Secrets and Sins:Raphael(8)

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.