“Watch me,” I spit.
He grimaces. “Come on, carina. You’ve been distracted and we both know it.”
I jerk back, shock punching through my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A sad smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “You forget that I know you. I know what it’s like when you’re zoned in on the case. And I know when you’re not.”
Guilt sloshes through my stomach. A burn radiates up my throat, settling behind my eyes.
“I don’t know what’s going on with me,” I admit, rubbing the palms of my hands into my eye sockets, hoping the pressure will alleviate the ache. “I just…”
Alex’s arms wrap around me, bringing me into his chest, and I collapse, allowing his embrace to center me as I try to swallow down the emotion.
Emotion from the fact I know I’m letting everyone down; letting the victims and their families down by not having solved this case. From the frustration of not being any closer to knowing who I can trust and who I can’t.
From the fact that I’ve allowed Lincoln’s crazy conspiracy theory to run through my brain on a loop for the past few days, his accusations slicing through my skin and burrowing into my bones.
From the fact that no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember anything from when I was a young child.
Breaking away from Alex, I smile up at him. “I need to go to the church.”
He nods. “I’ll go with you.”
I shake my head. “Let’s do double duty. I’ll go to the church, and you get a judge to grant a warrant to bring in Paul Jensen. I’m done playing games, and I’m done pretending like we aren’t the ones in charge here.”
“You think there’s probable cause?”
“I think two bodies have shown up on his property, and he’s one of the only people that doesn’t go to Sunday service.” My brows draw in. “I can’t shake the feeling that he’s at the center of this whole thing.”
He nods. “We’ll meet back here after?”
I cringe, glancing around, something dark swirling through my gut. “Maybe we should meet without lingering ears. Not sure who we can trust until we get more facts.”
His brows raise to his hairline, and he nods, rocking back on his heels.
He knows what I’m saying.
If it isn’t Paul Jensen, then maybe it’s someone closer.
Someone who has access to things, to make it as difficult as possible without drawing too much suspicion.
The killer could be a cop.
The Skelm Island Church of God.
I’ve never been a religious person, my parents are notorious atheists who believe in nothing after death, and I was raised the same way. But as I walk in the front doors for the first time, it almost feels like coming home.
The heavy double doors echo as they bang shut behind me, and I glance around, expecting to see some form of life somewhere, but there is none.
Not that I can blame them after the pastor’s wife was just murdered and stuffed away for two days in a lighthouse tower.
The entrance hall is warm and toasty; dark wood beams run up the walls and over the arched ceiling, and glass cases line the room, filled with smiling faces of the town. Long, white tables sit to the right, filled with pamphlets. I walk over to them, my fingers ghosting across the brochures and bulletin boards hanging above them, posters made by the kids offering their services for dog walking, and invitations to upcoming events. My heart swells as I see a true sense of community for the first time.
The air smells like I imagine a church would, not quite stale but a little stuffy, and as I spin around, my gaze locking on the doors to the chapel room, my stomach tightens.
I don’t expect the preacher to be here, after all, his wife was just found dead, but I’m hoping there will be someone I can talk to, so I walk away from the chapel and down the darkened hallway instead.
Muffled voices come from the last door on the left, and my heart skips as I hurry toward it, anticipation flaring that this isn’t a wasted visit. I lean in, pressing my ear against the wood, debating on whether or not I should knock. I decide to and rap my fingers against the frame before flinging the door open.
The voices cut off mid-sentence, Lincoln turning around, his eyes widening as his hands grip the arms of the pretty bartender from Petey’s.
My gut sours, a sharp pang hitting me right in the middle of my chest. I purse my lips. “Why is it you’re everywhere I am, all the time?”
He sighs, dropping his arms to his sides as the girl wipes under her eyes.
“What are you even doing here, killer?” he asks.
“Don’t call me that.” I don’t mean to snap, but the words push themselves out aggressively, fueled by the irritation simmering from walking in on him with his arms around another woman, and even more so from the fact that it bothers me the way it does.
“My job.” I force a grin. “The more appropriate question is what are you doing here? I assumed you’d be with your family, not with…” I trail off, my eyes glancing to Isa.
“Trying to remember me, Detective?” She smirks, standing straight and walking toward me.
She doesn’t stop until she’s directly in front of me, her round gaze sinking into mine, until I fidget underneath her stare.
“Can I help you?” I ask, putting my hands up to try and get her to leave my personal space.
She tilts her head, before heaving out a sigh and shaking her head. “No. But him?” She throws her thumb in Lincoln’s direction. “He needs all the help he can get.”
Grinning softly, she twists to face him. “See ya later, Linc. And drop it, okay? There’s enough going on in this hellhole without you adding to the mess.”
She walks around me and out the door and I’m standing in the center of the room, my gaze narrowed on Lincoln.
“What’s she talking about?”
He moves toward me, and I notice for the first time that there’s something gripped in his fist. As he steps closer, I realize it’s a picture.
“What’s that?” I nod toward his hand.
