You Will Pay

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

In a fast-paced, brilliantly twisted novel of suspense from #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson, the deadly secrets of a long-ago summer stir to life once more.

It starts as a prank-a way to blow off steam after a long summer at Camp Horseshoe. Among the teen counselors, tensions and hormones are running high. No wonder the others agree when Jo-Beth Chancellor suggests they scare Monica O'Neal a little….or a lot. Monica has it coming, and no one will really get hurt. What could go wrong?

Everything.

Twenty years later, Lucas Dalton, a senior detective with the sheriff's department, is investigating the discovery of human remains in a cavern at what used to be Camp Horseshoe. Lucas knows the spot well. His father, a preacher, ran the camp, and Lucas worked there that infamous summer when two girls went missing. One is believed to have been killed by a convict on the loose. Monica O'Neal is thought to have drowned and been washed out to sea.

Lucas knows he should step down from such a personal case. He's already jeopardized his career by removing evidence of his involvement. But maybe it's time to uncover the whole truth at last. That's why five former female counselors are coming back to the small Oregon town-among them, Bernadette Warden, the woman Lucas has never forgotten. Each one knows something about that terrible night. Each promised not to tell. And as they reunite, a new horror unfolds. First come notes containing a personal memento and a simple, terrifying message: You will pay. Then, the murders begin.

It started years ago. But it will end here-as a web of lust, greed, and betrayal is untangled to reveal a killer waiting to enact the perfect revenge.

Release date: July 31, 2018

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 560

Sample

So this was the end.

Her life over. At nineteen.

Elle’s chin trembled. She told herself to be brave, but her courage failed her.

“God help me,” she whispered, though no one could hear. Her words were lost with the rush of the wind and roar of the surf raging twenty feet below. She stood on the precipice, her bare toes curling over the edge of the rock, her heart in her throat, her pale hair whipping over her face. A storm was brewing, whitecaps frothy on the dark water, rain threatening, the air sharp and bracing.

She didn’t care, barely noticed as she gathered her courage and touched her belly through the thin cotton of her nightgown.

Jump! Now! It’s the only answer. You know it. It’s best for you. It’s best for Lucas. It’s best for the baby.... Or was it? A new life. As yet unborn? A headache blasted behind her eyes, and doubts assailed her even as she told herself this was for the best.

Tears drizzled down her cheeks. She knew that what she contemplated was madness. Yet she had no other options, no place to go, no one to trust. She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath of salty sea air, thought of all the might-have-beens that now were only lost dreams. Here, at this pathetic little camp on the Oregon coast, a place that was to have been an oasis, an Eden, but a place that had crumbled into the very pit of Hades.

She’d come here on the verge of summer, filled with eager anticipation, knowing she could work with children, spread the Lord’s word, make that final step before college in the fall. Instead . . . Oh, God. She’d found hatred and pain, known love and rejection, discovered treachery so deep it curdled one’s soul.

And she’d sinned.

Oh, Lucas. She swallowed at the thought of him. Tall, blond, with muscular shoulders, a strong jaw, and a wicked sense of humor.

She blinked against the tears and the rain, miserable and alone.

Could she do it?

Just let go and leap into the frigid, swirling waters of the Pacific? Really, was this the only answer? She teetered with the buffeting wind. Her eyes flew open and she caught her balance. She blinked but couldn’t see the horizon in the darkness, felt the first drops of rain drizzle from the midnight sky.

Do it! Do it now! You have nothing to live for. Nothing!

But that wasn’t true, there was—

Scritttccch!!

Though the roar of the sea was nearly deafening, she thought she heard a scraping sound, like a jagged piece of metal screaming against solid rock. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted, a warning.

She wasn’t the only one here?

No way. No one in his right mind would be out here at midnight in the middle of a storm.

