The Return of Cassandra Todd Page 6

  “Yeah, who would have thunk it,” Turner replied, barely masking his sarcasm.

  “So how are things going?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Good too. Can’t complain.”

  Yeah, right. Turner stopped himself just short of gloating. This was the man who had tormented him mercilessly. And now here Brad was, down and out, looking for his wife and child. He could tell Brad was dying to fire point-blank questions concerning Cassandra’s whereabouts, and he enjoyed watching him struggle, shooting randomly with light artillery.

  He wondered how much longer until the full metal jackets came out.

  He found out the next instant.

  “Look, Turner,” Brad said, growing serious. “I know Cassandra’s in town. Or was. I know she stayed here at the Mountain View Motel, and that you saw her and Justin. Did she say where she was going?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” Turner queried, unwilling to camouflage the dig.

  “Think, Turner,” Brad said, his mouth thinning to a lipless slit. He got in Turner’s face and then caught himself, backing away.

  Turner stroked his chin as though trying to remember, employing as much conviction as he could. Brad wasn’t the only one good at playacting.

  “She must have said something,” Brad persisted.

  Turner tightened his thespian belt another notch. “Well, she said something about Kansas City.” He drew out the syllables as he spoke the last two words, letting them hang in the air.

  “She’s heading for Kansas City?”

  “That’s what she said,” Turner replied, noticing Brad’s hand curl into a fist.

  Brad sat on the edge of the desk and gritted his teeth. “She took something from the safe that belongs to me, and I need to get it back. It’s very important.”

  The family emergency, Turner thought.

  “Can you remember anything else she said? When she was leaving or where she was going to be staying?”

  Turner shrugged innocently.

  Brad studied him menacingly for a moment.

  Standing his ground, Turner prepared for an assault but it never came. Instead, Brad’s expression suddenly softened. “She’s changed since high school, you know.” He looked at Turner earnestly. “She’s . . . schizo.”

  Turner hid his skepticism. “You mean schizophrenic?”

  “Yeah, she’s just plain nuts. She claims I have violent outbursts, but it’s the other way around. She’s crazy, man. I’ve got to find her before she hurts our son.”

  “People with schizophrenia aren’t prone to violence,” Turner said, remembering his psychology class.

  “She’s okay as long as she’s on her meds,” Brad continued, ignoring him. “But when she forgets to take them, she gets crazy. She changes without warning and becomes . . . dangerous.” His countenance darkened like a lunar eclipse. “She attempted suicide while I was at work!” He paused for several seconds as if struggling with his emotions. “Justin was in the house. Can you imagine the damage that might have done to our son? Naturally, I confronted her and told her she had to get help. She promised she would. But that night she kidnapped Justin and took off.”

  Turner studied Brad, who slumped against the edge of the desk, looking nothing like the former high school football hero. His demeanor was reminiscent of the time he’d been carried off the field during a game, a crumpled form writhing on the stretcher. Gone was the arrogance, the swagger, the air of contempt—all by-products of high school godhood. Brad was either one chastened individual or he was giving a performance that was worthy of an Academy Award.

  “She’s got my son, Turner,” Brad said, shaking his head sadly.

  “And the thing from your safe. She’s got that too, right?”

  Brad’s jaw muscles bulged as he clenched his teeth. “She stole it from me, and I need it back.” He stood up and fumbled in his pocket for a business card. “Take this. Call me if you remember anything else or if she shows back up here. Okay?”

  “Sure,” said Turner, masking his contempt. The agreement was as empty as the regard he held for Brad.

  After studying Turner a moment longer, Brad spun on his heels and exited the room, pounding his fist against the doorjamb on his way out.

  CHAPTER 10

  WHILE JUSTIN NAPPED in the bedroom, Cassandra swept the floor and then cleaned the kitchen countertop with a damp rag, smiling in bemusement at the lack of organization in this bachelor pad. The place needed the touch of a woman’s hand.

