by Lisa Kessler
It wasn’t a good idea for law enforcement to know he had been more to her than just a client.
“Do you know where he lives now?”
“No.” Muriah took a breath. “I don’t have an address for him.”
Detective Bale nodded slowly, looking her over. She did her best to keep from fidgeting like a guilty child. Muriah forced herself to remain still and maintain eye contact. If nothing else, she was stubborn, and if he could sit and stare at her, she’d stare right back.
Finally, Agent Bale glanced down at his notepad. Muriah let out an inward sigh of relief and shifted in her chair as his gaze met hers again.
“Anything else you can tell me about him? Anything that might help us find out who did this or why?”
Muriah swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head. “I don’t think so. He collected rare books. That’s all I know. I wish I could be of more help.”
Her pulse raced. She fought to stay calm and at least appear relaxed. But she was far from it. Her toes curled inside her pumps, her muscles tense, while she waited to see if he would question her further.
Agent Bale rose to his feet, towering over Muriah. She stood up and offered her hand. He gave her a firm handshake and what looked like a well-rehearsed, empathetic smile. “Thank you for your time and cooperation, Miss La Deaux. We’ll try to be out of your shop as soon as possible.”
She nodded and watched him walk away. How long was “as soon as possible?” Clearing her throat, she stepped out of her office and headed for the small water cooler in the corner. She never took her eyes off the uniformed officers milling around her shop while she sipped the water.
“So how long have you had this bookstore?”
A well-meaning officer smiled at her. But she was in no mood for small talk.
“All my life.” She raised her cup, gesturing to the shelves that used to be orderly. “It’s a family business.”
“Really? I’ve come down to Pacific Beach for years, and I’ve never seen it before.”
“Guess you weren’t looking for it then.” She finished the water. “I don’t advertise. It’s all word of mouth.”
He nodded and shrugged. “I don’t go into these new age alternative bookstores much anyway.”
Muriah crunched her paper cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. “Alternative to what exactly?”
“Huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “My bookstore is an alternative to what? The stores that sell cookbooks with those fancy pictures of food that no one ever prepares, or maybe those novels with steamy covers of men and women none of us could ever hope to meet, or maybe I’m an alternative to those coffee table books no one ever reads, is that it?”
“No, I just meant…”
“What? That because my store is full of books you never knew had been written, books about spirituality or magic, or maybe just a hard to find manuscript… That makes it an alternative? I thought it made it a bookstore.”
A large hand rested on her shoulder, and she spun away from the shell-shocked officer to find Agent Bale looking down at her with a smile that looked foreign on his stern features.
“I’m sorry if we’re upsetting you. We’re just about finished.”
Muriah flipped the business card in her fingers. Over and over. She wasn’t sure how long ago the police left her store. Agent Bale was the last officer to leave, offering her his card and the request that she call him if she thought of anything else about Richard that might help his investigation. It listed his name, title: Federal Agent, cell phone, email, and the same insignia she’d seen on his badge. No mention of which department, or even FBI. Weird.
Why she still had it was anyone’s guess.
She heaved a sigh and opened the top drawer of her desk. Tossing the nondescript card inside, she closed it and glanced over at the clock. Just past three in the morning. No wonder exhaustion weighed her down.
But sleep seemed like an impossible dream at the moment.
How could she rest when Richard was zipped in a body bag, and his killer was still out there somewhere?
Muriah pressed her palms on her desktop and pushed herself up to a standing position. Sitting around thinking would make her crazy. She needed to keep busy.
Gradually she made progress, putting her receipts away and reshelving the books the police officers had left stacked haphazardly on the tables. Once she was satisfied with the store, she made her way behind the counter and started her methodical cleaning of the espresso machine and polishing the countertop.
Pride was important when you ran a family business. Since the La Deaux family rolled their wagon into San Diego in 1795, they had run The Dimension’s Den under the radar of mainstream society, providing their patrons with coffee, tea, hard to find books, and open minds to discuss the wonders of the cosmos and the supernatural forces of the world.
But the La Deaux family ended with Muriah.
“Oh please! Not now…” She pushed stools in along the counter grumbling to herself. This was not the time to start worrying about who would carry on the store.
“Stupid biological clock,” she muttered.
With all traces of the police investigation gone, the coffee area clean, and some of her nervous energy burned off, Muriah grabbed her purse to head out, locking the door behind her. If she kept moving, maybe the grief wouldn’t catch up to her.
