I reply with: I’m exiting from the west door, destination Detective Williams’ place.
Because why wouldn’t we taunt the killer? he asks.
That’s the plan. I want him to know I’m waiting for him. One read I have on him is that when challenged, he will respond. I’m going to make sure tonight is the night and it’s his final night.
CHAPTER FORTY
Houston’s on the phone to me before I ever leave the building. “I’m calling in that lead detective I suggested. One of the girls found a pig farm in Syracuse that’s missing three pigs. I’m sending him out there.”
“Which girl?” I ask, stepping out of the building.
“Lily.”
“I need Lily’s call records.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t had Starbucks today. I don’t answer ‘why’ questions without Starbucks.”
“Fuck, Lilah, can you tell me where your head is?”
“I don’t trust anyone. I’ve told you this.” I hang up and walk into a Starbucks, texting Jay again as I do: Anything new from the people monitoring Lily?
Nothing, he says.
I hate that word “nothing.” It’s as sucky as “I don’t know.”
Just for that, I type: I bet you wish you could come out from the shadows where you’re stalking me and have Starbucks.
He replies with: I prefer tequila. It’s a Mexican thing.
I reply with: White girls drink tequila, too.
His reply is one word: Badly.
I grimace and call an Uber, ordering a coffee while waiting for my ride. “Can I get a shot of tequila in that?”
The girl at the register gives me a blank stare. Holy fuck, can no one take a joke anymore? “Never mind. Just give me whipped cream and a Xanax.”
She stares again.
“Whipped cream,” I say, and decide I’m being punished for not using the app.
My coffee in hand, my Uber is slowly coming and with good reason. The rain is pounding down on us and the streets are far less crowded than they would be on any other Saturday. By the time I pull up to Williams’ place, it’s somehow late afternoon. My cup is empty, and the caffeine has added to my agitation. I’m daring him to kill Williams by coming here. What I need to do is find her before he gets the chance.
Of course, I think, my hand on my weapon as I walk up the stairs, he could be here, she could be here, and that solves that. I reach the top of the stairs and find the door properly secured. I open it and enter, drawing my weapon as I walk the place. It’s empty. It’s as anticlimactic as meeting up with Roger again. Roger, I think, shoving my weapon in my holster. We solved a lot of damn cases together, and the clock really is ticking. I can’t let my insecurities get in the way of my job.
I dial Roger. “Lilah, I’m surprised to hear from you. So much so that I was going to ask if there was something that happened between us that I didn’t realize.”
Obviously, I’ve made my discomfort apparent. I skip over that topic and get to the work at hand. “Can you meet and talk about this case?”
“You finally decided the old man can help?”
“Can you meet?” I press, not about to respond to that kind of bullshit he’s trying to stir up.
“I’m on Long Island. I came up with the mayor last night and stayed over with my sister to catch up. I could be there around six. At the station?”
“It’s a press madhouse.” I decide being back in the area of the crime scenes might help me. “There’s a diner across from the area where both murders took place. Let’s meet there.” I give him directions and end the call. Six. That’s late. It might be too late to save Williams. I look around the apartment and start walking it again, looking for a trigger that tells me everything I need to know to catch this asshole.
***
Hours at Williams’ place delivers a few items to follow up on that I call into Tic Tac, but nothing that feels big. I arrive at the diner I’d visited the night of the murders to find Donna and I are the only ones here again. She waves when I arrive. “Pumpkin Latte?”
“What the fuck. Bring it on.”
She laughs, and soon, I’m at a booth with coffee and lots of whipped cream. “Got my strawberry pie?”
“How the hell would I know you’d really be back?”
“Like you’d get it for me if you had.”
The door opens and Roger enters, brushing rainwater from his jacket. “Lilah,” he greets, waving and heading my way. He starts to cough. That cough gets to me. It stirs something inside me that I can’t quite identify and I try to figure out when that started and why. Did he always cough like that? There is so much shit in between when I started with him and now.
