by Sarah Andre
Then turning the corner and seeing her through the open sliding glass door, sprawled facedown—naked on the patio. Her flesh puckered and mutilated. That gigantic knife sticking out of her neck like a triumphant flag atop a mountain. And all that blood. Everywhere…
The horror of looking down and realizing it even covered him.
Lock inhaled sharply as the vision broke apart and he found himself shivering on a mountainside, half-buried in snow and grief, bile high in his throat.
He clawed his mind desperately for any new memory of that night. Nothing. Had the monster inside him killed her? He was born with a viciousness that made him excel at daredevil skiing when he turned that rottenness inward. But always, always a sliver of guilt marred every achievement, every championship win, because he didn’t deserve the constant victory life brought him. He had ample evidence that he was too rotten inside.
But to kill Tiffany? Sweat beaded his forehead, and horror chilled him to the core. He wasn’t that evil, right? If only he could remember something…
He wiped at the sweat, shaking off his dark thoughts in the frigid afternoon squall. He couldn’t mourn Tiffany. Not yet. He had to know what happened first, and all his energy went into searching that horrific blank spot in his brain.
Well, until yesterday, when a black-haired distraction had careened into his life.
A hundred feet away, he heard the rushing river and mindlessly pushed onto the edge of the highway. The plows had come through recently, so crossing it was a piece of cake. At the guardrail he paused, studying the raging river and—yes! The car was still there, now just a giant blob of snow.
That blob had to hold some kind of proof of Jesselynn’s identity and whatever else she was trying so desperately to hide. Well, too bad for her. He might not be able to break through that black hole in his memory, but he sure as hell would figure this chick’s secrets out.
…
The afghan was suffocating. Jordan couldn’t even lie in one position for more than thirty seconds because the aches and pains were worse than ever. She tried her best to hide her fidgeting from Leo because time was short and she needed answers. Who knew when Lock would be back, or which Lock she’d face? After the debacle upstairs, he’d laid her on the sofa gently enough but then beat it out into the storm like a bear chased him.
Leaving her with her dearest wish—time alone with Leo!
She began gently enough, finding out interesting personal details:
Lock (“Bob”) was sixteen minutes older than Leo.
Leo had actually been in position to come out first, but somehow Lock had kicked and wiggled until not only was he born first, but Leo’s now complicated birth required forceps.
Their father was a professor at the University of Colorado, Boulder, their mother owned a gift shop, and Leo held a degree in medicine from UC Denver.
But the second she’d asked questions about the trial details she’d overheard, Leo’s stiff body language screamed anxiety. Most of his answers remained vague. Identical, in fact, to all the facts she and the rest of America knew.
She’d only gleaned two new pieces of information:
Tiffany—he’d said, “the victim”—was seriously abusing cocaine.
And when Lock came barreling out into the parking lot after Roberto Vannini,—“the other guy”—Tiffany had tried to stop the fight, telling Lock she’d already broken it off with Roberto.
But that wasn’t close to a quarter-million dollars’ worth of information. How could Leo live in this tiny cabin with Lock for ten months and not have more details? Frustrated, she tried again. “Were his fingerprints or footprints at the scene?”
Looking pointedly at his watch, Leo shrugged. “I just know my brother didn’t do it.” He stood up.
“Wait.” She struggled to sit up and winced.
He immediately reached for the bottle of Tylenol and shook out three tablets. “Here,” he said kindly, passing her the water glass from the cocktail table. “And you still haven’t finished this water.”
She nodded, feeling woozy from the slight head motion and held out a trembling palm.
“Let me take your temperature, Jesselynn.”
“I’ll be all right, my ribs just ache a bit.”
She acquiesced to the thermometer though, to give her time to retool this failing interview.
“I knew it,” he murmured a minute later. “You’ve spiked a temp.” He took her blood pressure and listened through his stethoscope, then shone the flashlight into her pupils. With each passing second, he looked sicker than she felt.