She hazarded a quick look over her shoulder, inland toward the rocky hillside broken only by a few contorted pines. Beyond this stony ridge, the forest of old-growth firs loomed dark and foreboding. But she was alone tonight. Right? Of course! Who besides a crazy girl with nothing to live for would be out in the woods on a slippery ledge jutting over the ocean in the middle of a storm?

Not a soul.

You’re imagining things.

Rain started to pelt in earnest, splashing against the rocky escarpment, soaking through the thin fabric of her nightdress, distorting the night. She swallowed back her fear. She was alone and she would do this. She had to.

Another deep breath.

Thoughts of family and friends, scattered pictures sliding through her mind, no memory strong enough to dissuade her, nothing permanent or secure enough to force her to grab on and find a little shred of hope.

She was lost.

Just be calm. It will all be over soon. You’ll be at peace . . . you and the baby. Guilt ripped through her and she placed a comforting hand over her flat abdomen. “It’s all right,” she murmured to her unborn child, her voice inaudible over the keen of the wind. “We’ll be fine.”

Liar! You’re contemplating taking your own life, as well as that of your baby. It’s not fine, Elle. It’s murder! She could almost hear her mother’s warning, her high-pitched voice accusing and brittle on the wind. “Do this, Elle, and you’ll spend eternity burning in hell. Is that what you want?”

But her mother wasn’t here. She was alone. The voice she heard was only her own fear keeping her from taking that fateful, final step.

Scritttccch! She started. Turned. Wobbled. Caught her balance.

Oh, Jesus, what was that? Definitely metal, scratching hard against stone. Definitely something that shouldn’t be here.

She swallowed hard.

Straining to listen, she heard nothing more. She squinted into the woods, dark and jagged, a tree line barely visible in the night. A gust of wind pressed hard against the back of her legs.

Surely there was no one, nothing, no—then she saw it, a glimmer that was out of place, a movement that went beyond the dance of branches in the storm.

Oh. God.

Her heart stilled and everything around her—the rain, the sea, the black of night—faded as she concentrated on that one area.

It’s your damned imagination. Nothing more. Don’t freak out. Deep breath and—Oh, crap! A dark figure appeared from the shadows, slowly advancing through the curtain of rain.

Her heart leapt to her throat.

Oh, my Lord, was that a knife? In one curled fist, something? A blade?

“ No.”

Fear clawed deep into her soul.

Then she recognized her tormentor! Gasped.

No. No. No.

Shaking her head involuntarily, her gaze glued on the advancing attacker, she held one hand out as if to fend off a blow. The other covered her abdomen, a protection of her unborn child. Involuntarily, she shrank backward, her heel sliding off the wet shelf.

Wait!

She wobbled, her hands flailing wildly, the bitter-cold wind swirling and pushing.

At that second, lightning flashed. In front of her, the figure eased onto the ledge, the knife visible, a wicked, satisfied smile showing just the hint of teeth, eyes hidden in dark sockets.

Another harsh blast from the sea as she rocked crazily, the cold air whipping the hem of her sodden nightgown, slapping at the back of her head, causing wet strands of her hair to whip over her eyes. She caught herself. Balanced precariously, her feet half-on, half-off the ledge.

Suddenly she didn’t want to die!

Nor did she want to snuff out the life of her baby.

No way.

Her toes tightened on the stone and she threw her weight forward. If I go—if we go—we’re taking this fucking monster with us. But it was too late. She landed wrong, sliding on the slippery escarpment. Her gaze locked with one of pure evil. Come on, she thought, readying herself, come the hell on.

As thunder cracked, booming across the water, her assailant lunged, springing agilely, a dark demon pouncing.

Elle shifted to avoid the attack, but her feet slipped again. She slid backward. She started to tumble, tried to right herself, feet scrambling. A gloved hand grabbed hold of her just before she fell, steely fingers clenching around her wrist, preventing the fall.

What? This was her savior?

For a second her heart soared with hope, but then she felt the fingers release. She slid just a fraction, before a hand pushed her backward, propelling her over the edge, and this time there was no quick-reflex attempt to save her.