  A spatula and a plastic ladle sat near the stove, and she opened several drawers in order to find where they belonged. She shook her head at the hodgepodge of utensils, dishtowels, and odds and ends they contained.

  In one drawer she found a postcard lying on top of a pile of papers. The picture featured a scene from the Bahamas, and she looked at it longingly, wanting to find just such a place for Justin and her. She could see the two of them settling in to the tropical climate and lifestyle quite nicely.

  She absentmindedly flipped the postcard over. A short note written in an untidy hand read:

  Weather’s great. Went snorkeling yesterday. Going boating tomorrow. Take care, Dad.

  The name in the address section caught her attention, and she exhaled in surprise. It was addressed to Turner Caldwell. She wrinkled her brow in confusion. What was Layton doing with a postcard addressed to Turner Caldwell? She knew a Turner Caldwell. Had gone to school with him, in fact. He was a short, skinny kid who had been bullied mercilessly. But what were the odds of there being two Turner Caldwells in Lakewood?

  Driven by curiosity, fueled by suspicion, she searched through the drawer and found a cell phone bill and a credit card statement, both addressed to Turner Caldwell. She also found a college transcript from Red Rocks Community College belonging to Turner Layton Caldwell.

  She picked up the transcript and slumped against the counter, stunned by the realization that Layton was . . . Turner.

  Her head reeled. The Turner she had known in high school was nothing like the young man who identified himself as Layton. Turner had been skinny and awkward and, well, a real dweeb. Layton was taller and huskier and more handsome.

  She thought for a moment longer, holding them in a split-image comparison. Their height, weight, and physiques were completely different. But their eyes! There was definitely something similar in their blue eyes.

  Conflicting emotions tore at her. The gratitude she felt because of Layton’s assistance was overshadowed by the anger that rose in her. He had deceived her, and deceit was something she wouldn’t tolerate. Not any longer. It had become her husband’s trademark. And now this! Her anger increased as she thought about the lies and mind games she’d already endured.

  Clenching her teeth, she tossed the transcript back in the drawer and slipped quietly into the bedroom. She emerged moments later with her suitcase just as a key rattled in the outside lock. The door swung open before she could react.

  Her host, the handyman, entered and quickly closed the door behind him. He stopped short when he saw her and cocked his head in surprise. “Going somewhere?” he asked.

  “Justin and I are leaving,” she replied sullenly.

  “Leaving? Why?”

  “Because we can’t stay here any longer, Layton!” She wasn’t able to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Or should I say . . . Turner?”

  Swallowing hard, he looked at her guiltily. “How did you find out?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Her voice rose in pitch. “What does matter is that you lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie,” he replied defensively. “Layton is my middle name.”

  Cassandra shook her head emphatically. “When it suited him, my husband could put a spin on things too. Which was always. But I expected better of you.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because Justin and I were led to you.”

  Turner’s expression tightened. “We’ve been over this before. I’m not an angel of mercy. I did what any
normal, decent human being would do. Besides, it turns out you have a few secrets of your own.”

  She traded guilty expressions with Turner and set the suitcase down. “Look, I feel horrible for the way you were treated in high school. I really do. I promised myself if I ever had a chance, I’d apologize . . . for all of us. And I truly appreciate the help you’ve given Justin and me. But I trusted you, and you kept the truth from me. Just like my husband always did.” She looked at Turner with a determined expression on her face. “I—we—just can’t stay. Not when there’s deceit.”

  As she headed for the bedroom to get Justin, Turner took a step toward her. “You can’t leave. At least not yet.”

  Cassandra continued walking. “Why not?”

  “Because Brad’s here. I just talked to him.”

  She sucked in her breath and spun around to face him.

  “He’s . . . here?”

  “He was. But I told him you were heading to Kansas City. I don’t know if he bought it, so you’re going to have to sit tight until we find out.”

