Second Shot

“Yes, it was an old picture of Greg,” she said. Her shoulders were too tense, I noticed. She saw me watching her and dropped them abruptly. “Funny how people change,” she said, sounding almost breathless. “I almost didn’t recognize him.”

“No, Rosalind,” I said gently, “the reason you didn’t recognize him was because the man in the picture wasn’t your husband.”

She went very still. “So who was it then?”

“Greg Lucas.”

“But-”

“Has your husband ever been violent towards you, Mrs. Lucas?” Nea-gley cut in smoothly.

“What?” Rosalind shook off her confusion and flushed, outraged. “No, of course he hasn’t! What kind of a question is that?”

“Back when he was in the military in England, Greg Lucas was a violent man,” I plowed on, taking up the thread, relentless. “Not just as a part of his career, but in his personal life. He beat his first wife and regularly put her infant daughter-Simone-in the hospital.”

“I–I don’t believe you,” Rosalind said stiffly, but she was white-faced and tense enough to splinter if you’d dropped her.

“No? Well, the facts bear me out,” I said. Neagley opened her shoulder bag-the one with that short-barreled revolver inside-and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork. We’d detoured to get it copied at the Bob Duncan Photoshop on Main Street on the way over. She held the papers up for Rosalind to see and, when the other woman made no move towards her, put them down on the coffee table.

“Eventually,” I went on, “Simone’s mother decided she’d had enough. She got out from under. But Lucas wasn’t giving up that easily. He tracked her down. She’d made a new life for herself, taken up with a new man. A guy called John Ashworth.” I paused, let that one sink in on Rosalind, saw the merest twitch in the muscle of her cheek. “The thing was, he wasn’t really a new man. You see, she’d been having a relationship with him since before Simone was born. We don’t know how long for, but it had to be at least nine months, because John Ashworth-John Simon Ashworth, I should say-not Greg Lucas, was Simone’s real father.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rosalind said, but she had to put a steadying hand out for the kitchen worktop. “Greg passed the DNA test. The police confirmed it-he’s definitely Simone’s father. And Ella’s grandfather.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “But at the time of her conception Greg Lucas was in prison for assault. There’s no possibility of mistake-we’ve checked,” I added, when she opened her mouth to pursue that line. “It’s documented fact.”

Rosalind didn’t speak right away. She moved slowly round from the kitchen, walking like an automaton, her eyes fixed on the paperwork Neagley had placed on the table. Unable to resist its lure any longer, she snatched up the pages and scanned down them quickly, taking it all in. When she’d finished, her hands were shaking.

“What does this mean?” she asked, almost a whisper.

“It means,” I said, “your husband may not be quite the man you thought you married.”

“It also means that sooner or later the cops in England are going to ask for him to be sent back over there,” Neagley put in helpfully.

Rosalind’s head came up sharply. “What for?”

“Well, Greg Lucas was not the type to happily let another man assume his identity,” I said, “so, what do you think happened to the original?”

‘And when that private investigator from Boston, Barry O’Halloran, first came looking for him, your husband must have thought the game was up,” Neagley said, her voice flinty. “Is that why Barry had his ‘accident’?”

Rosalind’s mouth opened, gaped rather like a drowning fish, then closed into a thin hard line. “Get out,” she said, her voice low and harsh. “Get out now.”

I glanced at Neagley, who shrugged. Time for a tactical retreat. Perhaps later, when Rosalind had had a chance to read through the damning evidence again, and reflect, she might come round. But not now.

Now she was hurt and angry and liable to lash out at the nearest thing that could feel pain. Neagley must have sensed that in her, too, because she moved in close to me.

I reached for the crutch I’d laid next to my chair and struggled to my feet, feeling Rosalind’s eyes on me very keenly while I battled with balance and damaged muscles.

“I don’t stand to gain anything in this, Rosalind,” I said once I was upright, a last-ditch effort to win her over. “But I do care what happens to Ella.”

“Like hell you do,” Rosalind bit out. “You’re after the money, you greedy little — “

I saw the blow coming but couldn’t do much to counter it. The palm of Rosalind’s hand struck me flat across the cheekbone with surprising force. The power of it knocked me back so that I stumbled into the chair I’d just vacated, and overbalanced. Neagley made a grab for me and managed to slow my descent, but not prevent it. I fell backwards across the arm of the chair, landing on the seat. I jolted my back, but the fear of falling did more damage than the actual event. For a moment I just lay there gasping.

“Charlie!”