Ethan sheltered her as best he could, but they still had to battle their way through the throng pushing in on them from both sides. Finally, he ushered her into his car, shutting the door firmly. Not that it stopped the reporters from rapping on the window, hoping she would look up and inadvertently offer them a photo op. Or maybe slip and give them a sound bite they could play over and over again on the six and eleven o'clock news.
"Damn vultures," Ethan growled, jamming the key in the ignition. He accelerated at a slow but steady speed, granting the reporters and camera operators seconds to move out of the way or have a meet-and-greet with his front bumper. Within seconds, they left the grasping crowd behind. A fine shiver overtook her body. Ice slithered through her veins, freezing her from the inside out until she felt like a human Popsicle. Shock, her mind supplied. Temporary delayed reaction.
The rational explanation didn't stop her from shaking as if she'd come down with a fever. Nor did it prevent panic from creeping through her like an insidious invader.
"It's okay, Greer."
She jerked a nod. "Okay."
A little while later, she and Ethan climbed the steps to their parents' home. Staring up at the elegant but imposing brick facade of the brownstone, she hesitated.
"Ethan, I don't think-"
"Shh," he soothed, placing a hand to the middle of her back. "They have their faults, Greer, but they would want to know you're okay, as well as the latest developments of the case."
She murmured her acquiescence, but a hollow pit remained in the bottom of her stomach. Last time she'd seen her father, he'd been so angry and disgusted because of her refusal to call Gavin and apologize for ending the engagement. Now Gavin was dead-and she was the top suspect. Somehow she couldn't see her father welcoming her with open arms now.
Ethan knocked on the door, and a housekeeper answered. They'd barely taken five steps into the foyer before her parents appeared. Ethan Addison II presented a powerful, distinguished figure with his tall, trim frame clothed in an immaculate suit and salt-and-pepper hair gleaming. Petite, slender, and perfectly styled, Celeste Addison presented a stunning complement to her husband. A united, beautiful front. Against their daughter.
"What are you doing here, Greer?" her father demanded.
She parted her lips to speak, but nothing emerged.
"I brought her by so you could see she was all right. The police let her go."
"For now," Ethan II sneered. "Not that it matters. Do you know the shame you've brought to this family, Greer? Karen Wells has been constantly calling your mother, crying and screaming about you killing her son. It's ridiculous."
"That's what I keep telling Greer, Dad. That anyone could possibly believe Greer could hurt, much less murder Gavin-"
Her father sliced his hand through the air. "I'm not talking about your sister's guilt. For all I know, she could've done it. What's ridiculous is that woman incessantly ringing here thinking we can do anything about her son. We can't bring him back. She needs to call Greer, convince her to confess if that'll give her some peace and if it will stop her from calling here. Damn it," he hissed, glaring at Greer. "Do you have any idea what this sordid mess will do to our reputation? My business?"
"Dad," she pleaded.
"I hope you didn't think you were staying here." He laughed, the sound hard, mocking. "I can't have anyone believing I condone your actions."
"Dad," she tried again. "I'm innocent. I didn't kill Gavin."
"You might as well have from the reporters that have been hounding us. I can't afford for my life and business to be tainted with this circus you've brought to my front door." His mouth twisted, his revulsion obvious. "Now get out. Before some stupid photographer catches his photo op of a lifetime with the Addison family reunion ."
"Mother?" Ethan rasped, anger and pain roughening his voice to a hoarse whisper. But Celeste didn't move from behind her husband. And as stupid as the hopeful expectation was, Greer waited, her breath in her throat, for her mother to speak, to champion her. But both Greer and Ethan waited in vain, as they always had. Celeste didn't speak. Didn't move from her husband's shadow where she'd existed all these years-the place she preferred.
Without another word, Greer turned and exited the brownstone that she'd grown up in but that had never truly been a safe haven-a home.
"It's okay, Greer." Ethan repeated the same assurance from earlier, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close into his side. "You're going to be okay."
She didn't respond. But deep inside, a tiny voice whispered that nothing would ever be the same again.
Chapter Five
Four months later
Greer groaned, clutching the sides of the toilet as her stomach convulsed for what she prayed was the last time. Not that she had anything left to heave up. Her gut twisted like a wrung-out dish towel, her only warning before she arched over the bowl once more.
Several moments later, she sank to the bathroom floor, her back pressed to the tub. Her head pulsed with a low-grade throb while her back, belly, and thighs ached as if someone had taken a stick to them. And of course her mouth tasted as though a furry animal had crawled inside and died. Above her, the central heating kicked in, and the warm stream of air was heaven over her clammy skin. She tugged her T-shirt away from her chest, frowning at the damp sweat splotches. God, she needed a shower.
With a long, drawn-out moan, she shoved to her feet, the movements stiff and slow as if she were one hundred and six instead of twenty-six. She twisted the shower knobs, and hot water streamed from the head. Steam curled in the room. Satisfied, she stripped and climbed in.
God, whoever had coined the phrase "morning sickness" should have their picture plastered next to the word "misnomer" in the dictionary. The nausea didn't confine itself to morning; it showed up whenever it damn well pleased. Which for her meant early morning and very late at night. And the occasional nooner.
Being pregnant was definitely not glamorous.
Pregnant. Jesus. She closed her eyes as she rubbed the soapy washcloth over her stomach that had yet to swell. It was still hard to accept. Hard for her to believe a person-a baby-grew inside her even at this moment. A person she would be responsible for raising. And loving.
Damn, that thought was terrifying.
She tilted her head back and allowed the water to stream over her face and into her hair.
"Greer." The knock on the bathroom door snatched her from her dark thoughts. "Honey, are you okay?"
With a twist of her wrist, she shut off the shower. "Yes," she called out to her brother. "I'm fine. I'll be right out."
Quickly, she dried off, wrapped the towel around her, and snatched up her soiled clothes. Once in the guest room she'd called hers since the day Ethan had brought her home from the police station, she drew on fresh clothes and boots, then followed the scent of percolating coffee to the kitchen. Ethan leaned against the counter, a cup held to his lips.
"Here you go," he said, passing her a cup of hot water and a green tea bag. "How're you feeling?"
Accepting the drink, she shrugged. "Fine. Well, as fine as I can be considering my guts are now floating in the sewer system." She'd always been under the belief the nausea only lasted the first trimester. But some of the motherhood magazines she'd picked up assured her that for some women it lingered longer. Apparently she was one of those "some women." Yay.
"I know the morning sickness has been rough on you, but I was asking about your head."
On reflex, she lifted her palm to her forehead. "It's better. Nothing like last night."
Ethan nodded, but worry lingered in his green eyes. "I think my nerves wouldn't feel like a cheese grater was taken to them if you had stayed the night at the hospital."
Four months had passed since Gavin's murder, and in the first few months afterward, she'd been dreamless-and left with a huge, gaping hole in her memory. But as much as she wanted to regain her memories of that night, part of her didn't. If it was something so horrific her mind had shut down, maybe it was safer not to remember. That sounded so cowardly, especially if what she recalled could bring Gavin's murderer to justice. But in the end, her wishes didn't matter. The flashes, the terrifying images of a faceless torn and bloody body, had started coming two weeks ago, disturbing her sleep, relentless in their nightly visitations. She didn't need a psychiatrist or doctor to inform her what was happening. Her mind was healing, and the door the memories had hidden behind was slowly unlocking. One day it would be thrown wide open.