The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  There would be a reason his DNA and prints could be found here. It was a place they had frequently met. This time, though, he’d found out what she had done and was so shocked they’d fought and he left, telling her it was over.

  Despondent over what she had done, over losing him, she’d swallowed her pills and alcohol. Or so he hoped it would be believed.

  The note was already on her laptop, and would be found when the time was right.

  The water was already red. He set the knife on the rim of the tub and tilted her head to the side; dropped to her chest as it was, she looked uncomfortable.

  The earth-tone tiles hid the bright scarlet of the blood that had spurted from her opened veins. He stood and stepped back. Everything was as it should be.

  He walked back through the apartment and stripped his gloves off, checking his scrubs. So there was a little blood on them, what else was new? He’d toss them and no one would think anything of it.

  Had he thought of everything? He’d moved the money yesterday from the dummy corporate account he always used for delicate adoptions. He’d transferred it to hers. Of course the trail was now there. How to explain the money away?

  Perhaps say she had access to that account?

  After all, she was going to be found in this town house the corporation owned. Some of the deposits in her financial background would be traced back to the same company. The house the stupid woman had used was owned by the same.

  He should just cut and run. The cops were looking for him. He knew because he’d checked his voice messages from a pay phone after he’d dumped his cell. His wife was a bit irritated at the police, their questions and insinuations. She’d wanted to know what was going on. He hadn’t returned her call.

  He’d run the background on the McGregors, which turned up nothing, but they still didn’t feel right, felt off. Maybe he was seeing ghosts in shadows. Mr. McGregor had been too intense to his way of thinking.

  Knowing his luck, they were probably working with the feds or the Kinncaids or something.

  He glanced back down the hallway toward the bathroom. Damn Lisa. At least her death should buy him enough time to get out of the country.

  Going away for fraud and kidnapping was one thing, murder was a whole other kettle, wasn’t it? And he wasn’t about to go down because the woman currently bleeding out in the bathtub where they’d made love a few days ago had been greedy and stupid. She’d wanted to return to her house in Taos, claiming she needed to check on her cats. He probably should have checked it himself Saturday evening when she’d called him after seeing the cops in the street. But he hadn’t, and then it was too late. He hoped to hell she hadn’t had anything incriminating at her place. Be like her, though. Stupid and impulsive she might be, but she was damned shrewd and greedy.

  Greedy he could handle. When greed bred stupidity and the stupidity thrived . . . that he couldn’t tolerate.

  How long it would take the cops to find Kevin he had no idea, and it probably didn’t matter. Charred remains were charred remains and at least Kevin wouldn’t be able to tell all his secrets.

  Checking to make sure everything was as it should be, he eased out of the house and down the stairs, staying to the shadows. In the lot, he climbed into a car he’d bought with cash off a used lot yesterday morning with a fake ID.

  He fisted his hands on the steering wheel and knew it was all falling down. He needed to leave. Maybe he could catch a flight out to California and then . . . Thailand. Or Brazil. Hell, Mexico would work too. He had a couple of fake passports and had set up places in the two previous locales and Mexico . . . well, many got lost in Mexico. His wife though . . . and daughter?

  They could never know. If it all came out, his own family would never forgive him.

  Too much was at stake to leave any loose ends hanging. It wasn’t the affair he was worried about. His wife knew him well enough that would not come as a surprise. They had an understanding.

  But there was understanding small lies she didn’t really care about and understanding lies that impacted their lives forever.

  Some lies could never be discovered. He’d do whatever he had to to keep some secrets buried.

  Chapter 30

  Albuquerque, Wednesday evening

  Quinlan walked down the hotel hallway with its plain colorless walls. There was great art if you were an O’Keeffe fan, or loved Kokopelli and the damned flute. He freaking hated New Mexico. It had taken too much from him. At any other time, he might have admired the hotel they were staying in, but honestly, he couldn’t care less. What he wanted was answers. There were yet to be any.

