Survive the Hunt

by Diana Duncan

  She glanced down. Her fingers were still involuntarily clenched around the thick handle. She let go as if it had burned her. “There’s a crack in the end of it.”

  Oops.

  Grinning, he flicked the switch. Light gleamed. He flicked it off, nonchalantly jamming the handle in his jeans pocket. “The old Eveready can take quite a beating and still perform.”

  Hoo boy, was it getting hot in here? “Gives the phrase ‘you light up my life’ a whole new meaning.”

  “You have a way with words, Zagretti.”

  “That’s why I’m a journ—” The truck angled around a sharp corner, knocking her down. It bumped and rocked over uneven ground before jerking to a stop. More beeping and grinding commenced and the back of the floor began to lever upward. “Now what?”

  He dove at her and scooped her into his embrace. “We’re about to get dumped. Hang on.”

  She struggled to hook the canvas bag over one arm and accidentally banged him in the ribs.

  “Ow. Must be a buttload of makeup in there. You plan on being stranded with a Kardashian?”

  “Sorry.” How would he react if he knew he’d just been clobbered with possible evidence that might put his father’s killer away for life? She clung to him as her feet got swept out from beneath her, and the world slid away.

  The back flap banged open. Surrounded by a sea of trash bags, they tumbled out the rear of the truck, landing on a pile of refuse.

  He protected her from the trash raining down on them. In seconds, they were buried.

  They dug out just in time to see the truck chugging off in the distance. Leaving them stranded at the city dump.

  Zoe stood, splotched with gunk she didn’t dare identify. She looked at Aidan and then at the mountains of debris. Hundreds of flies droned, circling in the bright sunshine like jumbo jets stacked up over LAX. “Can’t say I never take you anywhere.”

  He chuckled again, warming her heart. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

  She unzipped her bag, fished out a package of sanitizing hand wipes and handed him half. “Diss my survival kit now, SWAT.”

  He scrubbed his face. “Okay, props to you.”

  She cleaned her face and tossed the wipes. She turned back to paw through the rubble.

  “Looking for our dignity? Too late. It’s trashed.”

  She laughed. His intelligence and wry wit were the biggest turn-ons of all. “I saw some shredded paper and want it.”

  “What for?”

  “Makes terrific plant mulch. I have lots of plants.” One hundred percent true. She simply didn’t specify she wasn’t in the market for mulch.

  “Right.” He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes. Then we’re leaving, with or without it.” He crossed his arms and waited. Not helping, but not hindering, either.

  “After all this, I am not walking away empty-handed.” Okay, she had the hard drives, but he was on a need-to-know basis regarding those. Determined to ignore the smell, she pawed at the pile.

  “You realize,” he drawled. “This place probably has hot-and cold-running rats.”

  “Ack!” She jumped back, her nervous glance skittering over the rubble. Nothing moved except the goosebumps crawling over her skin. She turned and glared at him. “You’re trying to scare me into quitting.”

  “Would I do that?” He shrugged, all innocent male solicitousness. “Just looking out for you.” He consulted his watch. “Two minutes.”

  “I spot a rat, all right,” she muttered, resuming her search. “Six foot one, with dark wavy hair and a tendency to spout ultimatums.”

  Seconds before time ran out, she hit pay dirt. Make that pay garbage. She cleaned her grimy fingers with another wet wipe, slung her survival kit over one shoulder, then grabbed the bag of shredded documents.

  With a sigh, he took it from her. “Let’s move.” His long strides ate up the ground, and she had to hustle to keep up. “We have a long walk ahead, and if I’m late for the wedding, Mom will kick my ass up around my ears.”

  She hadn’t met Maureen O’Rourke yet, but liked her already. Any woman who inspired fear in a man Zoe had watched unflinchingly face a knife-wielding junky was top-notch in her book. “I had to bus it until I saved up to register and license my car in this state. The number thirty bus line comes out this way. All we have to do is find a stop.” She patted her survival kit. “I carry several tickets, in case my car breaks down.”

  “Resourceful, aren’t you?”

  “Eagle Scouts aren’t the only ones who can be prepared.”

