Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, he was looking forward to seeing just what else he figured out about himself and about Sheriff Stacey Rhodes. Starting tonight.
Smiling in anticipation, he grabbed the beer and walked toward the house, up the curving sidewalk lined by tall, ragged hedges. He came around the corner, intent on avoiding the sharp thorns on the ivy bushes. So intent he didn’t at first notice what was happening just a few feet in front of him.
Then he saw it: the front porch stained red.The woman kneeling on it.
The woman covered in blood.
And he stopped smiling.
Wyatt didn’t generally watch television. He had one, of course, and occasionally flipped on the news when he was making dinner or waiting for his coffee in the morning. But as for regular programming, he’d rather read a book. If, that was, he had time to read anything other than case files and reports.
Considering the last work of fiction he’d read had been that da Vinci book everyone had been raving about, he supposed some would say he was bringing a little too much of his work home with him. Including tonight.
For some reason, though, as he warmed up the meal his housekeeper had left for him, he flipped on the television, barely listening to it. Having it on, hearing the low murmur of other voices in the background, helped remind him that a normal world existed out there. Everyday people lived and laughed, completely unaware of just how cruel and capricious life could be. While he buried himself in these quiet, still places, drenched in horror as he tried to make sense of the crimes committed by the Reaper, the earth continued to spin.
The antique dining room table he’d inherited along with this house in Alexandria was covered with files and photographs. Autopsy reports, interviews, and investigator’s notes competed for space. Additional boxes full of files sat on the chairs. Every piece of information currently available on each Reaper case was scattered across his elegant home, which had once belonged to his grandparents. With it came a wealth of darkness, entirely at odds with the serenity and calmness that had defined the lives of that kindly couple.
“I’m glad you never saw anything like this,” he murmured as he spread out the brutal crime scene photos from the third murder and examined them yet again. Because there had to be something in them that would help them break this case. Like rereading a book, though, the more he studied them, the more his mind filled in what his eyes tried to skim over as too familiar. So he took out a small magnifying glass, going over each inch.
Nothing.
Hearing the beeping of the timer, he put the photograph down, wondering how normal people would react to consuming a nice pasta marinara on a table covered with proof of human suffering and cruelty. The job had hardened him to it, but it hadn’t immunized him. So he took the plate to the couch, sat down, and put his feet on the coffee table, leaving the photographs in the dining room.
He’d taken two bites when a news story came on that captured his attention. A photograph filled the screen, the headline scrolling across the bottom. Reaching for the remote control, Wyatt punched up the volume.
He barely even noticed a moment later when his plate of pasta marinara slid off his lap onto the floor.
At first, when she’d arrived at her house and seen the horror on her front porch and door, Stacey thought a teenager she’d busted had gone crazy with a can of spray paint. But she’d quickly realized the awful truth: The saucer-size circles and long, thin smears had not been made from paint.
It had been blood.
Thick blood, congealing into brownish pools and drawing flies in the hot summer evening. The coppery scent filled every breath she took. Overwhelmed by the smell-and by those awful, vivid memories that scent and the feel of the slick fluid inspired-she had just stood there, gasping for untainted air.
And then she’d spotted the body, recognizing her immediately. The sad, lean corpse was mangled and broken, the once soft fur matted and sticky. But there had been no mistaking those gentle brown eyes, now blank and glazed with sudden, shocking death.
Dad would be heartbroken, utterly devastated, and Stacey already dreaded telling him. For there had been no doubt the poor, pathetic creature was Lady, the freewheeling stray who’d adopted her father and made him her own.
“He loved you, girl,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You did have a home and a family, whether you wanted them or not.”
Those were the first words she’d been able to manage in the half hour since she’d arrived home. Before that, she had been too shocked to speak. She’d felt as thoroughly assaulted as if someone had beaten her. Just as whoever had left this vicious surprise here had intended.
Someone really had killed a sweet, lovable old dog whose only fault was occasionally sleeping on a porch step and allowing herself to be tripped over.
Stacey had paused for a second to pray that Lady had been killed by accident. She’d seen animals struck by cars plenty of times; those kinds of emergencies usually generated a 911 call here in Hope Valley. Especially on the winding country road where her father lived. She and Tim had lost more than one pet to that road during their childhood, each of them looking in death much like Lady did now.
But she couldn’t comfort herself for long. Because Lady hadn’t limped several miles here to Stacey’s house. She hadn’t smeared her own blood all over the porch and door.
And she absolutely hadn’t scrawled the word bitch in spiky letters across the cheery WELCOME HOME mat lying in front of the door.
Jesus. Sweet Jesus.
If Lady’s death had been accidental, her disposal most certainly had not been.
Stacey had spent ten minutes on her knees, with the dog’s head cradled in her lap. Those dark, betrayed eyes had stared up at her as if to ask how such a thing could happen. Finally, thinking of one of the neighborhood kids riding past on a bike and catching sight of the horror, she had gotten some supplies and gone to work cleaning things up.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she murmured as she worked around the body, rinsing the pink-tinged rag in the pink-tinged water bucket. She’d already changed the water once.
