Page 39 of Canvas of Lies (Spruce Hill #3)

Chapter Thirty

Nico

S ometime well before dawn, I awoke, disoriented. A cheerful, tinkling ringtone played from Kat’s phone on the bedside table, but I managed to grab it before her brain kicked into gear. I looked at the unfamiliar number across the screen and shrugged as I handed it to her.

She hit the speaker button. “Hello?”

“Ms. Willoughby? This is Detective Hanson. We spoke at the hospital. I’m sorry to call at such an early hour.”

“Yes, right.” She rubbed her forehead.

“I’m afraid your father has been in an accident,” Hanson said gently. “It would be best if you could come over to Eastman Memorial as soon as possible.”

I bolted into action, throwing off the blanket and jumping out of bed.

Kat watched me, but she didn’t respond to the detective, who said something else I missed in my hurry to dress.

Once I’d tugged on my jeans, I planted a knee on the bed next to her and squeezed her hip gently.

Those sleepy blue eyes finally focused on my face as understanding swept over her features.

“I—what kind of accident?” she asked. “Is he hurt?”

Hanson let out a quiet breath. “They’re working on him now, Ms. Willoughby. How quickly can you get here?”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” I answered for her. “Half an hour, maybe?”

“Good, that’s good. I’ll be waiting in the lobby when you come in.”

I took the phone from her limp hand and tugged her to her feet. “Let’s get you dressed,” I murmured.

She moved like a sleepwalker as I helped her throw clothes on, blinking up at me with a confusion in her big blue eyes that broke my heart.

We were out the door in under five minutes, but the numbness seemed to have seeped from her brain into her limbs as we got into the car.

I buckled her seatbelt for her, closed the passenger door, and jogged around to the driver’s side.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when we pulled up in front of the hospital entrance. I spoke to the parking valet and ushered Kat into the waiting room. Detective Hanson stood when she spotted us.

“What happened?” Kat asked immediately.

Everything about her still seemed sluggish, but under the glaring hospital lights, reality was finally sinking in .

Hanson led us to a quiet corner of the lobby where Officer Ford waited, then spoke in a low voice. “As far as we can tell, he was run off the road just outside of town.”

My gaze had been on Kat, ready to leap into action if she started to fall apart, but it jerked to Hanson’s face at the statement.

“Outside of town,” I repeated.

“Not too far from where your car landed in a ditch, actually,” she added, watching us both closely.

Kat frowned. “Why would he be out driving at this time of night?”

“As far as we can tell, he was meeting with a woman who has a house out on the lake. The accident happened around nine-thirty or so last night. We just got called in on this. Witnesses described the same SUV that tailed you two. Unfortunately, Mr. Willoughby’s vehicle spun into a tree instead of a ditch. ”

“Then it wasn’t him,” Kat said quietly. She looked up at me. “He wasn’t behind it.”

Ford opened his mouth as if to question that, but I saw Hanson give a subtle shake of her head. “Can you tell me where you both were between nine and ten last night?” she asked.

Kat’s eyes flew wide as she processed the detective’s implication. My veins felt like they were home to a hive full of buzzing bees, but the question wasn’t unexpected.

“We had an eight o’clock reservation at Panache, on Canal Street.

We were there until just after ten, then went straight back to my apartment.

The keycode on the front door logs entries and there’s a security camera at the entrance, if you need to verify that.

I can give you the landlord’s number. We were home around quarter after, maybe ten-thirty at the latest,” I said quietly.

Hanson nodded, then a grim-faced doctor walked into the waiting room and made a beeline for the group of us. The man glanced at Hanson and Ford, who both nodded toward Kat. I knew what was coming before the doctor even spoke and tightened my grip on her hand.

“Miss Willoughby, I’m very sorry. Your father’s injuries were just too extensive. We did everything we could, but he didn’t make it through surgery.”

Kat gave a tiny shake of her head, blinking rapidly. “He’s dead? You’re telling me he’s dead. We just saw him.” Her voice rose on the final word and I wrapped my arms around her.

“Thank you,” I said to the doctor as Kat turned into my embrace. I cupped the back of her neck, smoothed the curls still tousled from sleep, and met Hanson’s eyes over her head.

The detective’s expression grew gentle. “I am sorry for your loss, Ms. Willoughby. We’ll give you a few minutes.”