  What he had was only more questions.

  Dr. Merchant was now missing. No one could find Lisa Hammerstein or some guy named Kevin who had worked at the Retreat.

  Ella had rested for most of the day. She’d been released yesterday afternoon and between the Richardsons and his brothers, they’d gotten everyone here. The Richardsons had left this morning, wanting to check on things at home. They said they’d be back, probably tomorrow. He was both glad and nervous that she was out. But they were close to the hospital if anything came up. She had answered a few questions, a few and far too many for his way of thinking. Even when speaking to the police. She’d answer some and then it was like someone pressed the pause button and she’d shut down for a minute, staring off into space. Then she’d ask a question and the process looped all over again.

  He didn’t know what to do to help her.

  They talked. They whispered. They danced around the issues that needed to be resolved.

  She was his. If he’d wondered about it months previously, of letting her go, he knew now how futile that was.

  She. Was. His.

  However, like Ian said, if they really wanted space, you gave it to them . . . even when you didn’t want to. Though when space led to nightmares, then what did you do?

  He walked into the dining room, the wrought iron chandelier hanging from the beams of the latilla ceiling adding to the macabre feeling he seemed blanketed in.

  And there she sat, near the kiva fireplace.

  When space led to nightmares you helped battle them.

  Ella. Just seeing her had him wanting to pull her into his arms, and yell at her at the same time. He didn’t do either.

  He’d told her she was coming out here to eat with his family, if he had to drag her. He knew she didn’t really feel like it. Hell, he didn’t feel like it, but that was just too damned bad. She’d hidden in their suite since yesterday, room service bringing her whatever she wanted, which was nothing. He felt like he was force-feeding her.

  She didn’t eat, nightmares ripped apart what little sleep she managed. She hardly spoke at all. She would sit staring off into space with tears streaming down her face, as if she wasn’t aware she even cried.

  He wanted Ella back. His Ella, bright, vibrant Ella.

  Even if they hadn’t taken his child, hadn’t tormented his wife, he’d kill them for putting that broken look in her eyes.

  He paused and just watched her as she watched the flames. The scent of wood smoke mixed with the scents of grilled meats, spicy peppers and alcohol. Someone cleared their throat and he looked over to the large dining table. He wondered if she’d eat anything tonight.

  Agents Sabino and Landry lounged back against the chair listening to something Ian and Rori were saying. John Brasher was also there. Aiden sat jotting something down on paper. Man had every gadget currently on the market but he still preferred pen and paper. The normalcy of that small, stupid act settled something in Quin.

  Ian looked up and quirked a brow at him.

  He walked over to his wife and wondered yet again how the hell to reach her.

  Squatting down beside the log chair she sat curled in, he reached out to take her hand. Just the brush of his fingers and she jerked her hand back. Her eyes flashed to his, and in them he only saw fear.

  “Hey,” he whispered.

  She swallowed. “Sorry.�
�� This time, she reached out and gently settled her fingers on the back of his hands. He looked down at her hand as he laced his fingers through hers. White bandages still wrapped around her wrists. The zip ties had bit deep enough, often enough, the doctor said there would be permanent scarring. They’d met with a physical therapist yesterday before her release who worked with them on exercises for her to do. Mostly finger and wrist movements. Which reminded him, he wanted to get her a keyboard. One, it would be great physical therapy, and two, it might help her—somehow. Woman loved music, maybe it would help her deal with all of this. He knew she played, had played in the past.

  He bit down and took a deep breath, shaking off the thought.

  “What do you want to eat?”

  She opened her mouth and he quirked a brow at her, narrowing his eyes. She was damned well going to eat.

  Ella shut her mouth.

  She looked at the man on his knees beside her. The room was dark; the murmur of voices rumbled from behind her, everyone trying to figure out what to do. She didn’t know what to do. What did anyone do? She’d talked to the police, several times. Hell, she’d even spoken to Jareaux alone when Quinlan had left to check on her discharge papers and Jareaux had shown up. Granted, they’d only talked for a bit before some guy claiming to be her guard showed up and ran Jareaux off. What did she do?

