by Jo Davis
She pulled on her jeans, as well, at a loss as to what to do or say next. My fucking God, what a fabulous orgasm! More coffee?
“Thank you.” Feeling ridiculous, she crossed her arms, watching as he stood, smiling.
“For you, anything.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?”
His smile softened, his dark eyes warm as he laid his palms on her shoulders. “I never say anything I don’t mean.”
“No man has ever put my wishes first,” she said, and felt a blush stain her face. What on earth made her admit that to him?
“I’ll always put you first, Grace. No matter where our relationship goes.”
“Is that what you want? A relationship?” Her stomach fluttered. Was it possible she wasn’t just a challenge to him? A prize to be captured because he got a thrill out of the chase?
“After all these months, can you really not know the answer to that question?” Pausing, he pinned her with an intense look she’d never seen before. “But what happens is up to you. I won’t risk driving you away; you said you wanted to be friends and I believe we are. Nothing more develops unless you want it to. You’re that important to me.”
His words, spoken with complete honesty, struck her to the core. Turned her conception of him inside out yet again. A hard lump formed in her throat.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say.” Crossing the short distance between them, she reached for him, entwined his fingers with hers. “Except thank you. And you’re right—we are friends. I love having you around. A lot.” She knew he wanted her to make more of a declaration about where she saw them going, but she just couldn’t.
She didn’t trust this strange new feeling in her chest, chafing her emotions raw. It scared her more than a little.
If he was disappointed, he didn’t let it show. Lifting her hand, he brushed his lips over her fingers. “Me, too. When I get to see you, it’s the best part of my day.”
The protective shell around her heart cracked. “That’s the sweetest thing any man has ever said to me.”
“Better get used to it,” he said hoarsely. Letting go of her hand, he started backing toward the door, as though escaping while he held a small advantage. “Still on for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Of course,” she said, a weird pang lancing her chest at the idea of letting him go. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
He grinned, a lock of black hair falling into his eyes, making him look every inch the sexy devil. He was certainly leaving in a better mood than when he’d arrived. “Not as much as I am, bella. Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“And, Grace?”
“Yes?”
“About the other . . . thanks for listening.”
“Anytime,” she said sincerely.
He nodded and in seconds he was gone, leaving a vast emptiness in his wake.
He hadn’t once touched his coffee.
Julian followed an officer through the small, busy rabbit warren of the Sugarland Police Department building, glad for any distraction to take his mind off the ache in his heart. Even this one, being escorted to see Detective Shane Ford in homicide rather than the detectives he’d spoken with before.
Homicide.Holy shit, what did that mean? He didn’t have long to speculate.
Ford sat behind his desk, perusing a pile of paperwork, an expression of intense concentration on his face. At Julian’s knock, the brown-haired man looked up and gave him a distracted, but pleasant, greeting.
“Mr. Salvatore?”
“Julian, please.”
Ford waved him inside and stood to shake his hand. “Come in. I’ve been meaning to give you a call and follow up, but the shit has sort of hit the fan around this place. It’s just as well you’re here,” he said in a soft drawl.
Julian shook his hand, studying the tall, lean cowboy dressed in jeans with a gold buckle. The guy looked tired, like he’d pulled an all-nighter. “Why’s that?”
“What, the shit hitting the fan or that it’s good you’re here?” Sitting down again, he leaned back in his chair.
“Both, I suppose.” Julian decided he could see why the lieutenant liked the guy. Ford’s friendly demeanor and honest face reminded him of the detective’s twin sister, Shea, whom he’d met at the Waterin’ Hole with Tommy.
The detective picked up a pencil with a mangled eraser and tapped it on the desk as he spoke, probably a habit. “All right. Why don’t we begin with you. Even though you told the other detectives what you witnessed at the club the night Brett Charles disappeared, I’d like to hear it from you.” Ford was silent a moment as he opened a file and flipped to a page of notes.
“You came into the station two days after Charles vanished because you caught the story on the evening news, saw his picture, and were sure he was the man you’d seen, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me.”
Taking a fortifying breath, Julian did as Ford asked, relating every detail he could recall. The two men, their odd interaction at the bar, Julian and Cody remarking on them, his following the men outside.
“Where you said they got into a dark, four-door Mercedes.”
“Yes. License plate X, E, and either a P or B. I couldn’t read the rest.”
“That’s quite a memory now, much less that night, when you’d been out drinking with your date.”
“I didn’t have that much to drink. And I have excellent recall, especially when something bothers me as much as this did.”
Ford pinned him with an assessing stare. “Because of the weird vibe between the men.” There was no sarcasm in his voice, only speculation—as though he sensed Julian was holding something back.
And he’d be right.
The memory made his skin clammy with old terror and shame.
“Let me ask you. . . . Cody corroborated everything I said, didn’t he?” Now maybe he’d learn whether the police ever spoke with the bartender.
“The detectives tried a few times, but he was ‘too busy’ at work and never home. I’ll have to pay him a visit, not that I don’t believe you. It’s better to have more than one person relate the same details.”
Damn. “Detective, there’s no good way to say this, but Cody’s dead.”