  He indicated his stained, rumpled clothing. “Even with tickets, I doubt they’ll let us on the bus looking like a couple of winos after a hard day’s night.”

  “I’ve sat next to worse, believe me. They’ll let us board.”

  He studied her, his expression intrigued. “You always see the glass half-full, Zagretti?”

  “The woe-is-me gig is a real bummer. Been there, done that, sniveled into the T-shirt. Occasionally, I get down in the dumps.” She glanced around, arched a sardonic brow. “Keeping a positive attitude takes practice—and sometimes grim determination—but it beats the alternative all to hell.”

  Aidan’s sideways glance conveyed respect, filling her with a warm glow. “Refreshing.”

  He fell silent as they skirted mounds of reeking garbage, his expression growing pensive. Heading toward the landfill’s entrance, they passed a tweed upholstered loveseat and a leather reclining chair showing minor wear and tear.

  Zoe frowned. She would’ve gladly used the pieces in her apartment. “Look at that nice furniture. Amazing what people toss out.”

  Aidan walked a few more steps. Suddenly, he stumbled, and the bag he was carrying fell to the ground. Startled, she turned and glanced at him.

  Frozen, he stared blankly, his stricken face bleached of color.

  “Aidan? What—”

  He shuddered. Swayed. His mouth wrenched, and he dropped to his knees.

  “Aidan?” She moved quickly, cupping his face in her hands. He was shivering.

  His blind, horrorstruck eyes stared through her as if she wasn’t there.

  She squelched rising panic. “Did you get hurt in the truck? Are you sick?”

  “Chair.” A fragile thread of sound.

  Had he been hit in the head by falling debris and was manifesting concussion symptoms? She stroked through his hair, carefully checking for injuries. Didn’t feel any bumps or see any gashes. “Look at me.”

  His glance jerked up, and the raw anguish in his eyes stole her breath. His distress wasn’t physical. It was emotional.

  “Aidan,” she said very gently. “What’s wrong?”

  “Pop’s chair,” he whispered.

  Oh, God. He was having some sort of flashback. “That furniture reminds you of your father’s chair?” She kept her voice soft. “But it can’t possibly be. Not after all this time.”

  “No.” His voice sounded oddly detached. “No blood.”

  Tight and aching inside, she knelt in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Can you talk to me about it?”

  “Never have.” She watched his battle to recover, to distance himself from the hurt. But he was losing the fight. “Not to anyone.”

  “Unhealthy to keep hurt trapped inside for so long. All those feelings fester, then explode when you least expect it.”

  She should know. She’d longed for another person to connect with, someone to halve her sorrows and double her joys. Instead, she’d been forced into solitude. Aidan had a mom and three brothers. He didn’t have to go it alone, but he’d chosen to.

  Why?

  “Maybe you should talk about it.”

  He swallowed hard, struggling for control. “Have to be strong. For everyone.”

  Her heart splintered. Her tough guy had protected his family at his own expense. “You don’t have to be strong for me. Go ahead and let it out. You’ll feel better.”

  Haunted eyes finally met hers, but ther
e was no recognition. His bleak expression looked like that of a little boy who’d been told the antiseptic wouldn’t sting, but didn’t believe it. “Will I?”

  “Yes, you will. Let me help you.” Kneeling face-to-face, she rubbed her hands up and down his arms, hoping the contact would soothe him. “Tell me about your father.”

  He sucked in a shuddering breath. The story emerged slowly. Reluctantly. As though he didn’t want to speak, but couldn’t stop the words from leaking out. “We went to a soccer game that day. Grady was a senior in high school—state championships.”

  He faltered, and she touched his cheek. “I’m listening.”

  “Supposed to be a family event, but Pop had the flu. He didn’t want to miss the game. Insisted on going. Mom wouldn’t let him.”

  Another hesitation.

  “They sound like very supportive parents,” she encouraged.

