by Elle James
“Yes, I am. You don’t understand.” She looked up, the expression on her tear-streaked face deadly earnest. “I’m the reason it happened.”
Gabe released her shoulder to reach down and take her hand. “Does it have to do with the bruising on your neck?”
She stared up into his face, but there was a vacant look in her eyes that made him uneasy, as if she didn’t really see him there. “He followed me, he must have.”
“Who followed you?”
“I don’t know.” Her hand clenched tightly around his. “He’s come to kill me. And instead, he’s killed that girl, that poor girl.…”
“Who, Kayla?” Gabe was filled with confusion. Was someone truly after Kayla? Uneasily, he realized that she did fit the same physical profile as the victim—petite frame and dark red hair. But did that really mean that someone was after her, or was her imagination running out of control? He didn’t know her well enough to say.
“Who do you think killed the girl? Who do you believe has come to kill you?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She touched the fingers of her free hand to the bruises on her neck. “I just know that he tried to before and almost succeeded.”
Some of the blankness faded away. Her green eyes were steady and focused as they stared into his, and she spoke again.
“He’s going to try again.”
A few hours later, Kayla was alone in the house again. Officer McGregor had left after he’d gotten the basic story of her attack. He’d promised to contact the Seattle Police Department for the official report in case the incident truly was related to the murder of the girl on the beach, but he had assured her that a connection was unlikely.
Cape Churn was a three-hour drive from Seattle, and by her own report, hardly anyone in Seattle knew where she had gone. The odds were very slim that her attacker would know how to find her. And yet, as Kayla stood barefoot at the window overlooking the road, she felt like a bird trapped in a gilded cage.
The scenery out the front of the cottage wasn’t quite as picturesque as out the back overlooking the ocean, but she could see when people drove up or passed by on the road.
For now, the ocean view had lost its appeal. Her easel stood beside the back window, the view as glorious as the day before, the sun high in the sky, casting brilliant light over rocky cliffs and steely gray water speckled with white-capped waves. But Kayla couldn’t find the right colors on her palette to start, an image of a body floating in the current swimming through her mind, taking away from all the glory of nature.
A woman had died pretty much outside her cottage the night before and she had heard her cry for help.
She couldn’t stop thinking about what would have happened to her if someone had not heard her cries for help back in Seattle. What if her attacker had finished her off, taking her life—and her baby’s life—the way someone had taken the life of the woman found on the beach?
“I messed up, Baby,” she murmured. “Maybe I could have helped that girl if I’d just realized…” She squeezed shut her eyes, pain twisting in her gut. “I let her down, and I’m so afraid of letting you down, too.”
She reached down to stroke her belly. “This place was supposed to be safe, a place where no one could hurt either of us, but now I’m not so sure. The worst part is that I just don’t know where that place would be.”
Her stomach rumbled, serving as a reminder to save her introspection until later and get to work on eating for two right now.
As she rattled around in the kitchen, she forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. She couldn’t let herself dwell on her fears. It wouldn’t accomplish anything. Officer McGregor was probably right, anyway, that the attack was in no way related to hers. It was a tragedy—a horrible, senseless tragedy—but it wasn’t her fault. It had nothing to do with her at all.
So why couldn’t she believe that?
On the other side of town, Gabe McGregor pulled his police cruiser up next to the teenager walking his bicycle, slid the passenger-seat window down and leaned over so that he could see the boy’s face. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where were you?”
The teen shrugged. “Around.” He pushed his bike up one of the many hills surrounding Cape Churn.
Gabe kept pace, while tamping down his frustration. “We’ve been over this before. I don’t mind if you visit your friends, I’d just like to know when you do, where you’re going and when you’re headed home.”
“Kinda stalker-like, if you ask me.”
“Not the way I look at it.” Talking through the open window wasn’t any way to get through to a troubled teen. Gabe pulled ahead of Dakota and parked on the side of the road, blocking the boy’s path. He climbed out, smiled and waved at a passing car before resuming his conversation with the stranger who was his son.
He’d known about Dakota for only a matter of months. The boy’s mother hadn’t bothered to tell him that a son had resulted from his brief fling with the older woman back when Gabe was a teen. Siena had been twenty-five, Gabe had been a naive eighteen-year-old, flattered by an older woman’s attentions. He’d even imagined himself in love with her. She’d been on vacation with friends at Cape Churn. When she’d left, he hadn’t heard from her again, until four months ago.
Siena had shown up at Gabe’s apartment in Seattle long enough to tell him that he had a son. She’d pushed the boy carrying a single suitcase in front of her, stating she couldn’t handle him anymore. Then she’d left.
After the initial shock wore off, he realized he couldn’t raise a kid in downtown Seattle, especially not with the crazy hours he kept serving on the Seattle police force. He quit his job and moved home to Cape Churn. But nothing had prepared him for the difficulties of raising a teenage boy—a troubled one, at that. Apparently Dakota had gotten into a little legal trouble. It was nothing too serious, but he was on probation, and that had apparently been the straw that had broken the camel’s back when it came to Siena’s patience with their son.
