by Burton, Mary
She slid off her shirt and then her pants. When she faced him in just her bra and panties, he was reaching for his belt buckle as his eyes roved over her.
She crossed the room and pushed his hands aside, taking the smooth metal buckle in her fingers. She was careful not to touch him as she studied his face.
“I feel a little like a lab rat,” he said.
“Really?”
“You are always studying my every expression. And I know you’ve analyzed my home.”
“It’s what I do. I study people.” She unhooked the top button of his trousers.
His jaw pulsed. “Do you ever see people as people?”
“It’s easier if I don’t.”
He traced his finger over her bare shoulder. “There’s no emotion, then, when we do this?”
“I like it very much.” She opened his pants but did not slide her hand under the waistband of his shorts.
“You’re using me for sex?” A note of seriousness hummed under the playful tone.
Maybe she was. But after Jeff had died, she had used other men for sex and had never returned for extra helpings as she had with him.
Zoe met his gaze, seeing an intensity she had not noticed before. “Do you want me to stop?”
His silence swarmed around her. “No.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to stop.” She reached for the clasp between her breasts and unhooked her bra. She slid it off and let it fall to the floor.
He cupped her breast and leaned in to kiss her lips. Since the first time he had touched her, she had liked the way he teased her nipples and the sensual way he kissed her. He certainly did not feel like Jeff or even look like him. But he had a way of fanning flames that had died with her husband.
She pressed against him, liking the feel of his erection brushing against her groin, the way his taut abdomen hitched when she teased him, and how breath shuddered over his lips when her teeth gently bit his bottom lip.
They stood, teasing each other, almost testing to see who would be the first to lower to the bed. It had always been her in the past. And each time she had eased down to the mattress and beckoned him forward, that patience of his had shattered.
This time, she found he was taking extra time playing, and when she tried to tug him toward the bed, he resisted. It had been a month since he had been inside her, and she missed the sensations he churned in her body.
She pushed off his pants and underwear, growing impatient with the foreplay. He stepped out, but instead of pulling her toward the bed, he cupped her lace-clad buttocks.
The flirtatious back-and-forth was starting to feel more intimate than she had intended. Prolonged foreplay and kissing had been something she had only shared with Jeff. And since his death, she had avoided emotional attachments, including one with Vaughan.
She stepped back from Vaughan and slid off her panties. His breathing was quick, and she was pleased to know that she was not the only one who was anxious to be in bed. Later, she might analyze why he had this sudden need for them to savor each other. For now, she did not care.
She took him by the hand, and as she climbed onto the mattress, she pulled him with her. She knew what he liked—knew how to make him forget whatever promise he had made to go slow. She cupped her breasts and moistened her lips as her fingers slid down her belly to her sex. Seconds later, he was on top of her, and she maneuvered his erection to her opening.
She felt his urgency as he pressed inside her and sensed his resolve wavering. She smoothed her hand over his buttocks, coaxing him deeper inside of her. He moved in and out of her slowly as her body adjusted to him, and soon he was thrusting harder.
Sexual tension built in her body, and she gave him high marks for the way he had learned the pressure points on her body so quickly.
She closed her eyes, trying to remember what it had felt like when she had been with Jeff. Six years was a lifetime, and the intervening time had stripped away almost every last memory she had cherished.
Now more than ever, she desperately wanted to remember Jeff, but she could not recall a single detail. Later, she would play back his last voicemail message on her phone and recharge the fading recollections.
As if he sensed her mind drifting, Vaughan pushed deeper into her, shooting electricity through her entire system. He brought her focus back to the sensations stirring in her body. She wanted to turn off her brain and shut out the sadness, if only for a little while.
Desire and release roared around her, chasing her closer to the cliff. She wanted to free-fall over the edge. She wanted to feel.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
His deep voice was a distant distraction, and she wanted nothing more than to swat it away like a bug. Her focus needed to remain on the orgasm that promised release. She did not want to acknowledge work, life, grief, or him.
As he slowed his pace, her race to the edge decelerated. She raised her pelvis.
“Open your eyes.”
The way the words were spoken was so clear and concise; she knew if she did not obey, he would stop and rob her of the payoff.
With a sense of resolve, Zoe opened her eyes and discovered he was studying her with an odd mix of desire and annoyance.
“You’re not the only one who reads body language,” he said.
“What does that mean?” Her distant voice echoed with insincerity.
“Who are you with?” he asked.
“You,” she said.
He brushed the stray wisps of hair from her face. “Are you?”
“I don’t see anyone else.”
“Not even your late husband?”
Jesus, did it really matter? They were both getting what they wanted. She expected nothing from him. No strings or baggage.
The buildup to her release was losing steam, and she didn’t want to go home alone and sexually frustrated. “It’s only you,” she lied.
A slight cock of his head told her he wasn’t sure he believed her. He wanted to. But . . .
“Right now, it’s just you and me.” She smiled enough to ease the apprehension coiling in his body. “I can get to where I want to go alone, but I’d rather do it with you.” She arched toward him in a show of unity.
