The Third Twin. Dani Sinclair
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had died. Alexis Ryder felt her stomach churn in revulsion and anger.
What was her father doing here, in her apartment? He’d only been here once since she’d moved in with her college roommate, and then only because she’d felt compelled to invite him. He was her father, after all. But he’d arrived so drunk, he’d passed out five minutes later. He’d spent the night snoring on their couch.
Why was he here now? Why tonight of all times? She had a date in less than an hour.
Alexis strove to control her bitterness. “Dad?”
Dropping her purse and the mail on the table by the door, she bent to retrieve an envelope that had slipped to the floor. That was when she saw the blood. A vivid dark red, the splotch of color glittered against the faded gold carpeting.
Fear slammed into her. Instinctively she reached for the door handle, ready to flee even as her eyes traced a trail of drops to their tiny excuse for a kitchen.
Common sense kicked in. The smell of whiskey told its own tale. This was no burglar. What had her faher done?
“Dad?”
There wasn’t a sound from inside. She was unsurprised when he didn’t respond. No doubt he was passed out in there.
Releasing the door handle, she stepped into the room far enough to see the kitchen through the breakfast bar. The cupboard where they kept their meager supply of alcohol yawned open. A once-full bottle lay on the counter on its side, no longer able to dribble the rest of its golden-brown contents onto the floor.
Blood smeared the label. It streaked the cheap white cupboard and the countertop. Spilled whiskey mingled with the shattered remains of a glass, the shards glittering on the white linoleum floor.
Fear returned. What had he done? The meager trail of blood led away from the kitchen, down the hall toward the bedrooms. She took a step in that direction. The drops of blood on the floor grew larger. A smear streaked the white wall, as if someone had rested a second before moving into the bathroom.
Her chest felt incredibly tight. The sound of her heart beat loudly in her ears.
“Dad?”
Their cluttered yellow bathroom was barely recognizable. She hadn’t known that blood had an odor. It did, and it was one that even spilled whiskey couldn’t mask. A wadded, bloodstained dish towel lay in the sink.
The medicine chest stood ajar. Cosmetics and bottles of lotion had crashed to the floor. A tube of antiseptic cream lay on top of the toilet tank, a frightening testimony to an attempt to bandage a wound. What had he done?
“Dad!”
She was breathing too fast. A shaking had seized her taut limbs. Alexis stared at another blood smear near the doorknob of her bedroom. Her door wasn’t shut all the way. The latch didn’t always catch if she wasn’t careful. She’d been careful this morning.
For a moment her knees threatened to succumb to the weight of her fear, but she had to know. It might not be that bad. Obviously her father had cut himself and come here for help. He must have drunk himself into another stupor.
She nudged the door open with her foot.
For one very bad second she thought she would lose control over her stomach. The room grayed as a rushing sound filled her head. She stumbled toward the still figure lying on her bed.
“Daddy?”
She hadn’t called him that since she’d been a little girl—back when he’d still been her hero. Her vision blurred. She rubbed at her eyes to clear the tears sliding down her cheeks.
“Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”
The whispered words sounded far away. As if they’d come from some other source.
Brian Ryder was sprawled on his back across her pastel bedspread. He didn’t move. His thin features were haggard with pain and his pale skin looked more like carved wax than living tissue. He’d pulled up his shirt. His abdomen was covered with one of her yellow bath towels. Blood stained the towel and the bony fingers that pressed the terry cloth against his abdomen.
There was another smell mixed with the foul stench of blood and whiskey. She’d never encountered the odor before, but she recognized it. The smell of death.
Alexis shut her eyes. Sobs tore from somewhere deep in her chest. She heard them, strangely detached from the sound.
She should have been a better daughter. She should have tried harder to understand. Alcoholism was a disease. It made people do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do. It destroyed fortunes and families. It wasn’t entirely his fault that he’d stopped being her hero. Her mother had died on a rain-slicked street and her father hadn’t been able to handle the loss. He had loved her mother more than anything in the world. Now they were both gone and she was alone. And he’d died without knowing that his only daughter still loved him.
The sobs tore from her heart.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her.
“Daddy!”
She flew to the bed.
“Oh, God. It’s going to be okay, Daddy. I’ll get an ambulance. Lie still. It’s going to b—”
His hand snaked out to grab her wrist, staining it with his blood. “Listen.”
“Yes. I will. I promise. Just let me call—”
“Listen!”
For a second his voice was as strong as his grip. She leaned over him, inhaling the scent of whiskey on his breath. But the glaze in his eyes wasn’t alcohol-induced.
“Get out of here! Now!”
“Daddy…”
“…be coming…here…next.” He struggled for breath, pushing out the words with desperate effort. “Take…briefcase. Don’t let any…one…get…it. Run! Promise…me!”
His fingers clawed her arm for emphasis.
“Yes. I’ll run.” Anything to make the nightmare stop. “I’ll take your briefcase,” she promised. “I’ll run. I won’t let anyone get it.”
The fingers relaxed their fierce pressure, though he continued to hold her. His eyes closed in pain or exhaustion or both.
“Should…have told you…truth.”
His chest heaved with the effort. There was a rattling sound that terrified her.
“Never mind! Don’t try to talk anymore, Daddy. Let me call an ambulance.”
He opened his eyes. The glassy look faded. For a minute he looked right at her. In his eyes was the father she remembered.
“I love you, Daddy.”
His lips worked into a smile. A trickle of frothy blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Good…daughter.” He whispered so softly she had to strain to make out his words. “Made…her…happy. Wish…you’d…been mine.”
“What?”
The rattle intensified. “Run!…Hart…keep.”
More spittle dribbled from between his lips, frothy with blood. His chest heaved with that terrible rattling sound and then he sighed. The hand clutching hers went limp.
“Daddy!”
She shook him. His eyes were fixed and empty. His features were oddly peaceful in death.
Alexis didn’t know how long she stood there, holding his dead hand and crying, but her body was tight with pain when she straightened. Her head throbbed. She swayed slightly, feeling light-headed and weak. Every muscle in her body felt stiff and uncoordinated. And she was so cold. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Swollen red eyes stared back at her from her reflection in the