Gabe pushed his hand through his hair, rather than pulling it out, and stood in front of Dakota. He needed instant dad lessons. “I don’t ask you to keep me informed because I want to stalk you. I ask you because I care.”
“Could you care a little less? I’m not a baby. I don’t need a keeper.” The words he didn’t say, but Gabe felt, were I don’t need you.
He let the implied meaning slide off his back. Whether or not Dakota thought he needed his father, he needed someone. And since Gabe was the only one he had, Dakota was stuck with him until he finished high school. Gabe didn’t give up easily. “No, I can’t care a little less. You’re my son.”
Dakota snorted.
Gabe’s lips pressed together to keep from saying something about the boy’s attitude. He remembered having a similar one when he was Dakota’s age. Thank goodness his parents hadn’t given up on him. “As I’ve told you before, I didn’t know about you until recently, or I would have been more involved as a parent all along. But I know about you now—you’re here, I care and we’re going to figure out this father-son thing if it kills us.”
Okay, so that wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say, but so be it. He’d tried all the textbook suggestions on getting through to a teen and they had worked no better.
“I want to know where you go so that I know you’re safe.”
“Really?” Dakota’s brows rose into the shaggy hair hanging down over his brow. “Like, this town has nothing goin’ on. Why wouldn’t I be safe?”
Gabe sucked in a deep breath, last night’s victim surfacing much too quickly. “I take it you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
“About the woman found strangled on the beach this morning.”
That got his son’s attention. Dakota stared up at Gabe, his eyes narrowing. “You’re no
t pullin’ my leg just to get me to call, are you?”
Gabe’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “Wish I was.”
Dakota’s face paled. “Dead? Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t like you being out on these roads alone.”
The teen’s brows scrunched together, that rebellious look returning. “I’m not a girl. I can take care of myself.”
“Are you sure?” Gabe asked. “Women aren’t the only murder victims in the world, you know.”
“So, that doesn’t mean it’ll happen to me.” His son bounced the bicycle impatiently. “Is that all you wanted?”
“Let me know where you’re going and when. That’s all I’m asking. That way I’ll know which ditches to look in if you don’t come home on time.”
“You wouldn’t have to worry about me being run off the road if I could drive myself.”
“Boy, you are so wrong.” Gabe shook his head, a smile curving his lips. “When you start driving, I’ll worry even more.”
“Not like I’ll be driving anytime soon.” Dakota sighed.
“Your probation ends on Saturday. We’ll start driving lessons then, I promise.”
Dakota scuffed his tennis shoe against the gravel on the shoulder of the road. “Stupid to be on probation for a little graffiti.”
“It’s considered destruction of property,” Gabe stated in a matter-of-fact way. “Property that doesn’t belong to you. How would you feel if someone painted your house with graffiti?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have a house.”
Gabe sucked in a deep breath and let it out. The kid had a point. They were living with Gabe’s sister in her bed-and-breakfast until Gabe found a house he liked enough to buy. “Just call and leave a message on my voice mail when you come and go from your friends’ houses, will ya?”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“At least text me to let me know where you’re going.” His voice was a little sharper than he’d intended, but he couldn’t walk on eggshells with the boy forever. “And don’t be late for dinner, it makes your aunt crazy.”
Gabe climbed back into the cruiser and pulled out onto the road, his gaze shifting between what was in front of him and the boy in the rearview mirror. He didn’t like leaving him on the side of the road, but short of manhandling him into the cruiser, he had no other choice. The kid just didn’t get it.
A murderer was loose in Cape Churn. Until they caught him, no one was safe. The knot in his gut tightened. Though he’d assured her otherwise, Gabe had begun to wonder if Kayla’s attack was connected.
Chapter 4
Kayla woke from a nap on the couch, surprised she’d fallen asleep at all. Drawn to the picture window overlooking the ocean and the road leading up from town, she noted the sun hovering over the horizon. It would be dark soon. A shiver of dread slithered down her spine.
A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. Kayla’s heart skipped a beat and then thudded against her chest. Her hand rose to her throat where her breath lodged, as a solitary figure appeared walking along the road. At first all she could see was a dark silhouette, until the figure moved closer.
Finally, Kayla could make out a teenage boy pushing a bicycle.
She let go of the breath caught in her throat and laughed shakily. She really was a mess. “Your mommy’s losing her mind, Baby. But don’t worry, I have six months to get it back before I can start driving you crazy, too.”
Maybe coming to the coast wasn’t such a good idea. Alone on the edge of a cliff almost made her feel more of a target than if she’d been surrounded by people in a bustling city.
The boy stopped, dropped down by the rear wheel of his bicycle, fiddled with something and then stood, his gaze panning the area.
When he spotted the cottage, he resumed pushing the bike. Instead of passing by on the road, he turned onto the gravel drive leading down to the lighthouse cottage.