  “Incredible parents. Both attended games and school events, and Pop did all the Boy Scout stuff. Work was the only thing that ever kept him away.” The dam broke and his words spilled out in a rush. “Grady’s team won, and he got MVP. Liam, Con and I carried him into the house on our shoulders. Mom brought up the rear with his trophy. We were yelling a cheer. Halfway across the living room, we noticed the house was wrecked. Stuff missing. We split up to search. Mom ran upstairs to the master bedroom. Grady and Con rushed to the kitchen. Liam and I tore into the family room. I was calling for Pop.”

  He covered his face with his hands. His voice, no longer detached, went raw with torment. “It was ... the murder happened there. Never forget the way that room looked. Even sick and weak, Pop had fought like hell. Blood all over. Everywhere. So much blood.”

  Tears stung as she hugged his trembling body. “Oh ... Oh, no.”

  “Con and Grady ran in. We didn’t want Mom to see the carnage. Con and I had to hold her back at the doorway. Took both of us to keep her out. She was screaming. Kept screaming. Jesus, so much pain. Her cries didn’t even seem ...” He swallowed again and it sounded as though it hurt. “Human.”

  She heard echoing screams in her ears. Confusion and roiling fear swamped her—as if she actually shared the terrifying memory. She shook her head, banished the scary déjà vu. She couldn’t help him if she fell apart. “I’m so sorry.” She hugged him tighter.

  He let her hold him. “We had to forcibly take Mom to our neighbor Letty’s house. Grady was the most shook up, so I told him to stay with her. While the CSI team worked, I kept Con and Liam from falling apart. After investigators removed needed evidence and released the crime scene, Grady came back. I went to the store and bought cleaning supplies. Told my brothers what we had to do. The four of us cleaned up the mess. Scrubbed away the gore.”

  Dear Lord. “Incredibly brave.”

  “No. We just couldn’t let Mom come home to that.”

  She rubbed his back, her burning throat clogged with suppressed tears. Even caught in the grip of shock and grief, he’d thought of others first. Took charge and did what had to be done.

  His rigid body shook harder in her embrace. “Took us the entire night. We ripped out the remaining carpet and hauled it and Pop’s ruined chair to the dump. None of us said a word. None of us showed any emotion. Until we threw that torn, lumpy, recliner away. We stood in the back of Con’s truck and looked at our father’s chair sitting in the garbage, bloody and battered. Then we broke. Wrapped our arms around each other and cried.”

  A sob stuck painfully in her chest, and she swallowed it. Silent grief leaked from her eyes as she stroked his hair. “God, I know it’s not nearly enough, but I am so sorry.”

  “Only time I cried. Not even at the memorial service.” He dragged in a torn breath. “They never found his body.”

  “I know,” she murmured.

  “Couldn’t have a funeral. No coffin to drape the flag over. After the honor guard played ‘Taps,’ they just handed the folded flag to Mom. So proud of her. She stood tall and straight and accepted the flag with quiet dignity. But the shattered look in her eyes ...” His voice caught. “Fucking killed me. I would’ve done anything, given everything to make it better.”

  “But there’s nothing you could’ve done.”

  “No.” Still shaking violently, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder.

  She held him, rocked him, stroked his back, his hair. “You’re safe with me. Let go. It’s okay to cry if you need to.”

  “I don’t cry. Tears are useless.” His agony wrenched out through gritted teeth. “And that bastard DiMarco isn’t worth any fucking tears. He’s going down.”

  Had DiMarco not only murdered Aidan’s father, but also crippled Aidan emotionally? Fury burned away her sorrow. “Bet your ass he is. Big time. I’ll do everything I can to help you put him away.”

  His distraught eyes locked on hers. He gripped her shoulders. “Stay away from him, do you hear me? He’s an animal. He tortured Bailey and Con, was going to torture Letty. He tried to kill Con, and he’ll kill you too. With less thought than squashing a bug.”

  “I won’t give him the opportunity.”

  He shook her. Even devastated, he still tempered his strength. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him—away from the case.”

  “I can’t do that.” Not even to relieve his torment.

  “Then I’ll have to make you.” His breathing hitched. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

  She appreciated his compulsion to protect her, but couldn’t let his fear stop her from solving the mystery. Stronger than any assignment from her boss at the station, it was a mission from a higher power. “Aidan, I know how much he hurt you and your family. How much suffering he’s caused you. I can help. I have lots of connections at KKEY and other news organizations.”

