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Except she wasn’t free. Would never be free. Not as long as they shared custody of Lara. Neil had their daughter alternate weekends and every Wednesday evening. He’d pick her up from dry-land training at Canada Olympic Park, take her out for dinner, then bring her home around nine.
“To me, you’ll always be mine. You’re still sexy, Sal. In some ways even more than when you were in your twenties. What do you say, babe? Maybe we should celebrate your good news in bed.”
She couldn’t stop herself from cringing. The memories of times in their marriage when she’d made love with him in order to avoid a fight came back in a rush of shame. Why had she married so quickly? So thoughtlessly?
With hindsight, none of her reasons seemed compelling enough to warrant landing herself with Neil Anderson for the rest of her life.
“Don’t look at me that way. I remember when you couldn’t get enough in the sack. But now that you’re about to become a judge, you’re too good for me. Is that it, Sal?”
He’d moved to within touching distance. Armani started whining again.
“Get out of my face, Neil. You may be scaring the dog, but you’re not scaring me. Those days are long over.”
He could scream and yell and rant at her as long as he liked. She didn’t care. As long as he was mad about something that didn’t affect Lara, it simply didn’t matter.
That’s what Sally told herself, but her body refused to take the presence of an angry, hulking man in her kitchen quite so lightly. She could feel all the old warning signs. Racing heart, damp palms, shallow breathing. She forced herself to fill her lungs with air and release it slowly.
Neil watched her face with the fascination of a scientist observing slides under a microscope. “You’re a coldhearted bitch. You’ve been judging men for years. Now you’ll get to do it in court. Break their balls and send them to jail for as long as the law allows. God help the slobs who look for mercy from you.”
Sally didn’t listen to the words. She was used to Neil’s diatribes. He had several favorite themes, from her dearth of maternal instincts for their daughter, to her hatred of men in general, and him in particular. She was frigid, a bitch, and worse…
At some point he’d start swearing and then he’d throw something, maybe punch a wall, and leave.
But tonight he was frighteningly calm and still.
And close.
He was a fanatically clean man, but he could not hide his own essence beneath the scent of his soap, his aftershave, his mouthwash. That essence, as familiar to her as his every expression, made her ill.
Yet, she refused to back away. She lifted her gaze and stared him straight in the eyes, not caring if he saw the contempt she felt in her heart.
“You always thought you were too good for me, Sal, didn’t you? Right from the beginning.”
Though his words were uttered quietly, his jaw was tight. She saw a sheen of moisture on his brow, noticed his fist clench at his side.
“Get out of my house, Neil.”
“Your house? YOUR house?”
His eyes glazed over and Sally knew this was it. He was gone. If any sliver of logic could have reached him before, now it was no longer possible. She watched him lift his hand. The wine bottle was nearby. She knew the way he thought, the way he operated. He was going to break the bottle, hurl it onto the tile flooring, or worse, throw it across the room.
Red wine was going to be spilled all over her beautiful, spanking-new kitchen…
But Neil’s hand didn’t stop at the bottle. It kept moving and just a split second before she went flying, she realized the hand was headed for her.
He pushed her violently, letting loose a barrage of cursing at the same time.
“No!” Feeling herself lose her balance, Sally threw out her arms. One hand glanced off the wok, the smoking, hot wok.
She hollered in pain, and then he shoved her again, harder this time. She felt her legs fly out from under her. On the way down her head glanced off the edge of the granite counter with a thud.
For a second all was numb. Then sensation returned in an explosion of pain.
Oh, God!
She landed on the floor, on the cold, hard tile and couldn’t stop herself from moaning. Her head vibrated with waves of pain. She couldn’t believe she was still conscious. She put a hand to the spot and felt the warm stickiness of blood.
“Neil…” she moaned. Phone the ambulance, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t get out the words. Oh, my head, my head. Help me, Neil. Surely you didn’t mean to do this.
“You always were clumsy in the kitchen, Sal.”
She couldn’t see him, but she felt his breath in her ear as he spoke the words. He must be crouching on the floor beside her. Sally tried to open her eyes, but all she saw was darkness. White dots of light.
“You’re never going to be a judge, you bitch. When I’m finished with you, you’ll be lucky if you aren’t disbarred.”
She heard his pants rustle as he stood and she had a sudden fear of being kicked. She was so vulnerable here on the floor, writhing at his feet. She forced herself to be still, to stop the moaning. No matter that she could hardly breathe for the throbbing in her head. She couldn’t let him see her broken.
Seconds ticked by. She waited for his next move. A kick? A punch? Would he throw something at her?
And then she heard his hard-soled shoes clapping on the Mediterranean tile floor. The sound receded, then stopped. The back door opened, slammed shut.
He was gone. Thank goodness he was gone.
She curled her legs up toward her chest and tried to lift her head. No. Impossible.
Armani’s paws clacked against the tile as he came to check her out. She felt his soft, warm tongue on her hand.
“Good boy,” she tried to whisper.
Blackness. Pain. The smell of blood.
Have to get up. But she couldn’t. Armani continued to whine, to nudge her hand with his nose.
Ow. Her burned hand hurt. Everything hurt. Need help.
Beth.
With her uninjured hand, she pulled out the cell phone clipped to her waist. Her thumb passed over the buttons, pressing a familiar speed-dial number by rote.
Her fingers were slick with blood, her movements uncoordinated. The phone slipped to the floor near her head. The house was so quiet, she could hear the rings. One. Two. Three.
Someone answered. It was a man’s voice. That was wrong. She didn’t want a man.
Beth. She tried to speak, but didn’t know if any sound came out. Help me, Beth.
Then all went dark.
CHAPTER TWO
CROWN PROSECUTOR Colin Foster was home watching the hockey game when the phone rang. He’d boiled himself some bacon-and-onion perogies for dinner, and a plate smeared with sour cream sat on his footstool next to a half-empty beer.