  Everything in her was . . .

  Broken.

  Just broken.

  She couldn’t find even ground. Didn’t know which way to turn. Nothing sounded right. Nothing smelled right. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. Drowning, she was drowning and had no idea how to get her head above water. If she could do something, anything, maybe then she could . . . could . . . breathe.

  The fire flickered shadows onto Quinlan. His hair, still damp from his shower, held a scent she knew. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. He smelled right. He felt right.

  He lifted his head and their eyes met. She saw the questions in his, the fear. The fury. And the hurt.

  She’d hurt him.

  Again, he lifted his damned brow. “What do you want to eat?” he repeated.

  Nothing. Nothing. She wasn’t hungry.

  Then again, she knew him well enough to know there was no way in hell he’d let that go. He’d ordered food for her for the last two days, had tried to get her to eat in the hospital.

  She wasn’t hungry then. She wasn’t hungry now.

  Empty. Everything was empty. Everything hurt. Her wrists, her stomach, all her muscles—from fighting, the doctors had told her. And her breasts. She should have been able to feed her baby, but there was no baby to nurse.

  Who was feeding her child? Were they feeding her? What if she was hungry? What if she wanted her mother?

  Four days. Four days, she thought, but maybe it was longer. The time in that room was fuzzy.

  The cops had found the house she’d been kept in. They’d gone door to door in the neighborhood. No one had told her at first, but she’d heard Quinlan talking to an agent—not Jareaux—and his brothers last night. Glass had shattered out in the living room. She’d walked in and listened as they talked. Apparently he had gone with Ian on Monday. She’d never seen him that angry. She asked to go and no one had listened to her. Quin had and he’d told her over his dead body. She dropped it.

  She hadn’t asked again.

  Tomorrow they were supposed to go back to the doctor.

  “Hey. You’ve got to eat. We’re going to find her, and she’ll need her mom strong when we do, Ella.” His words jerked her back. His fingers rubbed across the back of her knuckles.

  “I know,” she said and nodded.

  She had asked constantly at first what they knew, what they had found, but hearing the same things was grating, so she didn’t ask.

  Eat.

  She’d eat.

  Sighing, she pushed herself up from the chair, startling again when Quinlan moved to help her.

  He muttered something under his breath.

  She stopped and stood, staring at him. “Sorry.”

  He shook his head. “No problem.”

  What a lie that was. There were so many problems strangling the two of them, so many on top of everything else. “How can you be nice to me?”

  The words were out before she realized it.

  He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  Part of her, a large part, agreed. But then . . . “No. Now.”

  “Now isn’t the time. Now, we’re going to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re going to eat, damn it,” he snapped.

  “Why won’t you be honest with me? I know you’re angry and—”

  His eyes widened. “I’m not the one who wasn’t honest, Ella. That was you.”

  Well, she had asked. She’d open this damned door. But she was tired of this ugly black ball between them, wrapped in barbs and trip wires. She couldn’t deal with Quin too. Not this way. Not as though everything was fine. As though nothing had happened. When they both knew it was far, far from fine. He could go through the motions, but the truth beneath was eating away at her.

  “Quin,” one of his brothers said. She didn’t know which one.

  She held up her hand. “No, he’s right. He’s absolutely right.” She nodded. “I wasn’t honest with you.”

  She sighed and raked a hand through her hair. “I know that. But you’re . . . you’re . . .”

  “What?”

  “You! A damned Kinncaid, for God’s sake. I did the rich boy marriage before, remember?”

  “God, I’m so sick of that damned excuse! That’s all you’ve ever said, ‘I’ve done the rich boy before, and it didn’t work.’ What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  How to make him understand? She looked at him. “Look at you and where you come from. My mother was a stripper in the Quarter! And I don’t care about that. She was great, I was lucky to have her. Others, though, have a problem with it.”