He pauses by the booth and takes off his jacket, neatly folding it and draping it over the seat, before he sits down across from me, motioning to Donna. “Plain coffee.”
Good luck with that, I think.
Roger moves his silverware to the side with one of his precise movements. He’s a calculated man. Every I is dotted. Every box checked. He taught me to detail every crime scene with precision. I don’t dispute, or lack appreciation for what the man did for my career.
“What’s going on, Lilah?” he asks, studying me with those crystal blue eyes that I refuse to let intimidate me. If he wants to see a killer, see a killer, and fuck you, Roger.
Donna sets a pot down for Roger. I eye her. “He gets it without begging?”
“I already like him better than you.”
“Bitch.”
She grins and leaves.
Roger arches a brow at me. “We’re old friends,” I say. “Anyway, what’s going on? Whoever this is, is targeting either me or you or both. He used you to get me here. He left your brand of cigarettes at the first crime scene. He’s left me very personal messages.”
“Then it’s about you.”
“Or me as your protégé.”
“What kind of messages?” he queries.
“A link to Kane. A connection to a friend.”
“You,” he says, with certainty. “This is about you. Using me is still about you.”
“The cigarettes disappeared from evidence. He’s either law enforcement or using someone in law enforcement to do his dirty work.”
“How would he use someone in law enforcement?”
I go through the entire case with him, and we go through cup after cup of coffee, throwing out ideas, talking about the details. I take pages of notes. We don’t find the answers, but one thing about Roger is that he stimulates my mind. And thank fuck, he hasn’t been coughing. I don’t know how that’s possible, but thank fuck anyway.
“What about Houston?” he asks. “He’s the right age, in a position of power, and showed up right when this started. Where did he come from?”
My mind goes to his file. “LA. He worked with my boss in the past.”
“Then he could have watched your work there.”
He’s right. He could have. Damn it, I trust Houston because of Murphy’s placement, but why? I barely trust Murphy, and Kane doesn’t trust Murphy at all. That just makes me trust Murphy even less. “I need to get to my desk and put all my notes to work.” And pray Detective Williams survives the night. “Are you staying or going?”
“I think I’ll order a bite to eat and think about this all a bit more.”
“I’m going to walk and think.”
“You sure that’s safe?”
“I’m not just a profiler, Roger. I’m a field agent.”
“Take an Uber, Lilah. It’s raining.”
I toss money on the table and slip into my rain jacket. “And Detective Williams might be on the street waiting for me to save her. I’m walking.”
“If you invite him to come at you, he will.”
I don’t hesitate. “And I’ll kill him with a big smile on my face.” I text Jay that I’m coming out and wave to Donna before exiting the diner, pulling my hood up as the rain plummets me.
I stare across the street at Mia’s apartment, and my gut twists. He’s here. I know it. He’s waiting for me. I came here for a reason. This is where it’s going to happen. The alley. I call Jay. “I’m going to the alley. Stay back unless I call out for you.” I hang up.
Hurrying across the street, I reach for my flashlight but don’t turn it on. I pull my weapon and walk the two deserted blocks to the alley. I huff out a breath and step into the opening turning on my flashlight and aiming my weapon. Nothing. There is no one there. My heart is thundering. Fuck. I’m wrong. He’s not here. Of course not. That’s too predictable. I lower my weapon and start walking toward the apartment. I start replaying the conversation with Roger, thinking about Houston. Could this be Houston? I don’t sense anything when I’m with him.
I pass another alleyway and shine my light in it. Nothing. I repeat this for blocks and decide I’m acting like a fool. I’m letting this monster control me. I’m almost home when Kane calls. “I’m pulling out of the airport on my way to the apartment now. Where are you?”
“About to be home.”
“Good,” he says softly. “I’ll see you in half an hour, at home, Lilah Love.” He disconnects.