The Flames had made the playoffs and were into overtime with the Canucks to tie the series. He didn’t want to answer the damn call, but when he leaned over and saw the name on display, his priorities took a sudden shift.
Sally Stowe. Why was she phoning? He couldn’t think of a single reason. But there were plenty why she wouldn’t.
He hit mute on the remote control. His study went bizarrely silent as the action continued on the bigscreen TV. Leaning forward in his leather chair, he pressed the talk button.
“Hello?”
Nothing. Then some muffled, indistinguishable noises.
“Sally, is that you?” Was that a sob? “Are you all right?”
More muffled noises, barely discernible as words. And then one word, very faintly. “Beth.”
“Sally?” Why was she asking for his wife? What was going on?
But there was only silence from the line.
Colin waited for several seconds, maybe even a whole minute. When nothing else happened, he finally hung up and tried to think of explanations. Sally had been his wife’s best friend. In the past she would phone here all the time.
But not at all for the past six months.
Had she dialed the number by mistake? He could see that happening, easily enough. But Sally would have apologized as soon as she’d realized her error.
And what about those background noises? And that soft cry of “Beth…”
Something must be wrong. Sally’s place wasn’t far. He’d better drive over and make sure she and Lara were all right.
Colin turned off the TV, then grabbed Beth’s key chain from the hall. He was pretty sure his wife had kept a spare for Sally’s house. They used to water plants and bring in mail when either one went on a trip without the other.
Best friends. Yes, they’d been best friends all right. For as long as he’d known them, they’d been closer than sisters. They celebrated birthdays together, went on annual girl-holidays and dyed each other’s hair. They’d even decided to move into the same neighborhood so they would be close to each other.
Colin hadn’t minded. He was happy with the Elbow Valley home he and Beth had selected. And the community, with its network of biking trails, connected green spaces, and a frozen pond for skating in the winter, would have been a perfect place to raise kids.
If he and Beth had only managed to have them.
Colin went through the laundry room to the three-car garage, hitting the power button for the door opener on his way to the SUV.
As he passed the Miata convertible Beth had loved so much, he felt a twinge of guilt. There was so much he’d let slide this last while. He knew the registration on the Miata was expired, and so was the insurance, probably. Beth’s clothes were still in her closet, her mail unopened. Hell, he was pretty sure there was a container of her yogurt in the back of the fridge. Probably more mold than yogurt by now.
He had to start dealing with all this. Pull together the pieces that were left of his life. As he backed his vehicle out of the garage, Colin made a promise to himself. He was going to make a list and get busy.
Soon. Very soon.
Not tonight, but tomorrow for sure. First he had to find out why Sally Stowe was calling a woman who had been dead for six months.
SALLY WASN’T SURE how long she’d lain on the floor—fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty?—when she heard knocking at the front door.
Not Neil, was her first coherent thought. He would have just barged in.
So then, who? She wasn’t expecting anyone. Maybe a canvasser or something.
She tried to sit up, then moaned. Her head hurt so much, she must have a concussion. But her injuries couldn’t be too serious. She was conscious and her mind was working all right. Wasn’t it? Let’s see, she was Sally Stowe and today was April the twenty-third and the capital of Alberta was… Edmonton.
Yes, she was fine, she was absolutely fine. If only she could pick herself up from the floor.
There was another knock, this one at the kitchen door. For a second she panicked. Maybe it was Neil, checking if she was alive.
Or making sure she wasn’t…
Armani whined, and she put a reassuring hand on his back. She wished someone could do the same for her. Neil had never been physically violent before. She didn’t know what to make of it.
The door opened. A voice called out, “Sally? Are you home?”
Not Neil. Relief was quickly replaced by a different kind of alarm. What was Colin Foster doing here? The island blocked him from her view and it worked vice versa, as well. If she kept quiet, maybe he would leave. She certainly didn’t want him to see her this way.
On the hand, she could use some help.
In the end, the decision wasn’t Sally’s to make. Colin entered the kitchen. He must have seen the blue flame on the stove, because he came rushing around the island and almost tripped over her.
“Oh my God, Sally! What happened to you?”
He crouched beside her, as Neil had done, only this time she felt no fear. Armani seemed to sense his presence was benign, as well. He stopped whining and lay down at Sally’s side.
“My head,” she said, barely finding the strength to speak. “My hand.” She lifted it slightly.
“You burned yourself.” Colin reached to the stove and switched off the burner. “Badly. And you’ve hit your head. It’s still bleeding.”
He opened drawers until he found the clean tea towels. Taking several, he made a compress and applied it to her wound. He tied one of the towels completely around her head to hold the others in place.
Then he found a bowl, filled it with cold water and immersed her burned hand. The relief from pain was instantaneous.
“Talk to me, Sally. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. My name is Sally Elizabeth Stowe and it’s Friday the twenty-third.”
He looked taken aback at first, and then he smiled. “Well, your mind is working all right. But then it always has.”
This, coming from a man who had spent the past decade and a half debating almost everything she said, was a compliment, Sally knew.
“What a lot of blood.”
His face was awfully white, Sally noticed. He’d aged since Beth’s death, but not unattractively. A little gray sprinkled in with the chestnut-brown. A few more lines spreading out from the corners of his alert, probing eyes.
“Head injuries always bleed profusely, Colin.” She remembered Lara, when she was two, splitting her head open on the stone hearth of their first rental home, and the amazing amount of blood she’d lost in a relatively short time. Sally had hit the panic button then, but at Emergency Lara had received three stitches and been pronounced fine.
On the drive home, Neil had bitterly castigated Sally for her carelessness, conveniently forgetting that she had asked him to keep an eye on Lara while she folded the laundry.
