by S. E. Harmon
“I’m not going to smother you. Yet.” I tilted my head, considering. “Although, this hosting dinner for your mother thing brought me as close as I think I’ll ever be. I was just thinking.”
“Well, can you do your thinking without staring at me like a serial killer?”
“It helps me.” I stared some more. “You have a very strong jaw. You also need to shave.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”
His eyes drifted shut a few moments later. Clearly, he wasn’t as bothered by my staring as he claimed. I traced a finger down the slope of his nose. It occurred to me then that I spent a lot of time touching him, and he spent a lot of time letting me. Maybe that was because we knew we were living our second chance every day. And we both knew how rare those were.
I yawned. God, but it was good to have a leg up on Kane. It was time to let him know that the roses didn’t belong to him anymore—they had names. Families. Lives. It was time to show the ultimate puppet master how it felt to have a hand up his rump… and not in that scary but interesting fisting kind of way.
“Wily old bastard,” I muttered.
Danny’s brow quirked. “Did you just call me a wily old bastard?”
“Not you. Kane. I’m picturing how unbelievably pissed he’s going to be that we found the girls without his help.”
“And then?”
“And then he has no leverage,” I said with a frown, still tracing a path along his warm, soft skin. “The game is over and he fucking lost.”
Danny caught my hand as I reached his ear. He kissed the inner side of my wrist. “He’s not going to be happy about that.”
“I know.”
He reached out and brushed my cheek, which still carried a faint bruise from my last skirmish with Kane. “Don’t turn your back on him.”
I stared at him for a moment before giving a short nod.
I wasn’t planning on it.
Chapter 19
Kane was in a strange mood.
In the short time I’d known him, I’d seen a range of emotions. Smug amusement was his favorite. I was familiar with his irritation, which happened often, and his regret, of which there was shockingly little. I was even familiar with his joy—that appeared briefly when he had that first orgasmic drag of a cigarette after a long nicotineless drought. But today was the first day I’d seen him nervous.
He looked a little worse for wear as he puffed on his cigarette. He usually kept his prison uniform meticulously patched and clean, but today there was a long tear down one side. The pocket was torn clean off, the patch with his DC numbers hanging on crookedly. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his bottom lip was puffy and bruised, almost like he’d been in a fight.
Maybe his nervousness had something to do with the spirits who accompanied him everywhere he went. Two of them stood behind him like silent sentinels, but I knew better than to think they were always well-behaved. He might not be able to see them, but I knew he could smell them—the small room was filled with the scent of oranges.
I recognized both ghosts. Janet Winston was back and she’d brought a friend, victim number seven. Her name was Grace Bellows, and she’d been on her way to meet her first grandchild.
Janet looked different than the last time I’d seen her. Her hair was tangled and dirty, her face dark with blood and bruises. Dakota once told me that ghosts tried to maintain their favorite appearance, the time in their life when they were happiest. But when they started to remember and relive the past, their tenuous hold on reality slipped. If that was the case, then trouble was probably dead ahead.
My opening salvo was strong as fuck. “We arrested Valerie last night.”
He did a good job of hiding his surprise, but there were telltale signs. A quick widening of his eyes. The way his pulse jumped in his neck. He smiled, slow and mocking. “Guess you’re not just a pretty face. I knew you’d get there eventually.”
Yep, here I am. All caught up on your bullshit. “You set the copycat murders in motion.”
“I wrote to Delilah. Told her that there was a lot of heat on me since the last murder, and she needed to finish the job. She fought me on it for a little while.” He shook his head. “She lost her nerve. Got soft. That’s when she told me about our son. She said she couldn’t afford to get in any trouble and risk leaving him alone in the world.”
“Were you surprised to find out about Joey?”
“Yes. Even more surprised that she’d left him with someone else to raise like he was a puppy from a litter.” His lip curled. “I told her to go get our boy back, or there would be hell to pay. She said she would. That’s when the letters stopped.”
“You figured out that Valerie Carr killed her.”
“It wasn’t all that hard to solve that puzzle, Doc.” He lit another cigarette from the one in his mouth and dropped the butt in an empty can of root beer. “She had to be dead. Delilah would’ve never cut me out of her life for good. She couldn’t manage it, even when she tried. She was always under my control.”
Well, isn’t that nice? “You didn’t care that Valerie Carr got away with murdering the love of your life?”