I smile and stick my phone and flashlight back in my bag, but as I pass the alleyway a block from the building, a punch of awareness rushes over me. I pause, grab the flashlight, and pull my weapon. I turn and point them both, beaming the light, and holy fuck. There she is. A woman with an umbrella. I take a step forward and a red light beams on my chest from her hand. Fuck. It’s not Williams. It’s him. He’s dressed like a woman, in a blonde wig, and he’s here for one reason. He’s here for me.
“Shoot me!” I shout. “That’s the only way you get me.”
Music starts playing, Phantom of the Opera, I think, which I know from my mother because I hate that shit. I take a step closer. “Go ahead,” I taunt him. “Shoot me.”
I just need to get close enough to confirm it really is him, not an innocent victim, and I’ll shoot him, I’ll kill him. This will be over. I step closer to him and damn it to fuck, Jay suddenly launches himself in front of me, and holy fuck, Umbrella Man’s gun goes off. Jay crumbles to the ground. Blood gushes from his shoulder and I kneel down. “He wouldn’t have shot me, you fool,” I hiss, shoving my hand on his chest, trying to stop the bleeding.
“Go to him!” a familiar voice, Detective Williams’ voice, calls out from somewhere in the corner. “Drop your gun and come, or he will kill him. He will. He will. He’s crazy, Agent Love.” Her voice is quaking, and I shine my flashlight to find her in the corner, her arms bound.
The light at my chest moves to Jay.
“No,” Jay hisses. “No. You don’t go—”
“He’ll kill you, Jay. I have to go. I have to kill him first.”
“No!” He grabs my arm.
“Hold the wound or you’ll bleed out.” I jerk my hand from his and stand up, stepping over him.
And I do what I was always destined to do. I walk toward the Umbrella Man.
THE END…FOR NOW
***
Readers,
Thank you so much for picking up LOVE ME DEAD! I know this cliffhanger was a doozy, but Lilah took me by surprise with this crazy ending that she fucking demanded. Sometimes, I just have to listen to my characters, but you won’t need to wait long for the conclusion to this case. LOVE KILLS will be out in October and is available for pre-order everywhere now!
PRE-ORDER AND LEARN MORE HERE:
https://lilahseries.weebly.com/
***
What’s next for me? DIRTY RICH SECRETS, the next standalone book in my Dirty Rich series is out on July 30th, yes of this year, yes as in a week of this book releasing. I hope you’ll check it out! This is Ashley’s book, you met in her DIRTY RICH CINDERELLA STORY, if you read it, but there’s no need to read any book prior to diving into DIRTY RICH SECRETS!
PRE-ORDER AND LEARN MORE HERE:
https://dirtyrich.weebly.com/dirty-rich-secrets.html
***
KEEP READING FOR THE FIRST CHAPTER OF A PERFECT LIE, MY FIRST PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER, AND THE FIRST CHAPTER OF ONE MAN—THE FIRST BOOK IN MY NEW NAKED TRILOGY!
***
Don’t forget, if you want to be the first to know about upcoming books, giveaways, sales and any other exciting news I have to share please be sure you’re signed up for my newsletter! As an added bonus everyone receives a free ebook when they sign-up!
http://lisareneejones.com/newsletter-sign-up/
A PERFECT LIE
I am Hailey Anne Monroe. I’m twenty-eight years old. An artist, who found her muse on the canvas because I wasn’t allowed to have friends or even keep a journal. And yes, if you haven’t guessed by now, I’m that Hailey Anne Monroe, daughter to Thomas Frank Monroe, the man who was a half-percentage point from becoming President of the United States. If you were able to ask him, he’d probably tell you that I was the half point. But you can’t ask him, and he can’t tell you. He’s dead. They’re all dead and now I can speak.
TURN THE PAGE TO READ CHAPTER ONE!