  Cassandra retreated to the couch, feeling trapped. She was desperate to leave and yet desperate to stay and remain in hiding. But with someone who had deceived her? She turned on him. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

  She watched his face redden and his eyes turn away in a familiar look of . . . shame? She’d seen the same expression the day in the cafeteria when he had done the face-plant into his food tray. Of course. He was still ashamed of who he’d been. Of being the bullied one. The victim. And no one knew better than she did what that felt like.

  To her surprise he regained his composure and turned the challenge on her. “Brad Duncan! How did you end up with that creep?”

  She dropped her gaze. “He made me feel good about myself. You know, the football player and the cheerleader and all that. When my parents divorced during my senior year and my dad moved out and my mom turned to alcohol, Brad and the others were there for me. They accepted me. Hanging out with them was the only way I could handle the divorce.”

  Turner snorted. “But . . . Brad! Didn’t you realize what a jerk he was?”

  In a small voice she said, “He helped me when my world was falling in around me. He was fun. I just thought he liked to play pranks and have a good laugh. He never did anything like that to me.”

  “At least not until you were married.”

  “Not until we were married,” she echoed dully.

  “Look, you have reason to be upset with me,” Turner said, softening his tone, “but I did what I thought was for your best good. Can you say the same about him?”

  Cassandra stared at the floor and didn’t respond.

  “Does he have your best interests in mind?” Turner asked rhetorically. “He told me you took an envelope from the family safe. And to be honest, he seemed more interested in getting it back than in getting you back.”

  She was surprised at how his words stung. “I took it so I’d have some bargaining power, that’s all. He’ll get it back when this is all over.”

  “And he told me you kidnapped Justin.”

  Springing to her feet, Cassandra stated, “It’s not true. I didn’t kidnap him.”

  “And he said you have . . . emotional problems.”

  Her eyes flashed in anger, but there was sadness in them too. “He’s the one with emotional problems. My counselor says Brad likely has narcissistic personality disorder. Know what that is?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It means he thinks he’s the center of the universe. He can do no wrong, and I’m always the one to blame. I started to suspect something was wrong after we married, but it really turned ugly after Justin was born. Brad seemed to look on him as . . . competition.” Disbelief and despair laced her voice.

  Turner looked at her expectantly, listening. So she continued.

  “Brad used whatever means he could to control me. It started small at first. Like the time he got angry because I bought some baby clothes for Justin. I hadn’t consulted Brad about it first. It was some pants and shirts, purchased at Walmart, no less. They only cost twenty dollars, but Brad went ballistic.”

  “Did he . . . hit you?”

  “He shoved me, but he didn’t hit me. Not that time. And he yelled a lot. Talked about money not growing on trees, that sort of thing. He checked our bank statements and charge card statements religiously. If he saw anything that he hadn’t spent, I had to answer for it. But he thought nothing of heading to the bar with the boys after work.” Her lips twisted in disdain.

  “What did you do about it?”

  “What could I do? For a long time I just tried to keep the peace, tried to keep the marriage going, for Justin’s sake. I started going church and invited Brad, hoping that would help. He went for a while, but mainly to look good, or get business contacts, I think. We fought a lot, but when I suggested counseling, he absolutely refused. So I went on my own.”

  “Why did you leave him now?”

  She shot Turner a glance. “He started to hit me, that’s why.

  A few months ago. Sometimes it was a week before I could go out in public because of the bruises on my face.”

  Turner swallowed hard.

  “But it got worse. When I wanted to leave, he threatened to have Justin taken away from me if I didn’t cooperate. He said he’d tell child welfare services that I was an unfit mother, that I had violent tendencies, that I was a danger to our son.” She paused to get control of her emotions, wishing the details of her marriage were not so awful. “Did he say that I tried to commit suicide?”

  “Yes,” Turner replied, his voice a whisper.