She fell, tumbling backward through the darkness, the salty sea air surrounding her as she plummeted into the sea. Just as she hit the icy water she saw the figure on the ledge, leaning over, watching vigilantly to make sure she fell to her—and her baby’s—death.

She’d made a mistake.

A big mistake . . . no, make that a colossal mistake.

One she might not be able to fix.

Damn it all to hell, Monica thought, lying fully dressed on the cot in the cabin where she, barely nineteen herself, was in charge of eight eleven-year-olds. She had a semiprivate room, a tiny space with an open window to a larger area where the girls slept in sleeping bags tossed over canvas and wood cots straight out of the fifties. Everything about this stupid camp was beyond retro, all due to the domineering rule of Jeremiah Dalton, the preacher who owned and ran this crap hole of a summer camp. Dalton was little more than a dictator, a man who claimed to be a strict follower of Christ, but he was one of the least Christian men Monica had ever met. A tall, imposing figure with sharp eyes and strong features, Dalton had a doctorate in theology, and was so proud of it he expected everyone to call him Doctor or Reverend. Even his wife and kids. How sick was that?

Not that she could think about him now.

She had bigger, more personal problems to deal with, she thought bitterly as she stared upward to the exposed rafters that supported the pitched ceiling. Through the open windows she heard the lonesome hoot of an owl over the ever-present sound of the surf pounding the cliffs not a quarter of a mile away.

She checked her watch. Nearly midnight.

The other girls would be gathering at the cove, waiting for her. They were counselors at Camp Horseshoe as well, and bitches, every damned one of them. She hated them all and wondered why she’d even drawn any of them into her confidence, especially Bernadette. What had she been thinking? Yeah, Bernadette Alsace could keep a secret, or at least Monica hoped so, but still, she should never have confided in the athletic girl with the sharp wit and even sharper tongue. Then there was Bernadette’s younger sister, Annette. How in the world had that wimpy little tattletale gotten a job here? Barely older than the campers, Annette slunk around the cabins and rec hall, her tiny ears open, listening for gossip. Truth to tell, Annette with her wide eyes and not-so-innocent smile kinda freaked Monica out.

Another freakoid bitch.

Oh, bloody hell, she had to quit thinking and get going!

She felt something inside her shift, but she could do nothing about it.

She’d been pregnant, had even given Tyler the news that, like it or not, he was going to be a father. Had secretly hoped that he would change with learning the knowledge, that he would love her and marry her. She swallowed hard. That had been two weeks ago. Now everything had changed. She’d been spotting and cramping and . . . a deep sadness yawned within her. She hadn’t planned on getting pregnant.

No! Oh, God, no. Never!

But it had happened. And though she hadn’t thought she’d wanted a baby—for fuck’s sake, she was much too young to raise a child—she’d been disappointed at the thought of a miscarriage, her silly, romantic fantasies about a life with Tyler destroyed. He was so handsome, with his thick brown hair, square jaw, and eyes the color of steel.

Virile, athletic, ready for any challenge, he was everything she’d ever wanted, she’d thought, and then the baby and then no baby and . . . Tears flooded her eyes, but she told herself it was for the best. Now, they both could go on to college and . . . and Tyler was free to marry Jo-Beth, the girl to whom he was nearly engaged. No, make that the bitch to whom he was almost engaged.

At that thought, Monica winced.

Cautiously she raised up and peered over the windowsill into the main area of the cabin. The bigger room was dark, faintly illuminated by one night-light. All of the cots were occupied, the girls dead asleep after a rigorous day of tending to the horses, swimming in the lake, Bible classes, and kitchen or latrine duty before an outdoor sing-along and prayer meeting.

