The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  And nothing to do about it. She’d chosen this lonely, stupid, self-righteous road, hadn’t she?

  “Chin up and keep going,” she told herself.

  No more naps for her. The early evening crept shadows across her room. Still shivering, she reached over and flipped on the lamp. Light flooded the room. She’d left the walls the soft taupe color but colors splashed everywhere else. Orange pillows, deep wine and red blankets and throws. Bronze lamps. She went for chic SoHo, or shabby chic. Or something.

  No one stood in the corner holding a knife or a gun or scalpel or syringe. There. She was losing her mind. Like someone would be standing in the corner of her room in the shadows?

  If they wanted to . . .

  “Get a grip.” Taking a deep breath and trying to still her nerves, she climbed out of bed. These days her center of gravity was off. Way off.

  Two and a half more months, or thereabouts. Nine weeks. Nine more Mondays.

  She rubbed her stomach as the baby shifted and twirled inside. “Ballerina, are you? Thanks for waking me up.” She patted her stomach.

  Her bedroom door was open, and from the doorway she could see most of the house, as it was small. But it suited her fine. Rent was cheap even though it was in a nice neighborhood, and it was quiet. The landlords across the street lived in a larger bungalow-meets-pueblo-style ranch.

  The Richardsons were nice people. Mrs. Richardson had already knitted a baby blanket for her. They often invited her over for dinner. And she’d finally broken down and told them who she was, not that they didn’t have her legal name—her maiden one anyway. But none of her legal documentation had been changed, so it wasn’t a lie or a problem. For a couple that had been together over fifty years, they kept after her to call Quin. Email him or even text the man.

  Calling . . . she should. She wanted to. Emailing seemed cowardly and texting cruel. Hi! Remember me? We’re married and I’m pregnant! It’s yours. Call me.

  Yeah, right. Besides, she’d written the man and she hadn’t heard from him. Granted, she hadn’t actually mailed the letters. She’d given them to Jareaux to mail because he said they had to make sure she wouldn’t give anything away with the investigation and they’d let him know she was perfectly safe.

  Still . . . Maybe he hadn’t gotten them, or maybe he was so pissed at her he didn’t want anything to do with her. Maybe he’d moved on.

  Calling was the way to go at this point. If she could. She could. She’d just ignore what the feds said or advised.

  Call him.

  Her reasons for not doing so seemed . . .

  Childish now.

  Stupid.

  So what if he hadn’t answered her letters, or called her on her new number, so what? That didn’t mean anything. Or maybe she should contact her lawyer to contact his? That seemed cold.

  If they could just talk this out, maybe . . . maybe . . .

  And what if . . . what if he hadn’t gotten her letters yet? Maybe he was traveling overseas or something. She’d only sent the three, and after that, after he hadn’t answered her, she quit. Probably should have just emailed him. But that seemed so . . . so . . . impersonal. He had emailed her once not long after she moved, and then she found out and she just couldn’t email him back because what would she say . . . Rather, how would she say it?

  On the one hand, he might have gotten the letters and then no longer wanted her, didn’t want his kid.

  That didn’t seem like the man she knew, the man she’d fallen in love with.

  On the other hand, if he didn’t know, which seemed more likely for whatever reason, regardless of the letters she’d written and given to Jareaux, then . . . then he didn’t know about the baby and now if he found out, who knew what he’d do.

  . . . how would you fight a man like that? . . . The counselor’s voice from her therapy sessions shivered through her.

  Ella knew Quinlan well enough, he might not ever forgive her for this.

  Hefting herself up off the couch, she walked—or waddled—to the kitchen. God, her hipbones hurt. She rubbed the crease between her thigh and torso. Perfectly normal, the doctor told her. There were lots of normal things about pregnancy that really didn’t seem normal at all if anyone asked her.

  At the sink, she filled a glass with cool water and gulped it down.

  What did she do?