His brow raises as he holds it out. I grab it from him, staring down at a girl standing outside, in front of a white wall. Her shoulders are hunched and her hair is hanging in the front of her face. A rock drops in my gut as I look closer, trepidation filtering through my every pore, because I don’t remember this picture being taken.
“So you found a picture of me after all, huh?” I grin up at him.
His brow raises, a flash of victory shining through his eyes. “That’s not you, Detective. That’s Morgan Jensen. And that’s the last day she was seen alive.”
Chapter 33
Sloane’s throat bobs on a swallow as she stares down at the photograph. The silence in Preacher Cartwright’s office is so thick it feels as though I can reach up and wrap my fingers around it.
“This isn’t funny anymore, Lincoln.” Sloane’s eyes lift, glassy as they find mine.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, struggling to maintain even breathing. “I’m not laughing.”
She clutches the photo, crinkling the edges with her grip. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s mine.” I inch forward a step, not removing my gaze from her face, even when she looks away. My chest is heavy and light at the same time, like a helium balloon that’s been tied to a cement block.
Shaking her head, her hand trembles slightly as she peers down, eyes roving over the picture as if trying to find a flaw. Something that disproves my theory.
I can tell I’m about to lose her; her gaze soaks in the little girl captured forever in the photograph, but I can tell by the way she bites her lip that she isn’t going to accept my truth.
It wouldn’t matter, at this point, if I’d produced Morgan Jensen’s fucking birth mom as an eyewitness; whatever happened to this Morgan cemented itself in her brain and made itself fact.
No amount of simple snapshots—or the lack thereof—or newspaper articles from the ten-y
ear-old’s disappearance are going to convince her.
For a second, I start to give in.
Even as I stare at the grown woman in front of me, something clawing at the edges of my soul, I have to admit it’s a stretch.
That even if, by some odd miracle, Morgan Jensen had survived whatever fate the universe tossed her to years ago, the odds have never been in my favor enough to believe she’d come back to me.
And yet… the longer I look, the more I begin to remember. Anxiety flushes through my stomach as I study Sloane, noting the lighter brown hues streaked through her hair and the little zigzag-shaped scar on the outside of her left palm.
Things I’ve spent my entire life trying to pinpoint and place on her phantom, in human form before me once again.
A memory, bright and harsh, flashes across my vision.
Morgan sitting across from me at the annual Lighthouse Festival, nibbling on the end of a piece of fruit I’d convinced her to try.
She was always the more adventurous between the two of us—constantly getting hurt on the playground or picking fights with bullies that I’d inevitably have to end—but for some reason, when it came to food, she was extremely picky.
But she trusted me, so when I encouraged her to pick randomly from the potluck fruit salad, she obliged. Eyes closed, she pinched a piece in hand and brought it to her mouth, giggling as I leaned back on our blanket and watched.
“You should have to eat something weird, too,” she said, blue eyes narrowing as she took her first bite.
I shook my head, grinning. “No can do. Someone’s gotta be your witness, or else your mom will never believe us.”
Turns out, she’d have very concrete evidence; in the next few seconds, as Morgan chewed and chewed, her face began to swell, her skin flushing a deep, angry red.
“Are you allergic to strawberries?” I ask, dragging myself from the memory the way a body is pulled from a raging fire; quickly, and with charred edges.
Sloane looks up, lips parting. She squints. “That’s none of your business.”
“So, yes.” Hope blossoms in my chest, and I take another step forward. “What about that scar on your hand, hm? How’d you get that?”
She glances down, turning her hand around. “I…”
“Hamster bite. Class pet revolted, and you had to have stitches and your first tetanus shot.”
Horror washes over her face, and she stays silent for a long time, staring down at her hands.
“Now, either I got really lucky and really invasive when I checked up on you and accessed your medical records.” A pause, then another step. “Or there’s a reason I know all of that. Spoiler alert, killer, but I didn’t actually do that much digging on you.”
Pushing her arm out, she shoves the photo at me, pressing her lips together. “Nope. No. I didn’t come here to get sucked into the world of make believe.”
My stomach sinks, and I slap my hand against my chest, catching the picture before it falls. “Then what did you come here for?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, the entire reason I’m in town is to solve a serial murder investigation.” She gestures around the office, glancing at the worn oak bookshelves and the massive wooden desk kitty-corner across from us. “I came here to get answers, and once again find you at the center of everything.”
Stuffing the picture in my pocket, I cock an eyebrow. “It sounds like you want to accuse me of something there.”
“God, Alex was right.”
Her partner’s name ignites flames in my chest, and I stiffen as the syllables leave her lips. “What was Alex right about?”
“You!” She throws her hands in the air, letting out a shrill sound that catches somewhere between a laugh and a scream. “That I’ve let you get under my skin, and it’s ruining everything!”
I scoff, ignoring the jealousy blooming in me like spring flowers. “I’ll bet he was real eager to make me the bad guy. He’s wanted to pin something on me since you two arrived.”
“Alex is a great detective, so if he thinks someone’s guilty, he’s probably right.” She pushes forward until she’s a whisper of a touch away, electricity crackling in the sparse air between us. “You know what you’re guilty of, Mr. Porter?”