Kat lifted her head to nod. Though her cheeks were pale, they were dry—but I felt the slight tremble working its way through her limbs.

“Thank you,” she said faintly.

As the police walked away, my lips cruised along her hairline. She seemed almost unaware that I was speaking until I reached her ear and murmured, “It’s okay. Everything will be okay, Kitten.”

“Someone else tried to kill us, most likely the same someone who just succeeded in killing my father. This seems distinctly not okay, Nico,” she replied in a low voice, closing her eyes for a second.

“Yeah,” I muttered, my thoughts spinning.

When she opened them again, her gaze swept over my expression. “What is it?”

“I was worried about Lavigne’s retaliation over the painting, but this couldn’t have been him, not yet. Even with the authentication process, he wouldn’t have acted without the painting in hand, and you were right. Why would he want your father dead? It wouldn’t get his money back.”

Kat nodded slowly. “So it makes no sense for us to change the tracking back now. Whatever happened to my dad, whatever happens when the packages are delivered, it won’t be because of you.”

Part of me felt a keen sense of relief, the other struggled with the edge of an even greater anxiety at the number of unknowns we now faced. Regardless of her relationship with the man—or lack thereof—Kat had just lost her father. The urge to comfort her swept over me like wildfire.

Whatever danger was out there, I would keep her safe. The alternative was unthinkable.

Ford and Hanson returned to us with two cups of coffee and gestured for us to sit before handing each of us a cup. For one mad moment, I wanted to tell them everything, spill every detail of the past few weeks, but self-preservation won out.

“What now?” I asked, swallowing the confession that threatened to burst free.

“Now we push on with the investigation. The plates you photographed were stolen and have been replaced by new ones that were reportedly taken off a car two days ago outside of Syracuse. We’ll have unmarked vehicles outside both of your residences for the time being.

If you see anything, remember anything, call me.

Any time, day or night,” Hanson said quietly.

We both nodded our assent, then Kat drew a steadying breath and asked, “Can I see him?”

The detective nodded. “Yes, of course. His personal effects will be returned to you once everything is processed.”

I kept my arm around Kat, but the trembling had finally subsided. Instead, the steel of resolve straightened her spine and she gave one tight nod.

“It still doesn’t feel real. Maybe seeing him will help.”

Hanson offered a gentle smile. “Of course. Someone will let us know when they’re ready for you. In the meantime, we’d like to ask just a few more questions. When I told you about your father’s accident, you said, ‘Then it wasn’t him, he wasn’t behind it.’ What does that mean?”

Kat met her gaze straight on. “After our accident, you asked if I thought he was responsible. I wasn’t sure, because I didn’t think he would do something to hurt me, but it was a definite possibility.

If the same people came after him, then it stands to reason he wasn’t the one who sent them after us, doesn’t it? ”

When Hanson only waited silently, I tilted my head. “It could mean that, or it could mean something went wrong between your father and whoever he may have hired to come after us.”

“You two are quick,” Hanson said. “Did Mr. Willoughby give you back your painting yet, Mr. Beaumont?”

I nodded. “We met yesterday afternoon, privately, at his suggestion. Kat went with me. We were at the estate for less than an hour, went back to my place to change, then we left for dinner.”

A nurse approached us and gave Hanson a meaningful look, but the detective held up a finger. “Just one last question, Ms. Willoughby. When’s the last time you saw your mother?”

Kat jerked as if struck. “My mother? I assume you don’t mean on television, Detective Hanson,” she said sharply, “so that’d be about seventeen years ago, when she left me with my father after the divorce.”

Hanson held up her hands in a gesture clearly meant to be soothing. “We just had to ask. They’re ready for you, Ms. Willoughby, if Mr. Beaumont will excuse us?”

Though I didn’t like the idea of her facing the task alone, Kat squeezed my arm and nodded.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said quietly.

Ford stayed behind with me, and though his questions led me to believe he suspected there was more to the situation than we were letting on, I was fairly certain they had nothing solid to connect us to any of it.

Unfortunately, that also meant he had no answers to any of the questions winging through my head.

I never expected to be grateful for our own terrifying accident, but if it kept us out of the limelight in what I expected might be a rather high-profile investigation into Aidan Willoughby’s death, maybe it was for the best.