Hidden. Tara Quinn Taylor
my uncle when he retires in a couple of years.”
Wake up. Wake up. Please wake up.
“Do you have a large family?” That seemed the smart thing to concentrate on until she could get herself out of this crazy nightmare.
Scott was one of those people? The kind she used to be? The kind her husband still was? People whose wealth and privilege instilled the belief that they were above the law? One of those people who made mistakes and knew that society would look the other way?
Scott was coming clean? When it was more important than ever that she continue with her lies?
He’d said something—about his family she presumed—and was now awaiting her response.
“I’m sorry, I missed that, I was listening to Taylor.” The lies slid out of her mouth so easily these days.
His mouth curved in that half grin that usually made her stomach turn over. Not today. She was going to miss that grin.
“I said that I have numerous aunts, uncles and cousins, both of my maternal grandparents and both parents. But Jason is my only sibling.”
“No sisters?” The ridiculous question, considering what he was telling her, proved to her that this was only a dream. Reassured her.
Scott shook his head. “Just a bevy of female cousins.”
She felt a brief curiosity about them. Would probably have liked them. If she could’ve met Scott sooner, in college maybe, before she’d made the one critical choice that had ruined the rest of her life.
Staring at the braided rug in the middle of the floor between the rocker and bed, she didn’t realize Scott had stood until she felt the warmth of his hand prying the pillow from her fingers. With gentle pressure, he pulled at her hand. Tricia didn’t resist. In his arms she came alive.
She knew her attempt at escape through fantasies of nightmares for the lie it was.
Everything Scott had just told her was true. All true.
And everything about her—including her mousy-brown hair—was false.
2
T he peace Tricia generally found in Scott’s arms was elusive that morning. She snuggled up to his warmth, buried her face in his neck, inhaling the musky scent of his aftershave—a cheap drugstore brand she’d bought him for Christmas.
A drugstore brand when he’d probably been used to several-hundred-dollar-an-ounce varieties.
He’d shaved before he’d come home that morning. The skin on his neck was smooth, soft. She kissed him. A small caress that lingered.
God, let this all go away.
Scott held on to her, saying nothing, but there was a sense of things left unsaid. Of more things coming.
She had to get a San Francisco paper. It was going to tell her that Leah had turned up, healthy and happy, though embarrassed as hell for having fallen prey to the consequences of some inane idea she’d had. Wasn’t it? She’d promised herself, sometime during the long lonely hours of the night, that it would.
“Taylor’s going to want his walk,” she said into Scott’s shoulder, making no move away from him.
It was during those morning walks that Tricia usually picked up the San Francisco Gazette from a stand at the food mart a couple of blocks away. And unless Scott was on twenty-four-hour duty at the station, she read it at the Grape Street dog park, where no one would pay attention or ask questions. And where Taylor could squeal at the four-legged creatures.
In another lifetime he’d have had a dog. Or three. In another life, her son would’ve had anything and everything his little heart desired.
“I don’t think he’ll be too upset about exchanging a walk for Blue.” Scott’s lips nuzzled her neck, sending chills down her spine. Good chills. And chills of warning, too. She’d never have believed it was possible to experience such opposing thoughts—emotions—sensations—all at the same time.
She had to take that walk. Get away from Scott. She had to buy the paper.
And she had to stand up, face what was before her, move on. Taylor’s life depended on her ability to take the next step. And the next.
Reaching up to release the ponytail that was giving her a headache, Tricia pulled back from Scott and shook her head, letting the long brown strands fall around her. She’d never had long hair before.
She’d gotten used to it. Maybe even liked it if she could get past how unfashionable it looked.
“The fresh air’s good for him.”
“You’re angry.”
She turned away. Dropped the ponytail elastic on the Formica dresser top.
“No, I’m not.”
Turning back, Tricia met his gaze briefly, and then glanced at the blue fake-down comforter on the bed behind him, covering what she knew were sheets with such a low thread count that the only way she’d been able to make them soft was to wash them repeatedly with tons of fabric softener. The throw pillows she’d sewn herself from fabric remnants left over from her contract job as an independent alterations specialist at a Coronado dry cleaner. Behind the bed were walls so thin any insulation that might’ve been there had probably deteriorated years before, and windows whose frames were bent enough that if the wind blew just right during a storm, water would come in.
His body, leaning against the bed, captured her attention for a second. And then she looked him in the eye.
“I don’t understand.”
He shrugged, didn’t ask what she meant. “It’s a long story.”
“I can always start Blue over if I have to.”
He gestured to the bed. “You want to sit down?”
She didn’t. Her nerves were stretched too taut. Tricia peeked out the bedroom door, down the hall to the living room where she could see her son happily playing, his little chin raised as he stared at his idol on the screen in front of him.
And she turned back. As much as she didn’t want to hear whatever Scott had to tell her, she had to. She loved him.
With one hip resting on the bed just below her pillow, she kept both feet firmly on the floor, arms crossed over her chest.
She’d once been told that her C-cup breasts were the best part of her. At the time, she’d considered the words a compliment.
Scott closed his eyes, one bent leg pulled up on the mattress, his other foot still on the floor.
“I had it all once.” His voice had an edge she didn’t recognize. The man she’d grown to count on was peaceful and compassionate. He was a healer. Not a hurter.
Taylor’s babyish lisp rang out from the other room, his rendition of Blue’s theme song. Another episode was starting.
Plastic scraped against plastic. He was playing with his hollow square color blocks, trying to fit one inside another. Only problem was, her son hadn’t quite grasped the concept that the smaller block went into the bigger one.
“The best of everything. Best home. Best clothes. Best education.” He’d opened his eyes and was looking right at her, making her uncomfortable.
He knew nothing about her. But this wasn’t about her.
Silently, keeping her own counsel, she waited.
“I had my own servants.”
He’d said that as though it was one of the seven deadly sins. Her skin felt hot. And she shivered with cold.
“On my seventeenth birthday, my father surprised me with a brand-new Porsche.”
They were nice cars, though Tricia was more fond