“Let’s not backpedal to formalities,” I say, ignoring the way my body lights up as she comes closer. “Not now that I know how you taste.”
Eyes blazing, her index finger prods at the center of my chest, the jab sending a spike of arousal shooting down my spine. “Stop it. You keep doing this. Getting in my way. Screwing with my head. If not for you, I’d probably have already cracked this case, but no, since I showed up you’ve done nothing but distract me, and I’m fucking sick of it.”
Her breaths are harsh as they brush across the base of my neck, exposed because my flannel isn’t buttoned up all the way.
“You know what I’m sick of?” I rasp, my fingers wrapping around her wrist, yanking her body close. “The way you keep blaming me for your fuckups, like this shit between us is one-sided. Maybe you should think more about why you keep losing focus, and less on whether or not I’m actively trying to sabotage you.”
She blinks. “You made it very clear from the beginning how you felt about me. My job, my intelligence, ‘what’s between my legs.’ Don’t tell me that’s not a conscious effort.”
Shame scalds my face, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from admitting that I’m actually impressed by how seriously she takes her job. That seeing how dedicated she is to solving this case stirs something in me—something that almost feels like respect.
“It’s not you,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s us. I feel like I can’t even breathe around you sometimes, much less be useful to your investigation.”
“There’s nothing going on with us.”
Flattening her palm against my chest, I press down with my hand; my heart thumps so hard against my ribs that I can feel it through her, and she looks up with hooded lashes.
“Does that feel like nothing to you?” I ask, the tendons in my neck growing taut when she curls her fingers ever so slightly into me.
Her nostrils flare. “How do I know you’re not just nervous from being in a church? I’m assuming it’s not something you do often.”
I shift, my groin grazing her stomach, and raise an eyebrow. “My dick doesn’t usually get hard when I’m nervous, killer.”
She opens her mouth to protest again, but I reach up, covering her lips with my palm, moving so we’re walking backward across the room.
Her knees hit the desk, halting our path, and she huffs out through her nose when I push her so she’s sitting on the edge.
“You don’t want to play make believe, fine.” Sliding one hand beneath her shirt and skimming up her side, I sweep my fingers along the curve of her breast, swallowing. “You want to blame me, also fine. But don’t deny me this. Don’t make me feel crazier than I already fucking do.”
I slowly remove my hand from her mouth, dragging it down over her neck, hooking the tip of one finger in her shirt. She catches herself on her palms as I bend her back over the desk, dipping down to trail my lips in the path of my fingers.
Without applying any pressure, I coast over her flesh, my tongue darting out to taste her pulse when I reach the hollow point of her throat; she shivers, almost arching into the movement, and I smirk, wishing I could somehow preserve her reactions and keep them forever.
“Lincoln…” she breathes, blue eyes staring down her body at me as I start to drop to my knees. “This is wildly inappropriate.”
“I can’t think of a better place for an act of worship,” I mutter, snaking my hands over her curves, letting them rest on her hips.
“I’m supposed to be working.”
Toying with her belt loops, I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll be quick.”
She hesitates, worrying her bottom lip, and I’m starting to feel a little lightheaded. So close to paradise, yet denied access all the same.
D
ragging my index finger along the seam of her jeans, I apply pressure where I know she needs it. Immediately, her thighs clench, and I grin, wicked delight rushing through my veins.
“Let me repent for my sins.”
“Sins?”
I nod, drawing circles over her second pulse. “Hatred. Jealousy, every time fucking Alex looks at you like he wants to eat you. Like he thinks he could do a better job than me.”
“Never,” she whispers, head falling back.
My mouth waters when she lets out a little moan, lifting her hips as she chases my touch. And this time, when I move to tug her pants down, she lets me.
Chapter 34
I’m done.
I’m tired of fighting whatever this is between us.
Especially since I can’t argue with him. There is something different about the two of us. From the second we met, there’s been an invisible tether drawing us together, something that anchors me to the spot, no matter how much the tide tries to drag me away.
And besides all that, if I don’t give in to him now—don’t let him make me feel something real, I’ll lose myself to the chaos inside my head.
Because he’s right.
I am allergic to strawberries. And the scar on my hand is from a bite. Although, the way my parents tell it, it’s from a yappy chihuahua I played with when I was seven. I’ve never questioned the memory.
But I can’t exactly picture it in my head, either.
And if I think on that too long, I’ll start to question everything else. I’ll start to wonder why it is that when I try to place the feelings that are supposed to accompany a memory, they’re missing, almost as if they were never there to begin with.
So when Lincoln pushes me back on the desk and slides my jeans down my thighs, tossing them in a pile on the floor, I give in.
I’m done with pretending I don’t want to.
His hand wraps around my ankle and slips up my calf, his mouth soft as he trails kisses along my skin. Tingles shoot through me, making my stomach clench. His palms continue their trek, skimming my inner thighs, goose bumps sprouting in their wake, and his fingers dig in, squeezing the flesh. The pain is sharp and sudden, but the sting does nothing except send a spike of arousal slamming through me, my back arching as I look down at him from where I’m leaned against the desk.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 21