Lights out at ten and after nearly a half hour of whispered gossip between her charges, they’d all fallen asleep. Even scaredy-cat Bonnie Branson, who was smaller than the other girls and had long blond curls that had never seen a pair of scissors, was out. She slept each night clutching a ratty, one-eyed teddy bear. The stuffed animal was forbidden, of course, no camper was to have brought any toys from home, according to camp rules per Dr. Dalton, but Monica had allowed the girl to have her stupid pink bear. If it kept the crying kid quiet and allowed her to get some sleep, who cared? Well, the other girls did, especially Kinley Marsh, who eagerly pointed out the violation and wanted to report it. Monica had warned that if any one of her charges mentioned a word of it, she wouldn’t do the snake perimeter check each night and all of the girls would have to worry about timber rattlers slithering into the cabin. That was an idle threat; there were no rattlers here, near the sea, but fortunately even incredibly bookish and bright Kinley Marsh hadn’t known or mentioned it. Though Kinley had seemed ready to bolt to the reverend’s office, she hadn’t, and the others had fallen in line, especially after Monica had promised them chocolate each night if they’d held their tongues. She’d then stolen the chocolate from the kitchen, bars meant for s’mores, and the girls had sworn to keep the secret of one-eyed teddy.

It was all such bullshit.

She did a quick head count, found all campers still sleeping, then rolled out of bed, slipped into her shoes, tied them quickly, and then with a final look over her shoulder, snagged her hoodie from a peg and shouldered open the swinging door outside to the cool of the night.

The smell of the ocean was ever present but tinged by the scent of the dying campfire, still smoldering in the pit at the center of the cabins, the few embers glowing red and casting weird shadows. For a second Monica imagined she saw someone sitting on a bench, a dark figure crouching, his head turned to stare straight at her.

Her heart leapt to her throat and she gasped, taking a step back. Squinting, she realized it was just a shovel someone had left propped against one of the seats that ringed the stone fire pit.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! she thought, her mother’s old form of cursing running quickly through her mind. How had she mistaken a damned shovel for a person? She inched backward and cursed her wild imagination. No one knew her plans. Her own guilt was causing her to see things.

Letting out her breath, she scanned the area. Eight cabins, including the one that was her responsibility, ringed the center area of the fire pit. All were as dark as hers, no flashlight beams disturbing the umbra, no movement in the shadows, just the reddish glow from the few remaining embers. She slipped between two of the small structures to the backside of the cabins and to a path that ringed this area, where the female portion of the campers and counselors resided. Once she was past a short spur leading to the outhouses, she paused, making certain she was alone, then she broke into a jog, heading behind the last cabin and taking a path that wound through the forest and away from the barracks. Her route was circuitous, just in case she met any of the other counselors, the girls she’d agreed to meet and intended to ditch.

For now, though, she had to meet Tyler, at least one last time and tell him—

She heard voices. Whispers.

Crap! She couldn’t be seen. Not by anyone.

From the sound of their voices, they were getting nearer. Monica caught sight of the thin beam of a flashlight. Oh, shit!

She slipped off the path, stepped on a twig that snapped loudly, then bolted to the far side of a fir tree, where she pressed her back against the rough bole and silently prayed she wouldn’t be discovered.

“What was that?” a voice that she recognized as belonging to Reva Mercado whispered.

Monica’s heart sank. Reva Mercado was tough and smart and blessed with a mercurial temper that Monica had witnessed more than once. Monica didn’t trust her, and she sure as hell didn’t like her. The flashlight beam quit bobbing, remaining steady. Footsteps halted. The thin stream of illumination swept the surrounding area as whoever was holding it attempted to find the source of the noise.

Monica tried to meld into the rough bark of the tree, to disappear. She couldn’t risk the chance of them finding her when she intended to leave them all stranded. Her mind raced. What would she say if they found her hiding in the woods? That she had to pee? Or that she’d heard them coming, seen their flashlight, and hidden because she’d thought maybe Reverend Dalton or one of his sons was on patrol?

“What?” The voice that answered belonged to Jo-Beth Chancellor.