Moments later, the teen knocked on the door, the sound jolting Kayla from her stupor. When she didn’t move to open the door, the boy leaned to the side and peered into the window. He blinked and stepped closer, his hand cupping around his eyes and pressing against the glass. “Hello?” The teenager’s gaze landed on her and his face brightened. “Miss, could I use your telephone?” he called out, his voice muffled by the thick panes of glass.
It would be rude to ignore the boy. “Is everything all right?” she asked, her voice little more than a squeak. Oh, no, what if someone else had been hurt? Had another woman been attacked?
“I got a flat tire on my bike. I need to call the police station.”
“The police?” Kayla inched toward the door. “Why the police?”
“Why not?” He shrugged. “It might give them something to do.”
Something to do? Kayla shook her head. Had the boy not heard about the murder? Curiosity warred with wariness, pushing it to the side. The teen looked harmless enough. A glance at his bicycle confirmed the flat tire. He was as tall as she was and lanky, but not very muscular. Certainly not big enough to overpower a woman and strangle her to death. And surely he wasn’t the man in Seattle two weeks ago who had tried to kill her. The boy didn’t have the build. What did Kayla have to worry about?
“Just a minute.” Kayla left the chain secure over the door, while she unlocked the doorknob and the dead bolt. She eased the door open and stared out at the young man. “I’m not sure the landline’s been turned on yet. Give me a minute, will you?”
“Sure. I guess I could push the bike all the way to the B and B, but the old man will go ballistic if I’m late. Thinks I’m a little kid or something.” The boy turned his back to the door and scuffed his tennis shoe against a porch column. “This place is so dead, it’s lame.”
Kayla cringed at the young man’s choice of words and closed the door, racing for the telephone on the kitchen counter. She lifted the receiver. No dial tone. With a sigh, she replaced the phone on the charging unit and dug in her handbag for her cell phone. The display showed two bars. Maybe.
Back at the door, she unlatched the chain and handed the phone to the kid. “The landline isn’t connected yet. But you can try using my cell phone. No guarantees—the reception isn’t great. But I got a call through yesterday.”
The boy punched in the numbers and hit the send key. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Nothing.” He pressed the redial key and waited again. With the same response, he closed the phone and handed it back to Kayla. “Guess I’m walking. Thanks anyway.” He turned and stepped off the porch.
Kayla watched him amble down the gravel road, shoulders slumped. She called herself every kind of fool. If she let herself be afraid to step out of the house, she’d more or less create her own prison. That was no way to live. If she retreated from life in fear, her attacker back in Seattle had won.
Bull on that!
Kayla was made of sterner stuff. Officer McGregor was right. Her attack had nothing to do with the woman killed last night. No one knew where she’d gone. She’d told no one. He couldn’t have followed her.
Guilt and determination pushed her out the door to stand on the porch. “Wait!” she called out. “I have an SUV. I’m sure I can fit the bicycle in the back. Want a lift?”
He turned, shielded his eyes from the sun falling toward the sea. “No, thank you. I don’t want to bother you.”
“I insist. Just give me a minute to get some shoes on.” When she turned to close and lock the door, she stopped herself. The boy wasn’t going to bother her, and she’d be damned if she acted like a pathetic old lady, locking herself inside every minute of the day. She purposely left the door unlocked and opened as she ran for her room to dig out her sandals.
When she returned to the living room, she gasped.
The teen stood beside her easel, holding up the palette and paintbrushes. When he heard her gasp, he dropped the items to the table beside the easel. “I’m sorry, the door was open. I thought you wanted me to come in.”
Kayla laughed, her voice shaky. “I did want you to come in,” she lied. “I just didn’t expect you to be so quick.”
“A guy would be stupid to pass up a free ride.” He nodded at the easel. “You paint?” He snorted. “Dumb question. Of course you do, why else have paintbrushes and an easel?”
Kayla stared at the empty canvas and sighed. “I used to paint.”
“Used to paint?”
She shrugged and gathered her keys from the kitchen countertop. “Haven’t felt much like it lately.” Hooking her purse over her shoulder, she stared across at the boy.
He didn’t seem at all in a hurry, intent on studying the paints, pressing his finger to the globs of oil on the palette. “I like the way the colors blend and make new colors.”
“Me too. It’s one of the reasons I took up painting in the first place.” Kayla moved closer to where the boy stood. “Seeing as I’m giving you a ride home, it might be nice to know your name.”
“Dakota.” He glanced at her. “Are you any good?”
“At driving?”
“No, painting.”
Kayla almost laughed out loud. She never took her talent for granted, nor her success over the past five years. From selling her paintings on the sidewalks of Seattle to being sought out by rich-and-famous art aficionados, she’d come a long way. Good at it? The laughter died before it could emerge. “Sometimes.”
The teen turned away from the palette, the canvas and the brushes and strode to the door. “At least you don’t get fined, put on probation and kicked out of your home for your art.” He pushed through the door and jumped off the steps to the ground below.
“Fined?” Kayla followed him out, locking the door behind her.
When he didn’t respond, she didn’t push. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but the stormy look on his face didn’t invite confidences.