She didn’t really cry, though dry sobs had filled her throat at first. Tears had formed in her eyes, and two had even erupted from them, sliding down her cheeks in twin salty streaks that had disappeared on her lips. But the rest remained locked inside her. As if deep in her subconscious, she knew that if she gave release to all the emotions surrounding the sorrow and tragedy she’d been dealing with in recent days, there would be absolutely no holding them back.
“You poor, sweet old girl,” she whispered, knowing that whatever anguish she felt would be multiplied a hundred times by her father’s. “You deserved so much better than this, and I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you.”
“Jesus,” a voice said.
Dean.
He fell to his knees beside her, right into the congealing pool of blood, grabbing her upper arms. “What happened? Stacey, are you all right? All this blood…”
“Someone killed her.” She finally raised her eyes to meet Dean’s, and she shook her head, though with sorrow or unreleased fury, she honestly couldn’t say. “Who would do such a thing?”
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, tugging her close, ignoring her bloody hands and clothes, Lady’s body right beside them. Sliding his hands into Stacey’s hair, he cupped her head, holding her tenderly, making soothing sounds of comfort and tenderness. “Shh. It’s okay, honey.”
Part of her wanted to cry like she hadn’t cried for a long time. The few teardrops she’d allowed herself in recent years hadn’t been nearly enough-not for the kind of horror she’d seen. Not for the nightmare of Virginia Tech. Not for poor Lisa.
An ocean of unreleased grief had backlogged behind her eyes. It was being held there by the tiniest remnants of her strength. And this poor, brutalized dog was on the verge of becoming that one final drop that forced all that restrained emotion out of her. This single event might just pull the plug
on her sadness, sending the tears spilling out of her like a flood over a causeway for all the tragedy and horror to which she’d borne witness in her life.
“Why would someone do this?” she muttered through ragged breaths. The air kept catching in her throat until she almost choked on it, the words emerging in spurts. Each was underscored by an anger she hadn’t yet allowed to overwhelm her, knowing that when it did she would be completely lost in the fury of it.
He pulled away, but kept an arm around her shoulders. “Is she yours?”
She shook her head. “Just a sweet old stray my dad unofficially adopted and took care of.”
With infinite tenderness, he stroked her jaw with the back of his thumb, a simple, quiet reminder that she was no longer alone. “I’m sorry. There are some really sick people in the world. Somebody wanted to hurt you, or to scare you.”
“By slaughtering a poor, defenseless animal.” She shook her head, not knowing why she was surprised. Considering the things she’d witnessed, she knew man was capable of incredible cruelty. She just hadn’t expected to literally stumble across it right on her own doorstep.
He continued to stroke her hair, kind and calm. She suspected he wouldn’t be if she hadn’t tossed the obscenity-smeared doormat into the trash before his arrival.
“Come on, Stace; go inside. Get cleaned up. I’ll finish this.”
She tried to resist, but Dean wouldn’t take no for an answer. With a soft sigh of sadness, he took the rag out of her hands. His expression revealed so much about the man.There was no revulsion, no concern about his clothes, not a wince of distaste. Just tenderness, goodness.
It told her more than she’d known about him to this point. That simple act revealed a man she suspected was a wonderful father to his little boy, a good friend, a loving son and brother. A man with depth.
A man she could care about.
“I’ll take care of her.” He brushed his lips across her temple. “Let somebody help you for a change, okay? You don’t have to do it on your own.”
And suddenly she knew he was right. She didn’t have to do this by herself. Not today.
“Go on inside. I’ll take care of everything.”
God, when was the last time she’d let anyone take care of everything? Or anything at all? She honestly couldn’t remember. She only knew that she trusted Dean, and that it felt good to have someone else to share the burden with, if only for a while.
He helped her to her feet. “Do you want to bury her?” She nodded once. “At my dad’s.” Glancing at the body, she added, “But I can’t tell him everything. Not yet, maybe someday. But for now…”
“We’ll tell him she was hit by a car.”
It was as if he’d read her mind.
“Bring me a box, and some more rags and bleach, too, okay?”
“No, you don’t have to.”
“I know that. But I want to.” He pushed her toward the door. “Just get the stuff; then you go take a shower and try to wash this whole thing off.”
Wash off the ugliness like she’d wash off a day’s worth of dust and sweat? She didn’t think the slick, sticky feel of the blood on her hands would ever wash off. But Stacey couldn’t deny how much she desperately wanted to take him up on his offer.
Unlocking the door with shaking hands, she stepped inside. Her booted feet immediately skidded on the tile floor, leaving twin streaks of red. Emotion welled even higher at the sight, but she swallowed it down. She unlaced and kicked the boots off, then went to the kitchen and got more cleaning supplies and a large box from the garage.
Dean didn’t even let her step outside when she returned with them. “Okay. Now you take a shower.”
Somehow managing to control the disgust, rage, and sorrow, she staggered through the house. With each step, she tore off her clothes and dropped them onto the floor a piece at a time, wanting nothing against her skin. By the time she entered her bedroom, she wore only her underclothes. They were off before she’d gotten to the bathroom door.