Great. Just fucking great. Jo-Beth was a piece of work, a willowy redhead who planned to attend some fancy Ivy League school in the fall. She came from money and smelled of it; the only reason she’d agreed to be a counselor here at Camp Horseshoe was because she was in love with Tyler Quade, who’d come for the adventure of it all, to get away from his smothering parents, to taste a little freedom before he headed to Colorado State. Of course he hadn’t anticipated running into the iron-fisted rule of Reverend Dalton.

Monica swallowed hard when she thought of Jo-Beth and what Monica had done behind her back.

Reva said, “Didn’t you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“I don’t know. Like a cracking sound. Someone stepping on a branch, maybe?” Reva said nervously. “I think someone is out here.”

Oh, God, no. No, no, no.

“We’re all out here,” Jo-Beth reminded her. “Because of Elle. Remember?”

“I know, but—”

“For Elle. That’s the reason we’re meeting the others,” she said in an undertone that was nearly a threat, as if Reva might not have their mission clear in her head, which was odd because, if nothing else, Reva was a schemer, knew how to cover her ass.

Not so ethereal, head-in-the-clouds Elle Brady, the missing camp counselor who had been in charge of cabin 5. No one knew what had happened to her, or so they said, but everyone had a reason to lie about it. If she wasn’t found soon . . .

“Don’t remind me. Elle’s a whackjob.” Dark-eyed Reva, with her sly smile and wide eyes, had never been one to keep her opinions to herself. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she jumped off Suicide Ledge in some kind of sick romantic gesture.”

“Oh, God, why would she do that?”

“Because Lucas dumped her. For that bitch Bernadette.” Reva seemed sure of her theory and, in truth, it sounded good. One the police might buy. Lucas was the first-born son of Reverend Dalton and the handyman of the camp. “Elle’s unstable. Everyone knows it. She should never have even been considered to be a counselor.”

That much was true. And Bernadette, one of the two Alsace sisters who were counselors at Camp Horseshoe, was a whole lot saner than Elle ever thought of being.

Jo-Beth didn’t answer for a second and Monica could almost hear the gears whirling in the brainiac’s mind. “That sounds good,” she said.

“Good? What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

“The story about her flinging herself off the ledge into the sea. We can run with it.”

“In what way?” Reva asked suspiciously.

“Oh, come on. You know. We need a story, right? So that the cops won’t think we had anything to do with it.”

“I know, but—”

“All of us need one. Even you,” Jo-Beth snapped. “The cops are coming to investigate tomorrow.”

“Shit.”

“So we all need to get our stories straight. And I mean everyone who’s meeting us at the grotto, okay? They’re coming, right?”

“Right. Jayla said she’d be there for sure.”

Jayla Williams was the African-American counselor who hailed from Portland. She was supposed to have a boyfriend up there, practically engaged, apparently, but she’d obviously had a wandering eye. Monica had seen her looking over some of the male counselors and some of the workers, too.

“The klepto?”

“Yeah,” Reva said.

If rumors were true, Jayla had a bad case of sticky fingers.

“And Sosi? She’s not gonna bail, right?”

“She said she’d be there and I made her swear to it,” Reva assured Jo-Beth.

Sosi Gavin, the pixie-like religious gymnast, had her hopes pinned on a scholarship.

“And the sisters?”

Reva snorted. “Bernadette and Annette both said they’d be there. But Nell’s supposed to be staying back at the camp. She doesn’t know about our plans.”

“I don’t care about her. Just the others.”

“I worry about the sisters,” Reva admitted. “Bernadette’s . . . I don’t know. Too much of a goody-goody, and her sister’s weird, always listening in at conversations, though she pretends not to. Kind of gives me the creeps.”

“Doesn’t matter. We just need everyone on board!”

“Including Monica?” Reva asked with a sneer in her voice.

“Riigghht.” Jo-Beth let the word linger in the air over a long pause as Monica’s heartbeat soared into triple-time. “None of us are innocent now, are we?”

“But if we can help the police find Elle—”

“The police with their manpower and computers and everything. They don’t need help, trust me.” Jo-Beth’s voice was withering.