Ford’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I just found out last night. Another bartender at the Cadillac told me he fell off a ladder outside his house while fixing his rain gutters.”
The detective threw down his pencil in disgust. “Well, sonofabitch.”
“The kicker is, he was killed last Wednesday, the day before my hit-and-run.”
“Your what?”
“Shit, nobody told you about that, either?” He shook his head, studying the cop, who appeared pretty pissed. “Unbelievable. We were working a minor traffic accident out on I-49 when some asshole in a pickup tried to turn me into a pavement patty. I had a concussion and just got the stitches out yesterday.”
“Sounds like you’re damned lucky to be alive.”
“Yep, and get this—the truck had no plates.”
Ford’s expression darkened. “I can’t fucking believe I wasn’t informed about any of this.”
“Considering you might’ve had both of your only witnesses accidentally killed within twenty-four hours of each other? Me, either.” He paused, wondering whether to push, but curiosity got the best of him. “You said the shit hit the fan. Care to explain?”
“You had the news on last night or this morning?”
“Haven’t had a chance.” Oh, this was going to be bad.
“These disappearances, officially they’ve been elevated in status from missing persons to kidnappings. We’ve got remains of two bodies, one male and one female, found beside a washed-out bank along the Cumberland. Runoff from the rain unearthed them.”
The blood drained from Julian’s face. “Brett Charles?”
“No, these were earlier victims. In fact, they were the first ones to disapp
ear ten months ago. Their names are Samuel Yantis and Patricia Marston, ages nineteen and twenty. The medical examiner says they probably haven’t been dead for very long. Five or six months at the most.”
“But that means . . .”
“Yeah. They were held somewhere, kept alive and tortured, and murdered months later. In short, we’ve got ourselves a serial killer.”
Automatically, Julian clutched at his cross and whispered a brief prayer in Spanish. “Dios, that’s insane. Monstrous.”
“It is. But it also gives us hope that we have time to find the other victims before they suffer the same tragic end.”
“How—”
“You don’t want to know. Trust me.”
No, he didn’t. It sickened him to imagine what those poor kids had been through before they died. Years ago, he’d been damned lucky—
The idea shook him. In truth, had been stewing all along.
Was it even remotely possible?
How could what happened in Texas a lifetime ago possibly be related to here and now, more than six hundred miles away?
You know how. But since you didn’t go to the police back then, will anyone believe you?
“I’ve told you what I know,” he said, trying to shove the ghosts out of his head. He stood. “If anything else comes up, you know where to find me.”
“Likewise.” Ford got to his feet and shook his hand once more. “Do us all a favor and watch your back.”
“You know it.”
Julian made his way out of the station, his mental ram blings turning to this afternoon.
This day was bound to get a helluva lot worse before it improved.
Brett sat hunched against the cold rock, knees drawn up, and clutched his tattered, filthy shirt. He shook with terror, wide gaze fixed on the dim light coming from somewhere far down the passage.
They’d come, taken Joey. He knew for sure when they called him by name, murmuring words of false comfort, of praise. Sickening.
Then the generator came alive with a deep hum that reverberated along the cavern walls, some awful beast with gaping jaws, hungry to prey upon its next meal.
Kendra sang, a maddening, nonsensical tune that had him pulling at his hair, ready to yell at her to shut the fuck up.
And then, the screaming.
Shrill, animal screams of fear and horror. On and on, in staccato bursts, digging into his brain. Shredding his soul. He clapped his hands over his ears, desperate to shut out the wails, the demented singing that went on forever. No amount of drugs would ever be enough to do the job.
When it all stopped, the silence cut to the bone. Left a black hole in his middle that nothing would ever fill again. Not even if he got out of here alive.
Tears ran unchecked down his face as he realized Kendra was right. Nothing was worse than when the screaming ended.
Because that meant someone else was next.
8
“All right, out with it. What’s so dire that you had to descend on me the second I got home, on a Friday, after a long week with my little tyrants?” Kat smiled at her sister with affection, taking the sting out of her words, letting her know she didn’t really mind the impromptu visit. “And why is my workaholic sibling off work so early, anyway? Friday afternoon blues?”
“Something like that.” Grace swirled the glass of Chardonnay Kat had poured for her, took a grateful sip. “Oh, this is good. I just wanted to check on my baby sis—is that a crime?”
“Of course not. I’m basking in the glow of all this attention like the diva I am,” she said, picking up her glass of milk. “Howard won’t let me carry anything heavier than my book bag loaded with the kids’ work sheets, and he even complains about that.”
“And you’re not even showing yet, you brat,” she teased.
“You don’t think so?” Looking down, she smoothed one hand over her tummy. “Oh, well. It won’t be long.”
Grace snorted, unable to resist nettling her. “Exactly, which means you’d better appreciate that cute, curvy little bod while you have it. Before long, you’ll be lying on your back and realize your boobs have gone on strike and now permanently point east and west instead of north.”
“Oh! Bitch!” Kat hurled a throw pillow at her sister, making them both giggle. “You are so evil!”