The evening remained brutally hot. Most nights she took a cool shower to comfort her overheated body. Now, however, she needed steam and heat in order to feel clean. So she turned the controls as hot as she could stand and stepped inside, closing her eyes and turning her face up to the showerhead like a penitent seeking absolution.
She kept them closed for a long time. Piercing streams of hot water gushed through her hair and down her body. And it wasn’t until she felt sure the soap wouldn’t turn the color of blood that she reached for it and began to wash.
She didn’t know how long she stood there scalding herself, but eventually she reached for the controls and eased the water to a cooler temperature. But the unshed tears behind her eyes continued to burn. She didn’t expect that to stop anytime soon.
She’d just finished rinsing the conditioner from her hair when she heard Dean calling from the next room.
“Hey, you okay in there?”
“I’m fine.” She clenched the shower curtain in her fists, leaning toward the opening in the front. “Are you finished?”
“Everything’s taken care of.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, knowing he wouldn’t hear.
“Listen, maybe I should just go back to the hotel. I need to clean up.”
No. God, no. The very last thing she wanted was to step out of this shower and find herself alone. Alone to pick up her red-stained clothes. Alone to wash the floor. Alone to think about the fact that someone hated her so much he wanted to punish her by killing an innocent animal and spattering its blood across her front door.
Alone to fall into bed and add one more layer to her dark dreams.
“Don’t go,” she said. Realizing she’d whispered again, she cleared her throat. “Dean, please don’t leave.”
Silence. Then, “I’ll wash up in the other bathroom.”
“No.” Leaning her face against the warm tiled wall, she added, “Come in and use this one.”
He didn’t reply at first, and she waited, wondering if she’d just lost her mind. Yes, she’d invited him here tonight fully intending that they’d end the evening in her bed. That was supposed to happen after a beer, some good conversation, more flirting. After at least she’d fixed her hair and maybe scraped a little bit of shadow across her lids. They’d act on the attraction, keep it light and simple, and then proceed.
But now everything was different.
Not only could she barely keep herself upright, but she didn’t look like a woman about to take a lover. She was, in fact, a complete nightmare. Her lips were twisted in grief, her body flushed and reddened from the heat of the water. Her eyes were so damned heavy and sore from unshed tears. Yet she’d asked him to come in.
And that was what he did.
“You holding up?” He stood just inside the doorway, big and powerful, a look of utter tenderness on his face. “Can I do anything?”
That someone so strong and serious could be capable of such compassion and sweetness nearly took her breath away, and she felt on the verge of shattering into a thousand pieces. She hadn’t broken down in… well, ever, really. Yet all the years’ worth of just dealing with things as they came had apparently taken their toll. Because right now, after one small, hateful act, she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to make it one more day.
But with Dean, maybe she could.
There was such a depth of humanity in him. A wealth of goodness and understanding, which was contrary to all the things he had to have seen and investigated in his career.
She envied it. More, she wanted it.
Still mostly blocked by the shower curtain, she managed a single word. “Please.”
His eyes met hers. Sealed the connection. Then, without a word, he reached for the top button of his shirt and slipped it open. Though his gaze remained locked with hers, the strong hands moved down, slowly unbuttoning, until he shrugged the shirt off, tossing it to the floor.
Stacey’s heart thudded as she noted the breadth of his s
houlders, his massive chest rippled with muscle, and his flat stomach. Clothed, he’d been powerful and hard. Beneath those clothes was a man built to make even a tall, strong woman like herself feel utterly feminine and delicate. Her body, weak, drained, almost physically battered just moments ago, began to thrum again. Heat skittered through her veins, sending blood pulsing back into places where she’d felt empty for a very long time.
This was what she needed. Maybe not for the long term, maybe not even for tomorrow, but for right now, she needed physical connection. With him.
Entirely sure of what she was doing for the first time in forever, she returned her attention to his face. That handsome, concerned expression said he was ready to stop, to leave if she so much as quirked a finger toward the door.
Instead, she drew back the shower curtain.
Dean swallowed visibly, his neck and throat flexing as he studied her. Desire tightened the muscles in his jaw, and his eyes narrowed. He hadn’t touched her with more than a heated stare, yet as he unfastened his jeans and let them fall off his lean hips, she could see the way he swelled in reaction to her nudity.
“You’re sure?” he murmured, the words sounding drawn from the very last wellspring of resistance he owned.
“I need to be with you.”
He didn’t question it. Didn’t focus on the way she’d worded her desire for him. Maybe she was being selfish, but he didn’t call her on it. Instead, he removed the rest of his clothes and stepped to the tub.
“So be with me,” he said as he joined her.
The water had cooled a bit, but she suddenly felt hot again. In silence, he took the soap and washed his hands and arms. When they were scrubbed clean he reached out to touch her. It was the simplest, most tender scrape of his index finger against her jawline.
She felt the connection down to the soles of her feet.
Without a word, she slid her wet hands onto his shoulders and moved closer, until their bodies brushed ever so lightly, hers wet and pliant, his hard and slick. Her pebbled nipples scraped against the dark hair of his chest, sending delicious sensations racing through her.
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