His eyes smoldered, and seemingly shoving aside his doubt, he quickened his pace. Sweat moistened the base of his spine, and she knew he had lost himself in the moment. She tightened her grip on her breast and moaned as the edge raced toward her faster than it ever had.
When she tumbled, she arched, allowing her body to give in completely to the sensations washing over her in rolling, hot waves.
Vaughan’s body went rigid, and the muscles in his neck bunched as he bored deep into her. The tension in his back released, and his eyes glistened with the triumphant spark men had when they orgasmed.
He lowered down on his elbow and rolled on his back beside her. She closed her eyes again, nestled closer to his warmth, and drifted back to that fleeting place between the past and the present. She was not with her husband but with Vaughan; she could almost pretend she was happy like she used to be.
And these days, almost had to be good enough.
Nikki’s heart beat in her chest as she shoved through the front door of her condo. In one hand, she clutched a grocery bag stuffed with the essentials: wine, aspirin, and coffee. In the other, she balanced a duffle, crammed with files she kept in her storage unit, and a pizza box.
She still couldn’t believe that the skull belonged to Marsha Prince!
Nikki pushed her front door closed and crossed into the kitchen, dumping her purchases on the marble countertop.
After toeing off her shoes, she moved to her computer and pulled up her site. She had written and posted a quick recap of Marsha right after the detective and agent had left her. She checked the comment section and saw two dozen comments. Not stellar, but not terrible.
From the bag she removed the DVDs she had retrieved from storage. She arranged them in chronological order, starting with the first
story she had filed on the Prince girl’s disappearance. Today she would create a montage of videos for her site so that her audience could see what it had been like for her to cover it in real time.
She loaded a DVD in the disk drive, and as it queued, she poured herself a glass of wine and plopped three slices of pizza on a plate.
Six months ago, she would never have indulged in the carbs, but months of unemployment had translated into so many bad habits she now doubted she could fit into one of her trademark pencil skirts.
She sat at her small kitchen table and watched as the camera panned from the Princes’ two-story home to her. For a moment, she hit pause, leaning in and staring at her face. Jesus, when had she ever been that young? She looked like Bambi caught in the headlights of a hunter. And the hair. Who had told her bangs looked good on her?
“Time marches on, McDonald.”
She hit play and watched detectives cluster near the house as a grim-faced Hadley peeked out from the curtains of the large front bay window.
“I’m at the home of Larry and Edith Prince. Police are not saying much, but it appears that their nineteen-year-old daughter, Marsha, has vanished. My sources are telling me that the 911 call came in early morning, when Marsha’s mother realized she’d not come home. I’ve spoken to several neighbors, who tell me that they saw Marsha Prince up to two days ago.”
Over the course of the next several reports she had filed, neighbors and friends had had lots to say about the family. She’d learned of Mrs. Prince’s multiple sclerosis and Larry’s financial struggles, but most had conceded the Princes were a normal family. There had been potential sightings of Marsha and tips called into the hotline, but she had never been found.
Nikki drained her glass of wine and crossed back into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee. As much as she would like to finish the wine, she needed to start making a list of the people associated with this case.
Her attention shifted back and forth to the pictures she had of the girl and to the images she had taken of the blackened bones nestled in the chest filled with brittle tissue paper. She did not know the actual cause of death but wondered, given the state of the bones, if it even could be determined now.
But someone out there knew exactly how Marsha had died. And it was likely that someone had sent her to the remains because he or she wanted the girl’s story known.
Her fear was that her friendly tipster would lose his nerve and remain as silent as he had been over the last eight weeks. Up until now, her contact had had all the power. Now she needed to get the upper hand. She quickly typed out a public plea on her website to her tipster, suggesting he was a coward if he did not contact her.
Her finger hovered over the “Post” button as she considered what kind of trouble she could be stirring up with an individual who could be unstable.
Seconds ticked, and her nerve actually wavered before she hit the button.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday, August 13, 2:30 a.m.
Alexandria, Virginia
The Day Of
Hadley had arrived home shortly after midnight, barely twenty minutes before Mark had pushed through the front door. She had lain in bed, listening to him move around downstairs, shower in the bath off the hallway, and change into jogger shorts and a T-shirt. The choice of clothing was for Skylar’s benefit. If their daughter caught him on the sofa or downstairs, he could simply say he was out for an early run or had fallen asleep in front of the television. Mark did everything for that kid. He adored her, and Hadley knew if he had to choose between Skylar or her, their daughter would win hands down.
When their girl had had her troubles in Oregon, it had been Mark’s idea to move back east. Hadley had not wanted to return to the East Coast but realized leaving Portland was better than facing the questions and stares. He had reached out to his company and requested a transfer.
Now as she rolled out of bed, minutes after three o’clock in the morning, she glanced briefly toward the spot where her husband had slept until last week. They had both agreed divorce was the only option available, and they were simply waiting for the best time to tell Skylar. He had wanted to wait for a few more weeks to give Skylar a chance to settle into her school year. Hadley had insisted it be done by Friday.