  He blinked. Blinked again. Shook his head.

  Like fog blasted away by a wind gust, the haze cleared from his irises. The dazed look faded from his face.

  Focused now, intense, he surged to his feet as dark fury flared. “What did you do?”

  Okay, whoa. She stiffly stood to face him. Did he know she’d taken the hard drives and documents? She furtively felt her bag. The rip was still facing away from him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Nobody’s ever— How did you get me to spill my guts?” he ground out. “Some slick reporter’s ploy?”

  Taken aback, she stuttered. “N-no. I didn’t do anything. You needed to talk, I listened.”

  “Everything I said is off the record. Not for publication.”

  She quashed spiraling hurt. His anger wasn’t personal. Reporters had exploited his family, increased their suffering. “Of course not. I’d never take advantage of your pain.”

  “Let’s go.” He snatched up the bag of shredded files, turned and strode out the gates and onto the road. “I’ll see you safely home. Then don’t contact me again. Don’t follow me around. If you show up at an incident site, I will arrest you for impeding an investigation.”

  She knew he wasn’t mad at her. Being abruptly thrown back into his worst nightmare had blindsided him. Her tough guy was running scared after opening up to her. Shaken to his core by exposing private grief he hadn’t even shared with his loved ones. Yet she couldn’t help feeling bruised inside.

  It was gonna be a long bus ride home.

  Chapter 6

  4:00 p.m.

  A strained, silent twenty-two minutes later, Zoe and Aidan stepped off the bus. The number thirty line ended across town from her place, and no bus line ran for miles near the industrial area in the vicinity of the Dumpster where she’d left her car. Oh, well. Extra exercise might help calm her turmoil.

  She took the bag of shredded files from him. “Bye, Aidan. Hope the wedding goes well.” She pivoted and strode away.

  “Wait.” He quickly caught up with her and grasped her arm from behind. “Where are you going?”

  When she turned to face him, he instantly released her. “To get my car.”

  “Long walk.”r />
  She shrugged. “No biggie.” She wasn’t holding a grudge. After the difficult confrontation, they’d both benefit from time apart to regroup. “I like to walk.”

  “Zoe.” Regret stamped his handsome features. “I was an asshole. Not your fault being at the landfill motivated a meltdown.” He exhaled a slow, controlled breath. “I had no right to lash out at you. I’m sorry.”

  The tight knot in her chest dissolved. She hated that the tentative bond they’d forged—first with shared humor, then shared pain—had been broken. She’d received a compelling glimpse of the sensitive, compassionate man before he’d again walled off his heart. And she wanted more of him. “Was that your first time at the landfill since your dad was killed?”

  Shadows lingered in his eyes. “Yeah.”

  Super-size brownie points with chocolate sprinkles to him for acknowledging his assholishness with unabashed sincerity. “It was clearly traumatic for you. Apology accepted.”

  His shoulders hitched and he sighed. “Thanks. Appreciate your generosity.” His hand swept in a fluid masculine gesture. “I live a few blocks from here. Let me give you a lift home.”

  “I doubt you want me in your beautiful car all grody and stinking like last month’s trash.” She smiled. “I don’t mind walking.”

  He gave her a cool, polite smile in return. Her heart clenched, longing for his teasing grin and genuine laughter. “You can clean up at my apartment. I have a washer and dryer.”

  “What about the wedding?”

  “I don’t have to be at the church for a while yet. Bailey and the moms have everything more ruthlessly prepared than the best SWAT op. Best man’s job is mostly to prop up the groom and hand him the ring at the right time. And Con couldn’t be steadier or more thrilled about getting married, poor sod. Besides, cleaning up won’t take long.”

  His hospitable offer didn’t appear overly eager. Guilt or chivalry? The easy, comfortable choice was to refuse. Leave. Allow him to retreat into his emotional fortress. Fake casual chitchat next time they met and pretend he’d never spilled out his private agony while trembling in her arms.