She walked down the alley, head held high with her keys firmly in her grasp, giving a jingle with each step she took. She didn’t live far from the store, only a couple blocks away, but walking alone this late at night made her jumpy. It reminded her of those B-horror movies. The slasher films where you scream at the college coeds not to go outside. But they always did. And they always died.
Muriah walked faster.
When she rounded the corner to her condominium, a warm sense of relief washed over her. She made it home, no problems.
Except for the tall stranger standing on her steps.
She slid her hand into her purse, and gripped her cell phone. “Can I help you?”
“I believe you can.” He stepped down. Closer.
Was that a British accent? She wasn’t sure. Muriah took a cautious step back. “Who are you?”
The man walked under the yellow light of the street lamp and tipped his head in her direction. He stood over six feet tall with shoulder-length black hair, and his face looked pale compared to his dark eyes. His jaw was chiseled, along with the rest of his body.
Normally, she might have welcomed a chance meeting with a gorgeous man like this, but at four a.m., after learning someone murdered Richard, something about this man’s gaze bothered her.
He stared at her like a famished man drooled over a piece of meat.
In the dim glow of the streetlight, his eyes held her attention. It must’ve been the yellow tint, but his eyes seemed to lighten, gray, like a storm gathering. She blinked hard, and his lips curved, hinting at a smile. He was stunningly handsome, almost too handsome. Too perfect.
“Interesting.” His gaze narrowed. “What are you?”
“Excuse me?” She gripped her keys so two poked between her fingers like brass knuckles.
“I cannot read your thoughts.”
This guy was certifiable. Sadly, he was also still on her front steps. “In that case, here’s what I’m thinking. You’re trespassing.”
His deep laughter echoed in the empty alley beside her loft and silenced the moment he met her eyes again. “And you are stealing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She shifted her feet into a fighting stance. Her self-defense classes flashed through her mind, and primal survival instinct flooded her veins with adrenaline. In spite of the urge to run, her knees turned to rubber. Managing a step forward might be risky, let alone a sprint in high heels.
Muriah stumbled backward, withdrawing her cell phone.
“I think you know exactly what I am talking about.” He tugged at his goatee, sizing her up. “Richard
hired you to steal something for him.”
A black tattoo wound around his neck, drawing her attention. The lines slithered up from under the collar of his shirt. Was it moving? Muriah squinted, clearing her vision.
“I’m not a thief.” She unlocked the keypad on her phone, ready to dial 911. If she could just get around him to her door…
He took another step closer. “Did you find the relic?”
Muriah couldn’t fight her survival instincts any longer. She screamed and bolted past him to her door, like an animal escaping a predator.
A couple of windows lit up along the alley. She jammed her key into the lock, looking back over her shoulder, expecting him to be reaching for her.
But he was gone.
Her heart galloped at racehorse speed. The street was completely empty.
His footsteps never made a sound when he ran away.
He just vanished.
Available Now
Other Novels by Lisa Kessler
The Muse Chronicles
LURE OF OBSESSION
LEGEND OF LOVE
BREATH OF PASSION
LIGHT OF THE SPIRIT
DEVOTED TO DESTINY
DANCE OF THE HEART
SONG OF THE SOUL
The Night Series
NIGHT WALKER
NIGHT THIEF
NIGHT DEMON
NIGHT ANGEL
NIGHT CHILD
The Moon Series
MOONLIGHT
HUNTER’S MOON
BLOOD MOON
HARVEST MOON
ICE MOON
BLUE MOON
WOLF MOON
NEW MOON
The Sedona Pack
THE LONE WOLF’S WISH
SEDONA SIN
SEDONA SEDUCTION
SEDONA SCANDAL
The Sentinels of Savannah
MAGNOLIA MYSTIC
PIRATE’S PASSION
PIRATE’S PLEASURE
PIRATE’S PERSUASION
Summerland Stories
ACROSS THE VEIL
FORBIDDEN HEARTS
Standalone Works
BEG ME TO SLAY
FORGOTTEN TREASURES
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Lisa Kessler is a Best Selling author of dark paranormal fiction. She’s a two-time San Diego Book Award winner for Best Published Fantasy-Sci-fi-Horror and Best Published Romance. Her books have also won the PRISM award, the Award of Excellence, the National Excellence in Romantic Fiction Award, the Award of Merit from the Holt Medallion, and an International Digital Award for Best Paranormal.
Her short stories have been published in print anthologies and magazines, and her vampire story, Immortal Beloved, was a finalist for a Bram Stoker award.
When she’s not writing, Lisa is a professional vocalist, and has performed with San Diego Opera as well as other musical theater companies in San Diego.
You can learn more at Lisa-Kessler.com