He flicked the light off and glanced out the window where snowflakes swirled crazily. “Where the hell’s…Bob?”
“I feel fine,” she snapped, knowing what he planned. “I just need rest.”
“Something in your body is reacting, Jesselynn. You need professional care now.”
She stared at his haunted expression, a tremor shivering through her. This was it. Her one chance hovered within her grasp. In an hour she’d be dumped at the hospital, never to get the answers that would save her mom.
Her father had lived for the satisfaction of punishing Ginny. Her mom had always been that bastard’s personal possession—his submissive little punching bag. He had no clue his constant beatings now resulted in a hollowed shell of a human who suffered from symptoms similar to Mohammed Ali’s.
Jordan had no doubt that passive, meek Ginny would go with him next week. And if he didn’t kill her, she’d die from the terror of living with him again.
The horrifying thought gave her a burst of energy. “Bob must have told you something about that night.” It took such effort to speak, what was wrong with her?
“I’ve told you everything he told me. Now, I refuse to talk about this further.”
She sank into the pillow, woozy and exhausted, but desperation kept her focused on the murder instead of her aches and pains and how lovely it would be to pass out right about now. What else could she ask?
The front door opened, and she glimpsed a tornado of snowflakes surge in before a violent slam shook the house. Lock spun around the corner, the thunderous expression and threat in his stride knocking the breath right out of her. That was the same look her father wore right before he landed a well-directed, mind-numbing blow.
She clutched the blanket with childlike terror. “Don’t touch me!”
“Touch you?” he roared. “I have no intention of touching you.”
Leo threw his hands in the air. “Where’ve you been? She needs to get to the ER. Now.”
Lock halted on the other side of the sofa, panting like he’d been running. His jeans were soaked to his upper thighs, and clumps of snow still clung to them. “Like hell I’m taking her.”
He tossed something brown through the air, and she shrank back. It landed with a soft plop in her lap. Her purse. Oh God.
Chapter Eight
“You know exactly who I am,” Lock growled, pointing at her. “Admit it.”
Jordan tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue felt like a clump of sand.
Leo glanced between them. “What?”
“She’s a goddamn PI from Boston.” Lock kept his focus on her. “One of those frenzied gold diggers trying to find me, right?”
“Oh shit,” Leo muttered, and as achy as she was, she knew his mind rolled through all the information she’d just tried to dig out of him.
Lock jammed his hands into his jean pockets, those broad shoulders still rising and falling with his rapid breathing, his face a vision of raw male fury. With an oath, he swiveled to stare out the window.
Although trembling from his wrath, she counted her blessings. At least her business cards said “Assistant, Maguire Investigations,” not “Freelance Reporter.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted at his back, “I can help you, but I knew—”
“Help me?” He jerked around. “By pretending amnesia, Jordan Sinclair?”
She searched his face. He’d just said her rea
l name, but it didn’t seem to have registered the Sports Illustrated interview. Her heartbeat slowed a fraction. “I did have amnesia. Last night.”
The short burst of laughter held nothing but hostility. He unzipped his jacket and tossed it in the club chair. “God, I hate liars. All you want is a few quotes so you can cash in on some talk show.”
A blast of wind rattled the windowpanes. Leo limped over to his brother. “Her fever’s a hundred and two. We need to get her out of here. Now.”
A muscle twitched along Lock’s jaw, his scowl darker than ever. She didn’t know what terrified her more, being marched into a hospital to relive the ugly memories of her past, or driving there with Lock. A man on the edge of losing control. She shook under the blankets. Fevered sweat soaked through the borrowed clothes.
“Listen,” Leo continued softly, “she’s in no position to do anything at the moment. Let’s go while it’s still daylight. Sam’s truck is a long way off.”
His brother exhaled harshly, then nodded. “Get her into one of my jackets,” he said quietly. “She’ll need a cap, gloves, and as many scarves as you’ve got. It’s unbelievably frigid out there.”
