She skewered him with a glare. ‘Tomorrow. You have until tomorrow.’
‘And if I don’t fess up?’ he asked acidly.
‘Let’s not find out,’ Lucy replied, then swallowed hard. ‘She was crying tonight, Thorne, and you know how rare that is. Wondering why all these men have rejected her before they’ve even met her. I had to hold her while she cried. You better make this right.’
Thorne bowed his head, Lucy’s words sharp knives to his heart. She was right. One hundred percent right. ‘I will. I promise.’
‘By tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
Lucy sighed. ‘Okay.’ She grabbed his collar, pulling him down so that she could kiss his cheek. ‘I love you both,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘But I’ll castrate you if you continue to hurt her. Swear to God.’
Thorne winced. ‘I believe you. Go home. Make JD happy.’
‘I will.’ She released his collar and smoothed his shirt. ‘I want you to be happy too. Like I said, I love you both.’
Thorne walked her out, finding his friends gathered by the door, car keys in their hands. He said his goodnights, then closed the door and sighed at the mess they’d left behind. Normally he’d get right in there and clean, but he was tired tonight.
No, he wasn’t tired. He was heartsore. He had been for a long time. He could fix it. Maybe. If he ever got up the courage to tell Gwyn how he’d felt for too long.
Tell her, you fucking coward. You know where she is. In the office at Sheidalin. She’ll be there till two. Don’t wait until tomorrow. She’s hurting now.
He needed to man up. Grabbing his car keys, he shoved his feet into shoes, locked all the doors to his house, and set off in his Audi SUV.
He was minutes away from Sheidalin when his cell rang. Caller ID said it was his answering service. ‘Thorne,’ he said.
‘Hi, Mr Thorne, this is Brooke from the answering service. I have a caller on the line who says she must speak with you. Her name is Bernice Brown.’
‘I know her.’ Mrs Brown was one of his newer clients, a forty-five-year-old woman accused of attempting to murder her husband. Thorne was unsure of her guilt or innocence, but was leaning toward the latter. They were still pulling together the details of her case. The woman didn’t strike him as the type to call for a frivolous reason. ‘You can put her through.’
‘Mr Thorne?’ Mrs Brown’s voice was unsteady. Barely audible as she whispered, ‘Can you meet me? Tonight? I wouldn’t call if it weren’t important.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I was almost run off the road earlier.’
Thorne frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I . . . I got away. I’m scared.’ Her voice broke. ‘Really scared.’
Thorne glanced at the clock on his dash. ‘Where are you?’
‘At a bar. It was the first place I came to that looked open. It’s called Barney’s.’
‘I know it. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay at the bar and don’t drink anything that anyone gives you.’
‘I had a whiskey.’
‘All right. Don’t drink anything else. I need you sober. Ask the bartender for a pen and write down everything you can remember about the car that tried to hit you. I’m on my way.’
Baltimore, Maryland,
Sunday 12 June, 6.15 A.M.
‘I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him.’ Gwyn Weaver gripped the steering wheel so hard that her hands hurt, the discomfort circumventing the devastating need to cry. ‘I’m going to . . .’ She swallowed hard. ‘How could he do it, Lucy?’ she whispered. ‘Why would he do it?’
Why would Thorne deliberately ruin her date? It was . . . beyond cruel.
Her best friend sighed into her phone. ‘You’ll have to ask him that question,’ she said quietly, almost crooning the words. Lucy was awake, nursing Bronwynne, her one-year-old daughter, Gwyn’s goddaughter. They’d had many crooned conversations over the months, usually at six a.m.
Lucy had always been an early riser and Gwyn didn’t sleep that much. Not anymore. Not in four years. Although it had been getting better. Until this.
Thorne . . . Why? She bit the inside of her cheek to stop the burn of tears. She would not cry. Would not allow the man to see how much it hurt her. Because it did hurt, so goddamn much.
‘I thought we were . . .’ The word friends evaporated from her lips as Lucy’s words sank in. ‘Wait. You knew?’
Lucy sighed again. ‘I suspected, but only last night. I told him he’d better fix this by the end of the day or . . .’ Her voice changed abruptly. ‘Thank you, Taylor,’ she said warmly.
Gwyn frowned. ‘Where are you?’
‘At Stevie and Clay’s. Taylor was babysitting the kids last night. I woke up and . . .’ Her chuckle was self-conscious, ‘I missed my little girl and my boobs were about to burst, so I drove over here to nurse Wynnie. Taylor made me a cup of tea.’
Well, that made sense at least. Taylor was the twenty-something daughter of their mutual friend, Clay Maynard, and had been a babysitting godsend, caring for Wynnie and Jeremiah, Lucy’s two-year-old son, when Lucy had returned to the ME’s office from maternity leave. Gwyn had been their sitter until Taylor dropped into their lives the summer before, and although she was grateful for the free time, Gwyn missed the children, who were as close to her own as she was ever likely to get now.
She’d been given the chance to be a mother once and she’d blown it. No, she thought. You didn’t blow it. You gave your son a chance at a normal life. With two parents who loved and cared for him. She knew this was true. In her head, anyway. Her heart still hurt whenever she held Lucy’s babies. But it had gotten easier, and . . .
Aaaand, I’m not going there. Not thinking about it. Not now. This wasn’t the time to worry over her past mistakes. This was the time to nurse her anger with Thorne and let it sweep away the hurt he’d inflicted. Because what Thorne had done had hurt. Goddammit.
‘So?’ Gwyn prompted. ‘You were saying? You found out last night?’
‘I picked JD up from the poker game and Thorne asked about your date.’
‘That he sabotaged?’
‘I . . . think so.’ She was back to crooning. Usually it soothed Gwyn as much as it soothed Bronwynne, but not today. ‘How did you find out?’
‘I got pissed off when Jase called to cancel. I kept wondering why guys kept breaking our dates before I even met them. I’m getting a goddamn complex.’
‘I know,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I paced for hours, then went to the jogging track near the high school where you run. I figured Jase would show up eventually.’ Because Jase was Lucy’s running friend. And a doctor, for God’s sake.
At least my mother wouldn’t have been able to complain about that. Not that her mother would have had any trouble finding a million other things to criticize. If they’d been on speaking terms, which they hadn’t been since Gwyn was sixteen years old.
‘You went to the track alone?’ Lucy asked with a hint of alarm.
‘No.’ And that admission hurt too. It had been four and a half years, for God’s sake. Yet she still rarely left the house alone, and never at night. ‘I had Tweety with me.’ Because nobody fucks with a hundred-and-fifty-pound Great Dane.
‘That was smart. I take it that Jase was running this morning?’
‘Yes. I lucked out,’ Gwyn said bitterly. ‘I didn’t have to wait long, because he wanted to run before the sun came up and it got too hot. He said Thorne had paid him a visit. In person. Threatened him.’
Lucy gasped. ‘No. No way. He actually said Thorne threatened him?’
‘Well, no,’ Gwyn admitted. ‘Thorne “suggested” he find another date. Jase said that Thorne made himself perfectly clear. And as nice as I seemed to be, he didn’t have room in his life for any drama right now.’
Lucy made a strangled sound. ‘Thorne,’ she murmured, as if the man were in the room with her. ‘What was he thinking?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know.’ Which was what made this so hard. She’d been shocked within an inch of her life. ‘What did he say to you?’
‘That it wasn’t any of my business.’