  Agent Jareaux was right. Something was so wrong at the Nursery. She knew it, sensed it, but had no proof. Yet. She’d get it. The girls from her dreams? What did that mean other than her hormones were wacked and giving her nightmares—again normal, or so she had read. Her nightmares, though, didn’t seem normal. Was she terrified of something happening to her baby? Yes, that was a given. The rest though?

  The missing girls?

  There were so many questions and no answers. Her fears grew by the day of someone taking her baby. The Nursery had started to pressure her to think about adoption. Not that they’d said that so bluntly, but she wasn’t stupid. A hint here, a dropped comment there.

  Hell no. Over her dead body.

  So many worries, so many questions, so many things she didn’t understand.

  Who did she ask? The lights across the street lit the dining room window of the Richardsons’. She knew she could go over for dinner, but honestly, she just wasn’t hungry. She could go over and just listen to them, but she wasn’t in the mood.

  She wished . . .

  She wished Quinlan were here. Wished she hadn’t panicked and bolted. They could be together now. It was easy to fantasize about them together in New Orleans, decorating the nursery for their daughter. She wished she hadn’t waited so damned long. So what if he thought she decided to stay married because of the baby? Did it really matter? Really? It seemed to before in the beginning and maybe it still would if she wasn’t in this situation where it felt like a giant clock were ticking off her time. Her reasoning was before. Before. Before there were bigger worries than herself or what someone might think of her or the lack in her.

  Now? Now she was just ashamed of herself for her stupidity.

  Now she was scared.

  Did Quin know or did he not?

  Did she take the chance and contact him even though they’d told her not to?

  The glass clattered as she set it on the counter and realized her hands were still shaking. Her phone taunted her from where she had it charging on the counter.

  Sighing, wishing she weren’t so nervous, she snatched it up and went to the living room. The cool breeze wafted through the house from the open windows. She wished she didn’t have to leave the windows open, but there was no air conditioner in this place. Mostly she didn’t need it, but lately she was hot all the damned time.

  She leaned her head against the back of her deep forest green couch. She loved this one. She’d seen it in the store and bought it that day. Still chilled, she pulled on the large soft cardigan she left on the back of the couch.

  Her doctor had advised her to take it easier, as her blood pressure was up. So she’d canceled the classes she was supposed to teach tonight. She had her volunteer classes tomorrow at two separate nursing homes. But she enjoyed those. Did she want to stick to the same regimen or switch it up a bit? Not that it mattered.

  She tapped her phone on her thigh.

  Stalling.

  Coward.

  She was a coward.

  Quinlan.

  He was nothing like Lance, so why had she pushed him away? Really. She’d been happy with him. They’d been happy together. She was her own worst enemy. She had been scared, yes. But still. He’d come to New Orleans every week to try and get her to make a go of it. Not in a needy way either.

  There was nothing needy about Quinlan.

  Quinlan was confident, had been coming to terms with doing more with his life. He’d claimed he’d wanted her.

  And she’d fallen so hard for him, he’d have shattered her if he’d left her. If he’d turned from her the way Lance had.

  Too many similaritie
s in the situations—the counselor would tell her to make a list or something.

  She sniffled and realized that she was crying. Oh God. She’d really, really messed up this time. She wiped her face on the sleeve of her sweater.

  Damned hormones.

  God, he hadn’t wanted to walk away from her before, but she’d been stupid and pushed him away and then she ran.

  Ran, because she had a new job with a new place to live, then she’d learned she was pregnant and didn’t let him know.

  But he could have found out. Could have . . . Might . . .

  Even if he had shown up at her door when she first moved, she’d still have been stupid. After she learned she was pregnant? Who knew?

  Quinlan was proud and she had hurt him, she knew that now. But it hurt too that he never told his family about her, about them, about their marriage.

  So you walked out on him before he could walk out on you. Really brave.

  Pride. She had hers, God knew. And he did as well. Why would he keep running after her if she kept shutting him down?

  “We’re married, damn it. Why won’t you give us a shot?” he’d all but yelled at her.