“But if we withhold evidence—”

“We’re not! Did I say that? Did I so much as suggest that we try to cover up something or . . . or whatever? No. What I said is we just propose a theory, tell everyone how sad she was, like morose, and maybe she didn’t want to go on living. And that’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Reva was silent. Only the sigh of the wind and the distant roar of the sea and the pounding of Monica’s frantic heart disturbing the quietude of the forest.

“Isn’t it?” Jo-Beth repeated as a breeze rustled through the branches overhead. God, she could be such a pushy bitch.

“I guess.”

“You know!”

Monica imagined Jo-Beth pointing a long finger at the shorter girl’s chest.

“Right?” Jo-Beth said.

“Okay. Fine. Right.” Reva could hold her own. Even against Jo-Beth at her most aggressive. Reva had grown up in East LA, had only moved to Oregon to the small town of Woodburn a couple of years earlier. Wily and street-smart, Reva was beautiful, bold, and didn’t back down easily.

“Good.” Jo-Beth sounded satisfied. “Now. Where’s the knife?” A pause.

The knife? What was she talking about?

“I forgot it.”

“You what?”

“I’m sorry. I stashed it beneath a rock. I’ll go get it. It’s not far from here.”

“Fuck!” Jo-Beth exploded.

“I said I’d get it. Hold on to your damned horses. It’s just . . . wait, okay?”

“We don’t have much time!”

And then there were footsteps. Reva was running away to go and get a knife? Why the hell? Monica held her breath, wished she could just sneak away. But she couldn’t risk it. Not with Jo-Beth out there. The wind crept through the branches overhead, rustling the leaves, and she waited, feeling time slip away, wondering if Tyler would wait for her or give up.

“Come on, come on,” Jo-Beth muttered under her breath, and for once Monica agreed with the bitch. God, she hated her.

She checked her watch. Reva had been gone for at least ten minutes, and Monica was actually considering trying to slip past Jo-Beth, who was blocking the path, risk taking off through the trees, but without a flashlight . . .

No, for now, she had to wait.

Jo-Beth was seething. Burning. Wanting to spit. To scream. But she didn’t. Instead, she waited for Reva at the split in the trail near the old chapel. Jesus, where was she? If she didn’t show up soon, this would all be a huge waste. How could she have forgotten the damned knife?

For this plan to come off without a hitch, the knife was critical. Reva knew that and she’d failed. Shit!

“Come on, come on,” she said, antsy as hell, her nerves strung tight as bowstrings as she waited in the dark. Ears straining, she considered lighting a cigarette but couldn’t risk it. She had so much to do and so little time.

And then there was talk of an escaped prisoner? A murderer, no less? Isn’t that what Doctor Dalton or Reverend Dalton, or whatever you wanted to call the director of this camp, had said? He hadn’t issued a warning, had intended to soothe any of the campers’ or counselors’ jittery nerves, but for Jo-Beth at least, his confirmation of the rumor that had been spreading like a wildfire stoked with gasoline had produced the opposite reaction. Now, she was more stressed than ever, paranoid even. But that was probably because of her own sick situation with her cheating boyfriend.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered quietly between clenched teeth.

She didn’t know who to be more pissed at, Tyler or Monica, but she decided to go with Monica because the girl was such a conniving, fake bitch. But who would have guessed that she would have crossed the line and flirted, then kissed, then made out with, then fucked Tyler? No, it was all Monica’s fault. Guys were just so stupid and horny they never thought straight, so . . . she deserved everything she was going to get.

But was she really pregnant?

Tyler, that dick, had come to Jo-Beth two days earlier, before that head case Elle had disappeared. He’d pulled her aside after the flag ceremony and the final benediction of the evening, when the stars were just beginning to show and a fuchsia glow had glimmered through the trees, the remains of a brilliant sunset over the Pacific. She’d thrilled at the touch of his hand, and when he’d pulled her behind a hedge of salal and other brush, she’d actually thought he was coming to apologize, to tell her he’d made a big mistake, that he loved her and only her, and that Monica was just a slut who had turned his head, but that he was back.

