.”
“Where’s the smoke coming from?” she asked weakly.
“It’s your house, stupid.” He laughed and for a moment, pleasure lit up his eyes. “You left the burner on under the frying pan. Careless of you.”
“Oh, my God . . .” She tried to sit up and he shoved her back with one hand. “We’ve got to—”
“No, we don’t. Besides, it’s only what you deserve,” he hissed at her. “It’s what you get for hurting me. I wasn’t going to hurt you, Kendra. I only wanted what was mine.”
“What do you mean, what was yours?”
“You owed it to me, all of you did.”
“What are you talking about?” Her teeth were beginning to chatter as the cold continued to seep through her wet clothes and spread like thin ribbons throughout her body.
“Half of everything should be mine.”
“You mean Dad’s estate?” Her cheeks too numb to smile, she tried unsuccessfully to force a laugh. “Well, that might take some doing. Mom had you declared dead after seven years.”
“It figures, doesn’t it? Bitch.” He stood up and started to pace, his hands moving restlessly. “Well, then, I’ll just have to have myself declared alive again.”
“How will you do that?” She struggled to sit and wrapped her arms around her chest in an effort to warm herself. “You can’t just walk into the police station and announce that you’re not dead after all.”
“I can tell them . . .” His fingers slid through his hair, front to back, in one smooth motion. “I’ll tell them that I had amnesia. Yeah. People get amnesia. I read about it.”
“You’ll still need to prove somehow that you are Ian. You’ll have to take some tests.”
“No. No, I don’t. I don’t need any DNA tests. I can prove I’m Ian. I have proof right here.” His hands slid into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. “See. I have the picture.”
He held it up and she squinted to see it in the growing light of dawn. It was Ian’s seventh-grade photograph.
“You kept that wallet all these years?” she asked, puzzled. “Why?”
“So I could prove I was Ian.” He looked at her as if she were stupid. “Why do you think?”
His voice had taken on the tone of a man younger than the one who stood before her.
“That’s not going to prove it to the police.”
“It’s always proved it. I showed it to everyone. Everyone knew I was Ian Smith.”
“Who’s everyone?” The sun was starting to come up, but she was getting colder by the minute and she began to fear hypothermia. She could no longer feel her fingers or her toes. From somewhere sirens shrieked through the stillness.
“Everyone in San Francisco. Everyone on the street. They all knew I was Ian. The police will know, too, when I show them the picture.”
“I’m freezing.