If She Only Knew Read Free Page B

a once-painted fence and fir trees contorted by years of battering wind and rain formed a frail barricade that separated the marina from a boarded-up antiques shop that hadn’t been in business in the five years Nick had lived in Devil’s Cove.
    Alex jammed his hands deep into the pockets of a coat that probably sported a fancy designer label, not that Nick would know. Or care. But something was up.
    â€œLook, Nick, I came here because I need your help.”
    â€œYou need my help?” he repeated with a skeptical grin. “Maybe I should be flattered.”
    â€œThis is serious.”
    â€œI suspect.”
    â€œIt’s Marla.”
    Son of a bitch. Beneath the rawhide of his jacket, Nick’s shoulders hunched. No matter what, he wasn’t going to be sucked in.
    Not by Marla.
    Not ever again.
    â€œShe’s been in an accident.”
    His gut clenched. “What kind of accident?” Nick’s jaw was so tight it ached. He’d never trusted his older brother. And for good reason. For as long as Nick could remember, Alex Cahill had bowed at the altar of the dollar, genuflected whenever he heard a NASDAQ quote and paid fervent homage to the patron saints of San Francisco, the elite who were so often referred to as “old money.” That went double for his beautiful, socialclimbing wife, Marla.
    His brother was nothing but a bitter reminder of Nick’s own dalliance with the Almighty Buck. And with Marla.
    â€œIt’s bad, Nick—” Alex said, kicking at a pebble with the toe of his polished wingtip.
    â€œBut she’s alive.” He needed to know that much.
    â€œBarely. In a coma. She . . . well, she might not make it.”
    Nick’s stomach clenched even harder. “Then why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with her?”
    â€œYes. I have been. But . . . I didn’t know how else to reach you. You don’t return my calls and . . . well . . .”
    â€œI’m not all that into e-mail.”
    â€œThat’s one of the problems.”
    â€œJust one.” Nick leaned against the Dodge’s muddy fender, telling himself not to be taken in. His brother was nothing if not a smooth-talking bastard, a man who could with a seemingly sincere and even smile, firm handshake and just the right amount of eye contact, talk a life jacket off a drowning man. Older than Nick by three years, Alex was polished, refined and Stanford educated. His graduate work, where he’d learned the ins and outs of the law, had been accomplished at Harvard.
    Nick hadn’t bothered. “What happened?” he asked, trying to remain calm.
    â€œCar accident.” To Alex’s credit he paled beneath his tan. Reaching into his jacket, he found a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Nick, who shook his head, though he’d love to feel smoke curl through his lungs, could use the buzz of nicotine.
    Alex flicked his lighter and drew deep. “Marla was driving another woman’s car. Over six weeks ago now. In the mountains near Santa Cruz, a miserable stretch of road. The woman who owned the Mercedes, Pamela Delacroix, was with her.” There was a long pause. A heavy, smoky sigh. Just the right amount of hesitation to indicate more bad news. Nick steeled himself as a Jeep with a dirty ragtop sped into the parking lot, bouncing through the puddles before sliding to a stop near the railing. Two loud men in their twenties climbed out and opened the back to haul out rods, reels and a cooler. They clomped noisily down the stairs.
    â€œGo on,” Nick said to his brother.
    â€œUnfortunately Pam didn’t make it.”
    A coldness swept over Nick. “Jesus.”
    â€œKilled instantly. There was another vehicle involved, a semi going the opposite direction. Long-haul truck driver. Charles Biggs. He’d been at the wheel sixteen hours and there’s talk that he might have been on speed, meth or something. Who knows? The police