  “I don’t,” he said, his hands on his hips.

  “I have a tattoo and I want another.” She waved toward her hair. “I like to have weird hair.”

  “So? You don’t have one tattoo, you have three, and I love each one. And? That’s all who you are, who I want.”

  “So, I’m not right for someone like you. That was what I had tried to tell you. Then. Then I believed all that. Or thought I did. I tried to convince myself of all the differences between us and soon they were all I saw. It was easier that way, ya know? Easier to see the differences and convince myself it would never, ever work. Not really, not in the long run. After all, it didn’t before. I know that’s not fair. I know it was stupid, but it was how I felt then. There were too many parallels to my before and I . . . I just . . .”

  He raised his brows.

  “Freaked. Got scared and freaked. And ran as fast as I could from a wonderful man that I loved so much it scared me. I’m my own worst enemy.”

  He shook his head. “Why? I get I should have told my family and I’m sorry, but what did I do to make you think—”

  “Nothing. God, nothing, Quin. That’s what’s so messed up.” She walked to the window. “His name was Lance. Before, I was young and stupid and naively in love. College. I was on scholarship to Tulane. My mother had died before I graduated. Then I met Lance. Lance was . . .” She smiled, remembering . . . “We fell in love. That first hard, true love. Ya know? We spent all our time together and I weaved all sorts of happily-ever-afters in my mind. With my liberal arts degree and my marketing and his business we’d work together. Then I found out I was pregnant.” She felt him start beside her. Turning, she saw the question in his eyes. “He was ecstatic, or said he was. Asked me to marry him, told me I’d be meeting his parents. I bought a dress and everything. I was so nervous, so excited. I so wanted to make a good impression.” She sighed. “But I didn’t meet his parents. He showed up and said that something had come up, but not to wor
ry, I’d meet them later.” She rubbed her arms. “I should have known then. But I was busy living in a fantasy world of my own making. We went to the justice of the peace a couple of weeks later. I asked about his parents. He told me they were in Europe.” She shook her head again. “I never, ever questioned him. I guess I should give the man some credit. He tried to do the right thing. He did try.”

  Quinlan shifted beside her. “Trying is an excuse p— losers give when they didn’t go all or nothing. Then again, I never should have walked out that door.”

  Of course, all or nothing as he was.

  She focused on the dormant aspens in the courtyard. “We got an apartment. A really nice one, nicer than anything I had ever lived in. I was busy with school and wondering how I’d finish and be a good wife, and mother, and I was so scared. I remember being scared. I noticed he was quieter a bit more than usual, withdrawn. Then one afternoon, when he wasn’t home, the knock came.” She didn’t turn to Quin. “His parents. Mr. and Mrs. Montinaire were not happy. They’d met him earlier that day, I was told. I knew he was wealthy, but had no idea who he really was. Why did I care? I just loved him. He loved me, or so I thought. Maybe he did, it hardly matters. They didn’t believe me.” She looked to Quin. “Someone like me, and those were her words, was not good enough for their son. I was the wrong type of woman for their family.” She swallowed and tried not to remember how much that had hurt. “I tried to be nice. My mother had always said that smiles get you more than scowls. But it didn’t work on them.

  “They owned real estate in New Orleans. A lot apparently. And an old family plantation or something. Someone with my background was unsuitable for their son. After all, a daughter of a stripper and bartender must only see Lance’s money, and I and the bastard I carried were not going to derail the plans their son had worked so hard to achieve. His father wrote me a check for three million dollars to leave their son alone. I remember feeling so insulted and thinking how idiotic these people were. I told them I didn’t want their money, or their son’s money. To which his mother replied that as long as he was married to me, he had no money. I told them to leave. They left the check and told me to be smart and not to fight them or make it difficult for Lance.”