She heard him trudge up the stairs as Leo disappeared into the mudroom behind her. Suddenly alone in this matchstick-sized cabin, she struggled into a half-sitting position, groaning as pain knifed through her. She fumbled with the clasp on her purse and slipped out her cell phone, with its blinking message light. Thank God it still had battery power.
She ought to text Rebecca or Jefferson that she was all right. Or more importantly, call and see how her mother was doing on day two without her. But what if that drained the remaining battery? A picture of Lock may not pay the whole quarter million, but it’d pay something.
Given his barely controlled fury, this was pretty stupid, but she was out of options and out of time—when he dropped her off, she’d never see him again.
She tapped the little camera icon, and the screen blinked to display the trembling Olympic rings of the afghan on her lap. She tried to steady her hand. She had one shot at this, and the picture better be clear enough to convince Starr News.
She scrolled to “Flash Off” and pressed again. The photo would end up dark, but anyone with basic computer skills knew how to lighten photographs these days.
Leo’s returning limp grew closer, and the toilet flushed upstairs. She clutched the screen close to her chest, her breath rapid and uneven.
“Just checking messages,” she stuttered, when Leo rounded the sofa with winter gear piled in his arms. He didn’t respond, just heaped the pile on the coffee table and held up a mammoth, gray, down jacket.
“Leo…”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” He avoided eye contact as he gently enclosed her inside it.
She sucked in a breath. Her lungs hurt. Everything hurt. “I was afraid of him turning into Lock and Load.”
The trace of a smile seemed oddly heartbreaking as he nodded, guiding her arms into the enormous sleeves. “Lock’s no hero,” he said, “but he’s also not the shithead the media created. When the chips are down, he does the right thing. Don’t ever be afraid of him.”
“You don’t think Tiffany was afraid?”
He looked directly at her then, and his chestnut eyes were somber and flat, like a light had gone out inside him. “No. He didn’t do it.”
“Then why hasn’t he told you anything about that night?” She paused for breath. “Why aren’t you helping with his case?” When he didn’t answer, she whispered, “If he told me something, I know I could figure out a way to help.” A horrible lie but maybe, just maybe Leo might impart a secret.
“Any opportunity to help Lock died when you chose not to tell him the truth.”
The truth. When had telling the truth ever paid off? She’d been lying to protect herself since the age of five, the first memory of her father carrying her battered body into the hospital. Tell Lock the truth? And risk this exact scenario—being helpless and at the mercy of another raging man?
“So,” Leo said, zipping the jacket to her chin. “Are you planning on calling a news show or writing an article now that you have information?”
“I have nothing to say.” She paused for more breath. “I don’t know where we are. Neither of you told me anything that hasn’t already been printed.”
“Well, here’s a fact no one else knows. When the ski team suspended him, they told him if there’s any media sighting of him before his trial next week, he’s expelled. Meaning if he doesn’t get a prison sentence you’ll have handed him a living one. You’ll finish him for good. Don’t write an article, Jordan. Please.”
She broke eye contact, because she had no strength left to hide the absolute horror that seized her. Taking that picture now meant ruining Lock’s career. Oh God!
Boots tromped down the stairs.
“Any media sighting will,” he repeated in a low voice. “It’s the reason he’s been hiding here these ten months. He’s risking everything now to get you to a hospital.”
“She ready?” The voice behind her was far from the honeyed tone of this morning, and tremors overtook her again.
Stop shaking so you can take the damn picture!
“Yeah,” Leo answered. “Let me get my coat.”
“You aren’t going.”
“I told you this morning I’d go.”
“I know. But it’s so bad out there, she can’t be exposed to this for long. I’ve gotta bolt, and you’ll only slow us down.”
A look flashed between them, but her mind was too fogged to interpret it.
“All right,” Leo said with no change in tone. “Let me get some pretzels or something for you guys. If the roads are bad, it could take hours. The phone lines are still down, but in case they come back up, take my cell.”
