Jack shrugged. “Maybe she will now that her father’s dead. Maybe he forced her to stay with the guy.”
Rachael handed him a couple of clean glasses. “You really think Mr. Abbott senior kept her married to Kostas?”
“Why else would she have put up with him except for threats from the old man?”
Rachael said, “Well, her father took my father away from my mother, threatened my mother while sending her a bloody check.” She realized her voice had gone up. The old man—dear heavens, he was her grandfather—he was dead, his eldest son dead, as well. There was no changing that. And here she was living in their house, alone, a house she hadn’t even known about until such a short time ago. “Jimmy told me when Laurel met Stefanos, she fell really hard for him, never saw any of the rot below the surface.”
Jack turned on the dishwasher. “Seems weird to me the old man wouldn’t have checked him out thoroughly, seen the rot. So why did he let Stefanos marry his daughter?”
“Good question. Jimmy said Stefanos had a big problem—namely he needed a huge influx of money, and Laurel was his solution. And evidently she wanted him badly. She was thirty-five, her biological clock ticking.”
Rachael took the two napkins Jack had wadded up and began to methodically smooth them out and fold them. He watched her for a moment, said, “They’re dirty, Rachael.”
“What? Oh, the napkins. It’s just that they’re so beautiful, so well made and ... Oh, I’m losing it. I’ll wash them tomorrow. By hand.” She stacked them neatly on the counter. “Jimmy showed me some photos of Laurel when she was young. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was smiling, full of hope. He said being married to Stefanos made her what she is today. It’s sad.”
A dark eyebrow went up. “Sad? Give her something sharp and she’d slit your throat, Rachael.”
“Yeah, I know. I also know she’s capable of a killing rage because I’ve seen her rage up close and personal. It’s stark and ugly. I can see it breaking over her when Jimmy told her he was going public with what he’d done.
“She could have killed him—for herself, for her family, for the business, any and all of it. But her husband? Would he even care? Does he care about anything? And Quincy? I think he’s got dark wormy things inside him, but kill his own brother? I just don’t know.
“If Laurel was the ringleader, it only makes sense she would want me gone, too. I suppose I could tell her and Quincy that I’m not going to give Jimmy’s confession for him, but—” Rachael shrugged. “I don’t know yet what I want to do. I suppose I could tell them I’ve dropped it, lie straight out. I’m not very good, but I could practice until I convinced myself. Uncle Gillette, now, he would have made a great spy. He could lie his way out of a pig convention even with bacon grease smeared all over his mouth.”
Jack smiled “I’ve learned in my years with the FBI that many times people are never what they seem. We’ll see. Don’t forget, two people carried you down that dock, dumped you into the lake. We only know one of them for sure—Perky.”
He added over his shoulder as he opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a wedge of Parmesan cheese, “Who was the other?”
Rachael pointed to one of the cabinets. “There are crackers on the middle shelf.”
He placed a slice of cheese on a cracker and handed it to her, then made one for himself. He leaned back against the counter. “Savich said all those initials and numbers in Perky’s address book—even MAX can’t crack it. Who knows what it means?”
Rachael bit into a cracker.
“I’ve been thinking, Rachael.”
She said around the cracker, “About what?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, fixed himself another cracker, and ate it.
“What, Jack?”
“Nothing. I’m tired. I think we should both sleep pretty good tonight.”
“What are we going to do tomorrow?”
“I go back to some solid, boring everyday police work, like running in-depth checks on everyone remotely involved in the case, and take another look at Perky and all her merry men.”
She washed and dried her hands. She stood facing the kitchen window, her head bowed. I’m sorry.
He pulled her back against him. “Don’t be stupid. You’ve every right to be freaked out.” He knew it was a mistake, but he did it anyway. He slowly turned her to face him and tugged her into his arms. He hadn’t imagined the shock of her, not only how she felt, but the way she fit against him, like she was made for him, no other guy, only him. But that was plain stupid. He shouldn’t be doing this. He wasn’t thinking right. No, he was simply offering her comfort. She needed comforting, no harm in that. Maybe he needed some comfort, too. He said close to her ear as his hands rubbed up and down her back, “Don’t stiffen up on me. I’m a friend, Rachael, and friends help each other. Remember how you helped me and Timothy when the plane crashed? You didn’t even know at that time what a great guy I am; you just charged right in and saved our bacon.”
She laughed against his neck. Then she kissed his neck, added a little lick, then froze. “Ohmigosh, I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean to do that. It just happened. I mean, you’re here to protect me, not get involved... ” Her voice fell off a cliff.
Jack said, “I guess not.” He knew she could feel exactly how much he wanted to be involved—actually, totally involved with her that very minute, maybe on that lovely oak kitchen table.
He kissed her, and, bless her heart, she kissed him back. He tasted cracker and Parmesan and something else, something elusive and sweet. Then, just as suddenly, she flattened her palms on his chest, pushed back, and said, “I can’t do this. I can’t lean on you like this, compromise you. You’re an FBI agent. I’ll bet you’ve got rules and regulations regarding people you’re guarding. Right?”
“No.”
He pulled her in close again, leaned his forehead against hers. “Not a single rule except common sense, and common sense isn’t all that great a thing in every single situation, now is it? Hey, you’re not a shrimp. That’s good.”
She said against his neck, “I’m so not a shrimp. I’d be licking your eyebrows if I were wearing heels. No, wait, I didn’t say that, did I?”
She felt the laughter deep in his chest. “Yeah, you did. Anytime you’d like to, lick away.”
She ran her fingers over his cheek, and he felt it in his gut. Jack knew he should release her this very instant, knew it, and knew he wasn’t about to. He lowered his forehead to hers again. “I’m not a teenager with my hormones dive-bombing my brain. You’re right, it isn’t the smartest thing we could do at this point in time.” And he cursed low, ripe, pungent curses. Rather impressive, she thought, and smiled. Uncle Gillette could curse like that. She could see him cursing at the rabbits who’d gotten through his tomato cages, digging underneath, hear her mom yelling at him that certain little girls had big ears.
Slowly, Rachael stepped back. She said, “I’m very glad you don’t gamble.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
He saw her to her bedroom, looked at her mouth a moment. “I’m glad you realize I’m nothing like that jerk ex-fiancé of yours. But, Rachael, I’m hurting right now all the way to my heels.”
“No, you’re nothing like him. My heels are in pretty bad shape, too.”
He reached out his hand, dropped it, stepped back. “See you in the morning, Rachael. Sleep well.” To her surprise, and disappointment, he closed the door.
She felt so revved, so ready to rock and roll—with Jack—she doubted she’d sleep at all, but within minutes, she was out.
Black water closed over her head, something was pulling her down, no way to stop until she hit bottom and silt swirled up around her, blinding her until it slowly settled again. She knew she was going to die. It wouldn’t matter if she held her breath for ten minutes, she would die. No, she didn’t want to die, she didn’t—