Not so.

He’d been sweating and nervous and running his hands through his hair and, damn it, near tears.

“What?” she’d demanded.

Blinking hard, he’d rasped, “She’s knocked up.”

The knell of doom. And it echoed in her heart. “What?” she’d whispered, pretending not to comprehend as her insides turned to ice. “Who?” But before he could answer, she knew; oh, dear God in heaven, she knew. The panicked look in his eyes was more than enough to convince her, and she saw remorse on his shadowed features, but more than that he was scared to death. She’d forced out the words, “Oh, God, Tyler, what have you done?”

Sniffing and sniveling, he’d wiped his nose with the back of his hand and glanced away for a second, toward the fading sunlight. The muscles in his face worked as he tried to speak. “I . . . Jesus . . . I, oh shit, you know what I did. I mean, it was stupid and dumb and . . . oh, I am so fucked.” He’d dropped into a squatting position and held his hands over his head as if he thought his brain might explode. “So fucked.” With an obvious effort, he’d looked up at her, tilting his face toward the darkening sky, his big eyes shining with tears, and squeaked out, “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Like she should know. But then, hadn’t it always been that way? He’d fuck up and she’d clean up? They’d been together, dating exclusively, at least on her part, since homecoming of their sophomore year and she’d always fixed things. For herself. For him. For both of them. He was, after all, the catch of the class: tall, athletic, handsome as well, and came from some money.

“This is your baby,” she’d spat out. “You goddamn fix it.”

“Jo, please. Help me.”

The muscles in her back had tightened. “Your baby. Your problem. Take care of it!”

“I can’t! Not without you.”

She’d tried to walk away, to find a place to hide and bawl her eyes out, but he’d gotten to his feet, caught her wrist, and stood, drawing her to him. “You have to help me, Jo. It’s you and me. It’s always been you and me. You know that.” In the moonlight he looked so sincere, tears causing his eyes to shimmer. “And . . . and I know I mess up. Shit, all the time. I’m so, so sorry. But it’s always been us, babe.” He’d brushed her hair away from her face, so damned tenderly that her heart had nearly broken. Except that it was already in pieces, shattered at the magnitude of his betrayal.

“Then how the hell did she get pregnant? Huh? If it’s ‘you and me,’ why is another girl having your baby?”

“Jo—”

Smack! She’d slapped him then, so hard that her hand stung and his fists balled reflectively. “It’s over, Ty. Fix your own damned problem. A baby? You’re going to be a father? To her kid?” She stared at him with wide eyes and felt tears of shame and pure fury pool in her eyes. “You’re on your own this time. Good luck, Daddy! You’re gonna need it with that one!” She’d meant to leave, but he still held on to her wrist. His grip had been hot and like steel clamped over her arm.

“I love you,” he’d whispered rawly. He’d sounded tortured, as if in physical pain.

“Then why?”

“I don’t know. Jo, please . . .” Letting go of her wrist, he’d wrapped his arms around her. “Believe me. I love you. Just you.”

“You prick!” Furious, she’d started hitting him then, her hands curled into fists as she pummeled his chest, wildly, her anger and embarrassment exploding. “You dumbass prick! What’s wrong with you? Why did you have to fuck her? To get her pregnant? I hate you, you fucker. I hate you.” She pounded away, intent on killing him, but as he held her, not flinching, taking blow after blow as if it were some kind of penance, she couldn’t keep up the fight and collapsed against him.

“Are . . . are you sure it’s yours?”

A beat. If possible, she’d crumbled even more inside. Then he’d said, “I . . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“She told me it was mine, but . . . I don’t know.” He’d seemed excited, as if the cretin had never considered the possibility that someone else could have slept with the bitch and gotten her pregnant. “She does . . . she does hang out with David and Ryan, and she told me she thought Rya