He left for the kitchen. Lock had yet to walk around into her line of sight. She wondered what he was doing back there, what he was thinking. A floorboard creaked as his weight shifted.
“Why did you come to Colorado, Jordan? Why were you driving in this blizzard?”
His tone indicated he knew the answer, so she told half the truth. “To find you. To help you figure out who killed Tiffany.”
“And what makes you so sure I didn’t kill her?” His voice was brutally soft and held an edge she couldn’t describe. She swallowed convulsively.
“I know you didn’t. And I can help.”
He snorted and rounded the sofa. He’d changed into black jeans and a gray-and-black flannel shirt. The dark clothes only emphasized the stony glint in his eyes.
“Really. You found me because you’re convinced of my innocence? You must be the only human left who believes that.”
A wave of dizziness washed over her. She bit her lip and gripped the phone tightly in her palm. How the hell was she going to pull this off? “I…I can help you find someone else with a motive.”
He looked like he was about to retort, but stopped. Then, “How’d you find me?”
“My boss looked at all your options and took an educated guess.”
He knelt in front of her, his handsome mouth a grim line. When he raised his hands, she flinched, only to feel the scarf around her neck gently resettled over her chin.
“He’s a smart man,” he said, with a trace of admiration.
She threw him a beseeching look. “All you need is reasonable doubt, and we have a theory.”
God was going to strike her dead for lying this much.
Lock cocked an eyebrow. “So your boss sent you to tell me he has a theory, and you’ve spent almost twenty-four hours not delivering that message and lying about who you are?”
“You’d have fixated on me finding you for some kind of reward…like you’re doing right now.” The sentence took so much out of her she collapsed against the cushion gasping for breath. The dizziness wouldn’t pass.
“All right. Say I believe you. What’s your theory, PI?”
Leo returned to the other side of the sofa, took one
look at her, and told him to give it a rest. She felt some of her trembling subside as Lock stood and reached for his brother’s cell phone, then stuffed lunch-sized crinkly bags into various pockets. She better come up with some type of theory, quick, but in the meantime this was it—a profile shot. It was the best she could do given neither looked down at her. A surge of confidence at this stroke of luck helped steady her hand.
With the slightest of movements, she angled the back of her phone ’til she saw his profile on the screen and pressed the tiny icon. Please let it be clear.
She palmed the device and shrugged her shoulder so her arm disappeared into the large sleeve, then shoved the phone up near her elbow. Once she fumbled her hand into the gigantic glove, she was confident it would block the phone from accidentally sliding out of the sleeve.
“Thanks,” Lock murmured, jamming two water bottles inside his jacket and crouching down beside her. “You ready?”
Her nod was more like the tip of her nose nudging the scarf as she struggled into the other glove. God, she was burning up under all this! As she shoved the afghan down, his hand stopped her.
“The blanket stays. You’re going to need it.”
His voice sounded brusque and impersonal, nothing more than one stranger imparting information to another, and again she ignored the guilt rising within her. Saving her mother would ruin his career… But she had no choice.
When he reached for her, she instinctively tensed, but he lifted her with the same tenderness as last night, and she inhaled his fresh-air scent—crisp and intensely masculine. He settled her against his torso, his movements gentle despite his anger, and for the life of her, she couldn’t reconcile his actions with his emotion.
Leo held out a flashlight. “You’ll need this.” She grabbed it with both gloves, feeling spastic and weak. She knew she didn’t deserve his kindness or forgiveness, yet he didn’t even say good-bye. His silence made her eyes sting. Or maybe it was the shock of arctic air when he opened the door on the swirling, snowy wilderness, so beautiful and so lethal in the waning afternoon.
“We have a long way to go,” Lock said, as he strode clear of the cabin. “Sam’s truck is just a shortcut that way.” He nodded left, and through the heavy curtain of flakes she saw only thick, snow-laden trees. “But I already made this path to the highway, so it’ll be easier to get down there and walk back to Sam’s rather than cut through all that fresh snow.”