  Tears ran down her cheeks freely now. “It was always his word against mine, and he threatened to go to the authorities with his side of the story if I stepped out of line or didn’t do exactly what he wanted. He told me he had friends who would testify against me if I ever chose to fight him on it.”

  Turner placed a hand on her shoulder. “Cassandra, I’m so sorry. For everything.”

  “Me too, Turner. I’m sorry for unloading on you like that.

  You didn’t deserve it.”

  Turner removed his hand, and Cassandra shivered at the lingering warmth of his touch.

  Just then a knock came on the door. Cassandra stared at Turner, both of them sharing the same thought. Brad!

  The knock came again and a woman’s voice called out, “Turner, it’s me.”

  Quickly motioning Cassandra into the bedroom, Turner replied, “I’m coming, Mama Retta.”

  Cassandra grabbed the suitcase and slipped into the bedroom, willing Justin not to moan or cry out in his sleep. She pressed her ear against the panel and listened as the front door opened and Loretta greeted Turner with, “We need to talk, young man.”

  CHAPTER 11

  TURNER SAT ON the couch with Loretta, who faced him squarely and asked, “Exactly what do you know about the woman with the little boy?”

  Shrugging nonchalantly, he replied, “I fixed her safety chain and talked to her on the stairs. But I—”

  Loretta held up a hand. “Don’t play innocent with me, young man. Two guys have been snooping around looking for them, and they talked to you in the process. Then the woman’s husband came here today and talked to you too. Do you see a pattern here?”

  Turner feigned innocence.

  “Are you going to sit there and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?” Loretta said, staring directly into his eyes.

  He squirmed beneath Loretta’s piercing scrutiny.

  “I can read Harvey like a book,” Loretta continued, “and I know when he’s genuinely worried about something. I learned long ago how to finagle things out of him. But I only know the story from his perspective, which both you and I know can be pretty warped. I want to hear the story from yours. So are going to be a good boy and spell it out for me, or do I have to cancel Sunday dinner privileges?”

  “I want to be a good boy, Mama Retta.”

  “Then
start spelling.”

  Turner glanced apprehensively at the bedroom door. For obvious reasons Cassandra had trust issues. How would she feel if he told Loretta about her? How much of her story dared he relate without her permission?

  Loretta patted his knee. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

  Looking at her in surprise, Turner said, “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t until I came in and saw how neat and tidy your apartment is. I knew that wasn’t your doing.” She motioned toward the bedroom door. “Ask her to come in here so we can talk.”

  Bowing to Loretta’s keen detective skills, Turner went to the bedroom door and knocked softly. “Cassandra, it’s me. You can come out now. Mama Retta’s a friend. You can trust her.”

  The door opened slowly and Cassandra emerged, holding Justin protectively. The little boy clutched the monkey in one arm and had the other arm wrapped around his mother’s neck.

  “Well, hello there,” Loretta said, smiling warmly at Justin.

  “Aren’t you a little cutie!”

  “Hello,” Justin replied shyly, his large, blue eyes the portrait of innocence and trust.

  “I don’t want you to be upset with Turner for telling me about you,” Loretta said. “But I had to find out what’s going on.” She looked at Cassandra sympathetically. “I know a person who’s in trouble when I see one. And you, young lady, are in trouble.”

  Tears formed in Cassandra’s eyes and obeyed the law of universal gravitation. She clung to Justin with the fervor and pathos of a Michelangelo sculpture—mother and child captured in living stone. “It’s true,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Justin craned his neck to peer up into her face. “Why are you crying, Mommy?” He stroked her cheek gently. As Turner watched the living sculpture, the painful memories of his experiences in high school seemed to pale in comparison. He handed Cassandra a tissue.

  “Mommy’s fine,” Cassandra said, stroking her son’s head.

  “Let’s get him something to eat,” Loretta said. “Occupy his attention while we talk.”

  Turner poured a bowl of the crunchy cereal and set Justin up to the table. While Justin focused on his cereal, the three sat on the couch and talked.