  She’d been too proud to say what she really felt: I’m too scared. I love you and you could hurt me.

  And she hadn’t wanted to admit that either. So she ran, learned she was pregnant and didn’t let him know he was going to be a father. She’d had three weeks or thereabouts to let him know before she’d agreed to Jareaux’s plan. Then a few weeks later she’d written the first letter, and soon after two more.

  Not that the letters really mattered.

  Now? Now though?

  “They’ll take your baby too. They always do.” The voice from the dream floated through her mind and sent shivers down her spine. She should have let Quinlan know immediately when she knew.

  Should’ve. Could’ve. Would’ve . . .

  It wasn’t going to get any easier. She unlocked her phone and the screen image popped up. Hers and Quinlan’s cheeks smashed together, both laughing as they’d taken a self-portrait.

  What if he’d moved on? What if he’d found someone else. Granted, no one had contacted her with divorce papers of any kind. Or an annulment. But then did he have to? Who knew?

  The baby kicked again.

  She sighed and patted her stomach. “I know. I know. I love you and your daddy will love you too. I’m sorry for keeping you from him.” She sighed and dialed. “He’ll probably kill me if he doesn’t strangle me first. But I’m pretty sure he’ll love you regardless.” Pretty sure.

  That made no sense, but then her mind was messed up these days.

  The phone on the other end rang. And rang again.

  Chapter 17

  Ian Kinncaid’s residence, September

  “What about Mom and Dad’s anniversary? What are we going to do?” Brayden asked from behind his paper. He was probably looking up obits and estimating possible estate sales for his antique shop.

  Ian looked over and saw Christian giving Quinlan a hard time. Quin ignored her and set his phone on the side table, plugging it in. Ian thought his brother really needed to lighten up some, but then since New Orleans, nothing about the kid was light. New Orleans? Yeah, Quinlan had been getting better before then and for about two months after that. Then after one of his trips down to see the lovely and slightly eccentric Ella, the kid had all but clammed up and hit the gym all hours of the day and night again.

  He’d fallen hard for that girl.

  As much as Ian wheedled and gave Quinlan hell, his brother wouldn’t break. Only dug deeper and stubbornly refused to discuss Ella. No one else knew. Though maybe Aiden did, or at least the fact he was head over heels in love with that woman. Kid was getting great at evasive answers.

  Then there was Brody. Yeah, Ian would bet their cousin knew something. He and Quinlan had seen a lot of each other during the New Orleans and Ella time, and even after. Then again, those two had always been close.

  Granted, he could just run a few searches and learn a bit more, but that seemed . . . dishonest toward his little brother. He’d already run a few searches back when he and the girl first met and the kid was missing for two days in fucking Vegas. Not that Ian wouldn’t do whatever he had to at some point if he felt he really needed to, but as it was now, he’d leave it be.

  He rubbed his thumb over his lips. Quinlan was an adult, God knew, and the kid was tired as hell of them all . . . hovering.

  Ian understood that feeling, and he had a feeling if everyone kept smothering Quin with worries under the guise of help, he’d leave.

  Then again, maybe it was time the kid moved away from home. When he was younger, Ian always thought of Quin being some sort of artist or something. At least until that fateful winter morning when Quin and little Susy Cooley had fallen through the ice on the river. Ian still remembered how blue his little seven-year-old brother had been. Dead. He’d had no pulse and hadn’t been breathing. He and Aiden had performed CPR on that little body and by the grace of God had gotten their brother back. Little Susy had not been so lucky. It had taken a couple of hours to find her and they never got her back. That day had changed Quinlan. He’d become quiet and focused, his art set aside. He and Aiden had been in high school, the twins in middle school. Shaking off the thought, he focused back to the here and now.

  Quinlan lightly shoved Christian away and stood up. “I don’t want to meet one of your friends, sis. Thank you anyway.”

  “How about one of mine?” Rori asked.

  Quinlan just looked at Rori, who had plopped down on the couch when Christian and Quinlan stood up.