Hadley knew her daughter well enough to know she was very smart and had to have sensed major problems in the marriage.
“Mom, why were the cops here?” Skylar asked. “I’ve been good. I’ve done everything you asked.”
“They weren’t here for you,” Hadley said.
“Then why?”
A headache pulsed behind her eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her daughter’s temper snapped. “You only say that when there is a problem!”
Hadley now quickly made the bed, smoothing out all evidence of the separate sleeping arrangements. She dressed in jogging shorts, a bra, and a T-shirt, made a notation in a small notebook she used to track her workouts, and then tiptoed past Skylar’s closed door and down the stairs. Mark lay on his side, his back pressed against the cushions and his arms crossed over his chest, as if trying to squeeze his large frame into the too-small space.
In three days, he would move out. All that was left to do was tell Skylar. Neither of them wanted to upend the girl’s life. But Hadley needed a new challenge. A new something to consume her life and thoughts.
Poor Skylar. She had been born to a mother who was damaged. A mother who was OCD about so much irrational shit but who was powerless to ease her grip on control. She was a mother who kept secrets and lied because they made her feel safe and in control. A mother who recognized love but was so consumed by guilt she had forgotten what genuine emotion felt like. Maybe if Hadley had made different choices, Skylar would not have suffered.
Hadley slipped out the back door, closing it behind her but not bothering to lock the door. Even if someone broke into the house, Mark would hear it. And he would know what to do, because he always knew how to fix any problem.
He was Mark the Savior. The Fixer. The Jailer.
She stretched out her calves and Achilles tendons before easing out the back gate. She began with a slow and steady jog down the back street illuminated only by the light of a near full moon. Despite her warming up her muscles, the plantar fasciitis in her right heel sent pain bolting up her leg. Experience had taught her that the discomfort would continue for several miles, and when it vanished, she would miss it. She functioned best when she was hurting.
Her muscles groaned and pulled but finally relaxed, coaxed by the warm morning air. She drew in a deep breath. Normally, she ran five miles, but today she was tempted to go farther. Her body craved the activity that released the endorphins. She ran faster.
The image of Marsha’s reconstructed face jostled into her thoughts. Though the sculpture was good, the face had an artificial look, much like a person prettied up for a coffin viewing. Real but not quite.
Each time she thought about Marsha’s skull under the clay and paint, she imagined her sister watching her through the glassy brown eyes. Marsha’s eyes had always been so trusting, because her sister had believed that no matter what, Hadley had her back.
Hadley stared up at the clear night sky and the full moon, remembering the moon had looked very much like this on the night Marsha had left. It had been clear, pure, and white. Almost perfect.
“Do you have to be such a bitch? You’re never happy, are you?” Marsha asked. “Hadley, it’s not my fault.”
Hadley quickened her pace, trying to chase away memories of her sister. “Go away,” she whispered.
Marsha’s voice echoed again in her head. I just wanted to go out and have fun. You should have warned me.
“Shut up!” Hadley said.
Hadley pumped her arms harder. Ahead, a cat screeched, and another howled back. Sweat began to pool between her breasts.
The image of her sister’s face flashed in her mind. The last time she had seen Marsha, her sister had been headed out
the back door to meet a date at a club. Hadley could have said something. But she had not. She had remained silent as she’d watched Marsha drive off. It had never occurred to her that Marsha would not come home. She had thought maybe she would get knocked down a peg or two, but she would come home.
I trusted you! Marsha’s voice echoed.
The memory of the bust’s eyes stalked her. “You’re dead. You’re dead. And it’s not my fault. Not my fault. Not my fault.” She whispered the involuntary chant over and over as she pounded the pavement.
She tripped on a small pothole and had to take several quick steps to right herself. “Shit,” she muttered as she refocused on the pavement.
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
The pain in her leg returned, and she let it lasso her thoughts. She ran for another hour, and when she entered her front door, her calf was on fire. The scent of coffee surprised her, and she wondered if her husband had set the timer on the coffee maker incorrectly again.
She limped up the stairs, not bothering a glance toward Mark. The upstairs was still dark, but she had walked this hallway so many times she knew every creak in the floor, the number of steps from the landing to her bedroom, and the location of all the light switches.
The digital display on her nightstand clock read 4:32 a.m. Good. She still had an hour before the house woke up.
She sat on the end of the bed and reached for her laces. As she ducked her head, she had the sense that someone was in the shadows, lurking, watching.
Hadley rose and walked toward her bedroom door. Her sister’s name on her lips as she stared down the long quiet hallway. Her heart pounded in her chest. She listened but heard only the gurgle of the coffee maker downstairs. No one was there. And yet, something was definitely off.
She returned to her bedroom and readied to close and lock the door. But as she took hold of the knob and pushed it closed, the hair on the back of her neck rose. Her skin prickled. And then came the creak of floorboards only a few feet away.