“Is Grace being mean to you, baby?” Howard walked into the living room, sweaty and shirtless, dressed in torn jeans, a hammer in one hand. He bent and gave Kat a sound, sizzling kiss.
Grace couldn’t help but stare. Her brother-in-law was one prime chunk of real estate, no matter how you sliced it. More than that, he loved her sister to distraction and treated her as if she were a princess, which in Grace’s eyes made him a god. When he laid a big, gentle hand on Kat’s belly, Grace’s throat burned with an unexpected wash of emotion and she had to look away.
“I think she’s just PMS-ing,” Kat said, giving her husband an exaggerated pout. “She said you’d better get ready for saggy boobs.”
Howard straightened with a put-upon groan. “Oh, jeez. Days like this, I’m glad to be an only child. Ladies, the new deck is calling me.”
With that, he spun and made himself scarce. Grace and Kat shared a grin, then laughed as one of the back doors banged shut. Grace tucked her legs up on the sofa and studied the happy glow on her sister’s face.
“He’s a good man, sweet pea.”
“Yes, he is. I’m not sure how I got so lucky.” Kat toyed with her glass, arching a brow. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong, I just—” She faltered, feeling the weight of loneliness crashing down. Wished she’d managed to come back with some witty retort or bullshit story to divert her sister. One look told her neither of those tactics was going to work, and she sighed. “How did you know Howard was the one?”
Kat stared at her in surprise, appearing caught between making a joke and answering honestly. To Grace’s relief, she opted for the latter.
“I think I knew the second we met. But I didn’t know I knew, if that makes sense, until after our first date, when he revived that little girl who fell in the river. Seeing this big, strong man almost go to pieces over saving a baby? That was the clincher.”
“I’m sure it would be,” she said, thinking of Julian. He did those same sorts of heroic things, every day. “But wasn’t there ever a time when you second-guessed yourself? Asked yourself whether this was what you really wanted?”
“We had some definite issues to work past, but no. Howard was the one who had to figure stuff out. I knew I wanted my man and I’d do just about anything to get him.”
“I envy you that sort of confidence,” she said quietly. “I always have.”
Kat blinked. “What the heck are you talking about? You’ve always been the one with the ironclad life plan, marching toward success and prestige, taking no prisoners.”
“Yes, but you’re referring to work, not personal relationships.”
“So, what? You’re having, like, an identity crisis or something? You’re not confident with men, in knowing what you want?” She posed the last question as though the idea were inconceivable.
“I thought I was, and I believed I did. I’ve had relationships. Nice, uncomplicated, casual affairs.”
“I hear a big fat but hanging there.”
“But . . . what if a woman doesn’t know whether he’s the one? What if the guy wants more than a fling? I don’t know if I’m ready for complications. I don’t want to—to hurt him. Or to get hurt.”
Scooting closer, Kat laid a hand on her arm. “This doesn’t sound like my poised, self-assured sister. This is about Julian—am I warm?”
“Burning. The man is . . . charming, hardworking, sexy—”
“Skilled?” Kat waggled her brows.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, a tad too quickly. At her sister’s knowing smirk, she relented somewhat. “Well, all right, yes! But we haven’t slept together, and believe it or not, he’s a total gentleman who puts the la
dy first.”
“Wow, who would’ve thought?”
Grace bristled, some strange urge to defend him heating her blood. “Why is that so surprising? He’s a kindhearted, wonderful man, and I don’t think anybody has ever really taken the time to get to know him.”
“Whoa, it’s not me you have to convince! You’re the one worrying yourself in circles where the man is concerned.”
“I’m not—” She clamped her mouth shut. Okay, so she was. Perplexed, she took a healthy draw of her wine. “What’s wrong with me, Sis?”
“Honey, I think you have an idea,” she said, lips curving in a soft smile. “But it’s your bridge to cross, in your own time. Not everyone is magically ready and willing to make the final leap at the first sign of lusty-ever-after, and you shouldn’t feel bad about being cautious. You want to know what I think?”
“Of course I do, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“I think that deep down you know this attraction with Julian won’t be just a satisfying fling. I think you’re fighting it because he doesn’t fit your well-ordered life plan. In Grace’s schema, passion equals losing control, and commitment equals loss of freedom—and both scare the crap out of you. How am I doing so far?”
Grace’s eyes widened as she stared at her sister. “Damn, you’re good. How’d you get so smart?”
Her sister pressed on, ignoring her question. “I also think you know in your heart there’s something worth exploring between you. Your reaction when you found out he’d been hurt proved it like nothing else could have.”
“You think I should go for it.”
“The question is, what do you want?”
“I want my well-ordered life plan to go back to following its boring little path,” she blurted. And knew she’d lied.
From the sparkle in Kat’s green eyes, she knew, too. “Uh-huh. Good luck with that.”
“You’re all heart.”
“I still owe you for the comment about the saggy boobs. We’re nowhere close to even.”
“And then there’s the stretch marks—”
“Danger,” Kat said in a low, menacing voice. “Hormonal, pregnant, homicidal maniac at nine o’clock.”