  “Some of your friends will likely kill me,” Quinlan said. Then added, “Again. No, thanks.”

  “That woman was not a friend,” Rori said.

  “You haven’t dated in far too long. You know,” Christian said, grinning, “they make little blue pills that—”

  Quinlan threw a pillow at her. “I don’t need to know about my brother’s ED issues.”

  “There are no ED issues,” Brayden said from behind his paper.

  “I’m going to get something to drink.” Quin started for the door. “Anyone want anything?”

  “Check on the kids,” Ian told him. “Please.”

  Quinlan walked from the room and it seemed as if everyone sighed.

  “I can’t bloody well believe he thinks my friends would kill him,” Rori muttered. “I’ll have to think of a way to get him back for that one.”

  Quinlan’s phone rang. Then rang again, buzzing along the tabletop.

  “Leave the boy alone,” Ian said from his chair. “And he’s not wrong. Most of your friends would kill him.”

  “Just because they could doesn’t mean they would. And besides, my friends are your friends and most of them family and his friends, so that hardly makes a bit of sense,” she muttered.

  “Yes, dear,” he said with a grin.

  She narrowed her gaze at him.

  Quinlan’s phone rang again, shrilling out an annoying ring tone.

  “He needs a date,” Christian said. “How long has it been? He always dated, more than any of the rest of you. I used to call him hound dog. I mean, really.”

  Ian grinned. “Maybe he’s become more selective.”

  Of one particular light blue-haired woman. Quinlan had always gone for the sleek, suave women. Long-legged model types. The kind that graced magazine covers or did lingerie shoots. Which had made him such an easy mark for Hellinski before.

  Ella Ferguson was none of those things. She was short, almost as short as Aiden’s wife. Big eyes, and artsy. She was so not Quin’s normal type that when Ian had learned what he had on the plane, he hadn’t really worried.

  Now though? Ian bit down. “Maybe he has someone he doesn’t want any of us to know about,” he said. Then added, “Yet.”

  Brayden just snorted behind his paper. “I have other things to worry about besides Quinlan’s love life.”

  “We are worried about
the lack of it, keep up,” Christian told him. “And if he has met someone, why hasn’t he introduced her to the rest of us?”

  Brayden flipped the edge of the paper down and gave her a look over the corner before flipping it back up and continuing to read it.

  Ian checked the time and wondered when his other two brothers would get here. Gavin might not be able to, but that was always the way it was with him. They were trying to plan something grand for Mom and Pop, so they’d all agreed to dinner here.

  “Mom did ask me if I thought Quin could be gay,” Brayden said from behind the paper.

  Christian rolled her eyes and snorted. “We could only be so lucky. If he’d been born a couple hundred years ago, he’d be a rake of the first order.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, you all probably would have been.”

  “I think he met someone and fell for her hard,” Rori muttered, even as Ian leaned in and kissed her neck. “My friends would kill him . . .” She frowned.

  “They would.”

  “Bugger off,” she said to him.

  “Later, darling, and only with you.”

  Quinlan’s phone rang for a third time. Who in the world was calling?

  “Could he have picked a more annoying ring tone?” Rori muttered.

  More quips and curious statements swam around on Quinlan’s lack of dating, and on what his deal was lately. For the last three or four months or so anyway.

  His phone rang again. And then again.

  “Who the bloody hell? Leave a voice message,” Rori said. Then she grinned. “Then again, paybacks and all that.”

  “You shouldn’t.” Ian leaned over and kissed her neck. She was wearing that perfume that just . . .

  He growled.

  “Hello, Quin’s phone.”

  He could hear a female’s voice as he nuzzled his wife’s neck.

  “Yes, this is Quin’s phone.”

  “Hang up,” he told her, nibbling up her neck.

  She giggled. God, he loved that he could make this hard-ass woman giggle. “Will you stop, I’m trying to talk and can’t concentrate when you . . .” He took her earlobe into his mouth. She tried to swallow a moan, shook her head and tried to push him away.