There actually is a third possibility. I enjoy my secret but keep the identity of that possibility to myself. "I do not think I am pregnant," is all I reply. It is sure as hell true.
Hayley shoots me a crooked smile. "The other is always good, too."
I stare at her expectantly. Any moment now Hayley will apologize for choosing the wrong friend to confide her secrets to. She will tell me I am a much better friend than Kurstin could ever dream of being.
But Hayley simply sits there, staring out at the lake and maintaining her silence. My feeling of well-being starts to fade, replaced by a surge of dissatisfaction spreading like ink spilled upon a blotter. Until it ultimately absorbs every last vestige of light-heartedness. The sun has not really dimmed, has it? I try to drag a calming breath past the tightness in my chest. No, surely not. It is simply an illusion that things are suddenly darker.
"What did you want to talk to me about?" Hayley asks.
I have to clear my throat twice to speak past the lump in it. "Ty Holloway," I finally manage to say.
The small, half-smile disappears from Hayley's face and her clear hazel eyes go cold and flat. "I don’t want to talk about that bastard."
"I just wanted to let you know I took care of him for you. You do not have to worry about him ever again."
"Well, that is very thoughtful of you," Hayley replies flatly. "But what did you do, escort him to the airport and personally put him on a plane out of town?"
"No, uh…"
"Because you’ll have to excuse me if I don't derive a lot of comfort from the thought. It’s a free country, after all, and there isn’t a damn thing we can do to prevent that asshole from coming back to wreak more havoc in my life if he wants to."
"He will never bother you again, Hayley."
"So you say." She slides off the hood. "Listen, I appreciate your efforts. You’ve been real sweet—"
I can feel my spine lengthening and growing erect. Now I will finally hear those innermost thoughts from which I have thus far been excluded.
"But I have to take off. I need to talk to Kurstin before I go to work."
What? So unprepared am I for a betrayal of such magnitude, I can only mouth the word. And as usual Hayley is not paying me the least bit of attention as she rounds the Pontiac, opens the driver's door and slides behind the wheel without another word of explanation. I cannot believe it. Hayley is leaving me here to cool my jets while she hares off to her goddamn precious Kurstin?
That bitch! That fucking bitch!
"Listen, I will talk to you real soon," Hayley promises, starting the engine. "Maybe we can go bow-and-arrow shooting again one of these days."
And practically before I know what’s what, my old friend puts the car into reverse and backs out onto the lake road. With a casual wave of her hand, she shifts into drive and roars off down the road.
I call her a couple filthy female-anatomy-centric words as I pace back and forth in front of my car. God, I am a fool. Worse, a sap. I realized the moment I saw Hayley exit Jon-Michael's building that Holloway was right about that much at least. I had proof Hayley is whoring around with Jon-Michael, a man she professed to despise, and still I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Well, it is time I face facts. Hayley does not give two hoots about our friendship, and she is never going to confide in me. She probably would not even notice—let alone care—if I never got in touch again.
Hell, she probably would not notice if I dropped dead.
This is wrong. I gave her everything and got zip-all in return. What is so damn special about her that she can treat me this way? Nothing, that’s what. There is not one special thing about her at all.
You stupid, unnatural girl.
I freeze mid-stride. Then hug myself. Oh, God. Maybe that is it. Maybe Hayley, too, thinks I am stupid. Maybe all those times she said we were friends were nothing but a big pack of lies.
Well, screw her! I explode into action, whirling toward my car and yanking the door open. I climb in and slam it closed behind me. Who the hell needs her? Jerking the safety shoulder harness across my body, I snap it into place. I am going straight home to dissemble that stupid closet-shrine I erected to my so-called good and great friend. Then I will go drag my husband back home, because I am tired of his shit, too.
And fuck Hayley Granger Prescott!
Nineteen
It was blacker than the bowels of a West Virginia mine shaft, except for an infinitesimal red-hot core. Not that Ty could actually see that core. But damned if he questioned its existence. It pulsated somewhere just beyond his line of vision and he felt it for what it was: epicenter to the agony abrading his nerve ends like broken glass with every sluggish beat of his heart.
Instinctively he understood it held the potential for his destruction. Breathing was sheer agony and a debilitating weight threatened to crush his chest, his face, his legs. He shifted his body with the utmost caution.
The walls pressing down around him rumbled a warning and the canvas that covered his face parted. Dirt trickled into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. It slithered down his open collar. He immediately stilled.
Oh Christ, oh Christ! He was buried alive. There must have been a cave-in. It was every miner's nightmare.
Except—
He wasn't a miner, was he? He had only been down in the mines two or three times in his life. Just enough to know he would do anything, anything at all, to avoid following his father's footsteps into that employment hell. But if he wasn’t a miner, he didn't get it. How the hell had he come to be trapped in a cave-in?
Once again he pushed against the weight pinning him down and more dirt slid through the canvas to trickle over his face. Panicking, he kicked and bucked frantically in an attempt to fight his way free.
The red pinprick at the nucleus of his blackout exploded in a crimson blaze of agony, rapidly expanding to the size of the sun. Ty froze, his body rigid, his teeth clenched to bite back an anguished scream.
What happened? What the hell had happened to him?
Kurstin's face flashed into his mind. Then Hayley Prescott's. Almost immediately both were superseded by Patsy Beal's.
Holy shit, the crazy bitch shot him! She had shot him with a fucking bow and arrow, and the arrow must still be in him. Then she had...what? Buried him alive? She must have.
Oh, God. Was he buried shallow? Buried deep? It could not be too deep, could it? Surely he would have noticed an open grave if one had been dug in the vicinity.
A small sound of derision escaped his lungs. Yeah, right. He being such an observant guy and all so far.
He took as deep a breath as his messed up chest would allow and determinedly pushed upward with his hands.
It hurt. Jesus, God, it hurt, and the canvas he appeared to be wrapped in gaped wider with each successive struggle, allowing more dirt to dribble in. Pretty damn sure he was going to suffocate before he reached the surface, he started hyperventilating.
Then his right hand suddenly broke through the earth and was bathed in warm air. His left hand and arm were weak, but gritting his teeth, he forced strength into them. What seemed like a lifetime, but was likely mere moments later, he was sitting up in a shallow grave, dirt and bits of the forest floor scattered around him.
Greedily, he sucked in lungsful of pure, sweet air.