A Bullet to the Heart by Kathy Wheeler (most read books of all time .TXT) 📕

I can’t prove it, but someone has been following me all afternoon. He tried ramming my car on the coastal road.”

“Jackson, you aren’t making any sense.”

“Damn it, I loved that car.” He cleared his throat. “Never mind. Look, I’m probably going to be stuck over here for a day or two. My car’s in the goddamn Sound. I gotta go. Keep it on the downlow, would you, Jo?”

The line went dead. Jo slowly replaced the receiver.

“Jackson said—”

“I heard what he said. I’d be surprised if everyone at the Cobblestone Café hadn’t heard what he said. He didn’t happen to mention why he was on the ferry, did he?”

“Said he received a note from someone telling him to meet on the ferry ride over. They offered information regarding the shot aimed at me.”

He shoved a hand though his hair. “Well, hell.”

Jo reached over and placed her hand tentatively over Wyn’s. “You believe him, don’t you?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I believe I do.” Wyn did believe him.

Hell, Jackson was as soft as they came. He had done hardly a day’s worth of legitimate work in his life. He’d always taken the lazy way out. Like the time he’d broken into Dry Goods Emporium, the store Wyn’s mother had worked so hard on. One night out of the blue not long after Penelope Knox had been murdered, Jackson had taken to vandalizing the store. He didn’t damage anything that couldn’t be easily repaired or replaced, but his fury with Wyn had been clear.

“I can’t believe I’m going to ask this,” she said with an unusual smirk, “why is it so hard to want to believe him?”

“Two words. Penelope Knox.”

She pulled her hand back and clasped it with her other one and stilled. “What do you mean?”

“For the longest time, I thought Jackson had killed her because she had a crush on me.”

“But we both know you didn’t kill her.”

“Yes, but here’s the funny thing. Jackson spent the last fourteen years thinking I killed her.”

She furrowed her brows. “If he did believe it, I don’t think he does anymore.”

“Why do you say that?” Uneasiness curled through him. “And, since when did you start defending Jackson?”

“When he told me to—” Her eyes dropped to her hands, white-knuckled and clenched in her lap.

“Told you to what?” he said tightly.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Confide in you,” she said on a rush. “Quit hovering. This is difficult enough.”

Oh, he was not going to like what she had to say. He really didn’t want to have to kill Jackson. Not when they were finally putting the past behind them after all these years. Wyn lowered next to her. “All right.”

It took her a long time to gather her thoughts, or her courage, but he waited, realizing he would wait a lifetime if need be.

“When Eleanor remarried after my father—Charles Weatherford—died, Wallace Hayes…he…did things.”

“Jo, you don’t have to—”

“Yes. I do. Let me get this out. It started slow.” Her voice had dropped. “It was a touch of his hand on my shoulder here, a chaste kiss on my cheek there.” She let out a choked, slightly hysterical laugh. “I was very careful to not be alone with him. I had this feeling, you know?”

For the life of him, Wyn couldn’t move a muscle.

“One day he caught me unawares. I hadn’t realized he’d come home.” Jo’s voice took on a flat and distant monotone. “I was in the library sitting in the window seat, reading. It was Grandmother Claudia’s house in the Hamptons. He…he cornered me. Near Papa’s desk. Mama refused to let anyone rearrange anything on it. She upheld that desk as a shrine,” she said on a ghost of a smile. “Even…even…Wall—”

Wyn knew right then he was going to commit murder. Cold-blooded murder. If he ever came face to face with Wallace Hayes again, the bastard was a dead man.

Wyn wasn’t a psychologist, but he realized that from the depths of his being Jo needed to talk. That what she was about to reveal had affected every decision, consciously or subconsciously, of her life. She needed liberation. Even if he had to pay a debt to society in going to prison. This was his gift to her. “Go on.” He wanted to reach for her but painfully refrained.

She drew in a deep breath. “He grabbed my dress from the neck. It ripped enough to expose me,” she choked out. “Not that there was much to see.”

His own hands clenched into fists.

“I fought. I’ve never fought so desperately in my life. He still held me by the neck of my dress and somehow was able to jerk open his trousers and pulled out his... his…” She shut her eyes, breathing shallow, erratic pants. Forever seemed to have passed before she spoke again. “He yanked my hand and made me…touch him, squeezed my hand tight over his.” She shuddered and worked to gain control of her rapid intakes.

Wyn slid his hand under her iced-clammy ones, palm up. He stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb in an attempt to soothe her. Her hand clasped tightly about his.

“I threw up.” She snatched one of her hands away and covered her mouth with the back of it. “In all the confusion and his temper, I was able to snatch Papa’s letter opener from the desktop. It was very sharp.”

Wyn’s lungs felt as if they were on the verge of collapse. He wasn’t certain he was strong enough to hear the conclusion without doing some kind of damage. The rage coursing through him was lethal.

“He went for my arm. But I was fast. I spun around and…and stabbed him.” Her voice had grown small, as if she were still that child, fighting the fight of her life. “I didn’t cut anything off, but I hit something. I know there was blood.” She sucked in life-altering air and her words came faster. “I dropped the letter opener and took off running. Up the stairs. Found Tevi and