“The Humes have more money than they can ever use. As for the occult”—she made a dismissive gesture —“actually it wasn’t, because it was all fake.”
Gwen’s reasoning was faulty, but this wasn’t a moment to pursue theology.
“Anyway”—she was sympathetic—“hearing from James makes Diane happy. Destroying her connection to James would be cruel. Of course, Jack knew they were taking advantage of her. He’d made up his mind to get rid of them. When he told Diane, she cried until she was sick. I don’t know what would have happened if he’d lived. He was”—her voice was ragged—“frightening when he was angry. He came to my house Friday morning. He forced his way inside. He had Ryan’s picture. He said someone pushed it under his door. He showed me a note with Ryan’s name and birth date. Thank God Clint was at his office. Jack found the wall of our pictures. He looked at them and saw the empty place and then he turned on me. He asked me how I could I have done this to him, how I could have cheated him of his son. But when I knew, what was I supposed to do? I’d heard Jack was getting married. Clint was my husband. Jack yelled at me. He stormed up the stairs and found Ryan’s room—”
She was suffering, but Jack had suffered, too. Long ago his little daughter died, and at that moment in the Dunham house, he saw a room filled with mementos of a child’s life he hadn’t shared.
“—and took Ryan’s hairbrush. I tried to get the brush away from him and he pushed me away, said he’d have the brush, no matter what.” She slumped against a pillar, her fingers once again clasping the hard stones of her necklace. “I begged him. He said he had to know Ryan. He said he would give me a week to tell Clint and Ryan. If I didn’t, he would find Ryan himself and by that time he would have proof that he was his father.”
The DNA from Ryan’s hairbrush would have provided all the proof Jack would ever have needed.
“What did you tell Clint?”
She pushed away from the pillar, stood stiff and still. “I didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know anything.” But her eyes glittered with fear.
“You met Jack at the gazebo Friday night.”
If possible, she looked even more terrified. She scarcely managed to speak. “How did you know?”
“You were seen.”
She hunched her shoulders.
“Does your husband know you quarreled with Jack at the gazebo?” I watched her carefully.
“Of course not. I waited until Clint was asleep. I slipped downstairs and called Jack, told him I had to talk to him. I hoped he might remember how we’d felt and be kind. He came to the gazebo, but he started in again about telling Ryan. I begged him to leave us alone. He wouldn’t listen. Then Diane’s dog barked. I was afraid—” She broke off.
“Afraid?”
“I thought I’d heard someone near, a rustle in the bushes. I didn’t want anyone to see me there.”
Had she feared her husband had awakened and followed her?
“Anyway, there was no use. Jack had made up his mind. I ran home. I wish I could run away now.” She looked despairing. “But it’s no use, is it? You know about Ryan. Someone saw Jack and me in the gazebo. How many people know?”
She felt surrounded by nameless, faceless enemies. I wished I could reassure her. There was perhaps one positive note I could add. “I don’t believe the person who saw you in the gazebo knows about Ryan.”
Some of the tension eased from her body. Her face was taut in thought. Then she gave a short, knowing murmur. “Shannon must have followed him.” Her smile was mirthless. “Dazed by his magic. I suppose she thought…well, it doesn’t matter what she thought. You think she doesn’t know about Ryan?”
“I’m sure.”
“So there’s you and Kay and the person who called and whoever has Ryan’s brush. Oh, I suppose Kay has the brush. It was probably in Jack’s things. That’s how you found out.” She held out her hands in a plea. “If it’s you and Kay, then I beg you. Please don’t be cruel. There’s no reason to bring up all of this. It was long ago, one crazy night in all of Jack’s nights. Don’t let that one moment ruin my life and Ryan’s and Clint’s. Please.”
“Jack said he’d give you a week. What were you going to do?”
Her face once again was a hard, resentful mask. “What difference does it make now? Jack is dead. Ryan will never know. Don’t destroy my life. You can write your book about Jack, but don’t rake up something from the past that will do nothing but break our hearts.”
“I can promise that your family won’t be included in the book.” Since the book would never be written, I felt comfortable reassuring Gwen.
For the first time since she’d reached the gazebo, there was a hint of hope in her strained face. “Ryan won’t find out?”
I wondered if it had ever occurred to her that her son had a right to know the identity of his birth father. From the happiness and warmth obvious in the family photographs in their den, it seemed unlikely that Ryan would ever consider anyone other than Clint to be his dad.
“He won’t be told anything by Kay or by me.”
Her voice was thin. “I hope you mean what you say.”
“Let us know if you get another call about Ryan. Don’t pay blackmail. Let us help.”
“Ryan mustn’t know. I’ll do anything to keep Clint from finding out.” She could not have made her decision clearer. If she had to pay blackmail, she would. “If only Jack hadn’t come home.” She whirled and ran down the steps and walked swiftly toward home.
She sat at the desk with a pen and pad. She put down the pen and looked up. “If I could swoop through the air unseen, it would be my choice of transport.”