CHAPTER ONE OF
A PERFECT LIE
Hailey Anne Monroe
You already know that I’m one of those perfect lies we’ve discussed, a façade of choices that were never my own. But that one perfect lie is too simplistic to describe who, and what, I am. I am perhaps a dozen perfect lies, the creation of at least one of those lies beginning the day I was born. That’s when the clock started ticking. That’s when decisions started being made for me. That’s when every step that could be taken was to ensure I was “perfect.” My mother, a brilliant doctor, ensured I was one hundred percent healthy, in all ways a test, pin prick, and inspection could ensure. I was, of course, vaccinated on a strict schedule, because in my household we must be so squeaky clean that we cannot possibly give anything to anyone.
Meanwhile, my father, the consummate politician, began planning my college years while my diapers were still being changed. I would be an attorney. I would go to an Ivy League college. I would be a part of the elite. Therefore, I was with tutors before I could spell. I was in dance at five years old. Of course, there was also piano, and French, Spanish, and Chinese language classes. The one joy I found was in an art class, which my mother suggested when I was twelve. It became my obsession, my one salvation, my one escape. Outside of her. She was not like my father. She was my friend, not my dictator. She was the bridge between us. The one we both adored. She listened to me. She listened to him. She tried to find compromise between us. She gave me choices, within the limits I was allowed. She tried to make me happy. She did make me as happy as anyone who was a puppet to a political machine could be, but the bigger the machine, the more developed, the harder that became. And still she fought for me.
I loved my mother with all of my heart and soul.
That’s why it’s hard to tell this part of my story. If there was one moment, beyond my birth, that established my destiny, and my influence on the destiny of those around me, it would be one evening during my senior year in high school, the night I killed my mother.
***
The past—twelve years ago…
The steps leading to the Michaels’ home seem to stretch eternally, but then so do most on this particular strip of houses in McLean, Virginia, where the rich, and sometimes famous, reside. Music radiates from the walls of the massive white mansion that is our destination, the stretch of land owned by the family wide enough that the nearest neighbor sees nothing and hears nothing. They most certainly don’t know that while the Michaels are out of town, their son, Jesse, is throwing a party.
“I can’t believe we’re at Jesse’s house,” Danielle says, linking her arm through mine, something she’s been doing for the past six years, since we met in private school at age eleven. Only then I was the tall one, and now I’m five-foot-four to her five-foot-eight, and that’s when I’m wearing heels and she’s not.
/> “Considering his father bloodies my father on his news program nightly, I can’t either,” I say. “I shouldn’t be here, Danielle.”
She stops walking and turns to me, her beautiful chestnut hair, which goes with her beautiful, perfect face and body, blowing right smack into my average face. She shoves said beautiful hair behind her ears, and glowers at me. “Hailey—”
“Don’t start,” I say, folding my arms in front of my chest, which is at least respectable, considering my dirty blonde hair and blue eyes are what I call average and others call cute. Like I’m not smart enough to know that means average. “I’m here. You already got me here.”
“Jesse doesn’t care about your father’s run for President,” she argues. “Or that his father doesn’t support your father.”
“Why did you just say that?” I demand.
“Say what?”
“Now you’ve just reminded me that I’m at the house of a man who doesn’t support my father, whom I happen to love. I need to leave.” I start down the stairs.
Danielle hops in front of me. “Wait. Please. I think I might be in love with Jesse. You can’t just leave.”
“My God, woman, you’re a drama queen. You have never even kissed him. And I have to study for the SAT and so do you.”
“Please. His father isn’t here. His father will never know about the party or us.”
“Danielle, if my father finds out—”
“He’s out of town, too. How is he going to find out?”
“What about your father? He’s an advisor to my father. You can’t date Jesse.”
She draws in a deep breath, her expression tightening before she gushes out, “Hailey,” making my name a plea. “I’m trying so hard to be normal. I know that you deal with things by studying. I do, but I need this. I need to feel normal.”
Normal.
That word punches me with a fist of emotions I reject every time I hear it and feel them. “We will never be normal again and you know it. We weren’t normal to start with. Not when—”
Love Me Dead Page 19