He shrugged. “She finished my Rose garden. That bought her a little goodwill. That’s why I let her keep the boy.”
I showed him the picture of Janet Winston again. “Who was she? You sent her mother a dozen black roses.”
“Black Baccara,” he said. “I called her that because of all that gorgeous dark hair.”
“Where did you find her?”
“At a bus stop, shivering in the rain. She was an only child of overprotective but loving parents.” The tension in his shoulders visibly eased. Talking about his precious Roses was one of his favorite activities. “Her boyfriend got some girl pregnant, and her father took it upon himself to threaten the guy. She was pissed.”
“Is that why she left?”
“Pretty much. She was fed up with her parents butting into her life and upset with her boyfriend. She was ready for change, so she decided to spread her wings and head to New York City.” He smiled fondly. “I convinced her to go back home and then I offered her a ride.”
Janet made a low sound of pain, and when I glanced up, she had a strip of masking tape across her eyes. Her head thrashed back and forth, clearly lost in the memory of her last days. I decided to move on before I upset her further.
I shuffled through the stack until I found the picture of Grace Bellows. She had a sweetly rounded face and rosy cheeks, her blonde hair soft and curly and tucked behind both ears. She looked nothing like the horror standing behind Kane, her decayed skin falling off in patches.
“Sweet Briar rose,” he said without prompting. “Don’t let her appearance fool you. She fought like a wildcat. It took six days to break her in properly. The damned woman died the next day, just when I’d gotten her just how I wanted her.”
I didn’t take the bait. “How did you kill her?”
In vintage Kane fashion, he ignored my question. He stubbed his cigarette out on the table. “You said you’d stop the haunting, and you did… for a while. But she’s back.” He swallowed. “I can feel her.”
I glanced up to find another ghost trailing her fingers up his spine. Cindy May Weatherby. She had a piece of tape over her eyes, much like Janet. He shivered involuntarily as Cindy reached his nape, and a smile curved her cracked and broken lips.
“That’s… not the same one.”
“Then do something about her,” he demanded.
“It might help if you told me something about Cindy. Give her peace,” I urged quietly. “And be careful about what you say.”
“You don’t scare me and neither do they,” he snapped. “I own them. That little bitch begged for her life, which made it even better. I told her I wasn’t going to kill her. I was going to make her—”
“Immortal,” Cindy whispered along with him. “He said art lives forever.”
Another of the roses appeared to his left. I recognized her, too. H
e told me he’d called her Veilchenblau for her lavender/blue lipstick. It was still there, smeared on and around her bow-shaped mouth, stark against her pale skin. She reached out a hand and caressed his jaw.
He jerked away as that wispy hand came in contact with his skin. “What the fuck was that?”
“You know what it was,” I said lowly, “and if you don’t calm down, it’s going to get worse.”
He pounded his fist on the table, and the empty soda can jumped. “I don’t have to do a damn thing. You remember that.” His eyes flashed dangerously. “I’m in control, Doc.”
Veilchenblau’s slender fingers now caressed his windpipe, and I swallowed reflexively. Not anymore, you’re not.
“He put tape over my eyes, but not my mouth,” she said softly. “I never knew why. Ask him.”
I eyed her warily. “I don’t think this is the time—”
“Ask him,” she demanded, her eyes snapping fire.
Welp, I guess I was asking him. I certainly didn’t want those delicate fingers around my fucking neck. “Why did you put tape over their eyes, but not their mouth?”
Surrounded by his victims on either side, this would be the wrong time to say something inflammatory. We both knew that. We also knew he didn’t give a tinker’s damn. His jaw firmed. “So I could hear them scream. It was always better when they screamed.”
That small hand tightened like a vise, and Kane gasped as Veilchenblau choked off his air. I stared, watching as his cheeks turned mottled and red. I wish I could say I was in too much shock to move or think, but I felt almost… detached.
Why shouldn’t she have her revenge? Why shouldn’t she have a little justice? He’d hurt so many. It was like he had the reverse Midas touch—everything he put those Nicotine-stained fingers on turned to absolute shit.
Kane banged one hand on the table desperately, his gaze darting back and forth. I frowned, torn, as his eyes started to bulge. I couldn’t let his darkness permeate my soul. Veilchenblau had earned her revenge—they all had—but I didn’t think it would help them heal. Kane would die, but not right now. Not like this.
“Stop,” I said softly.
Her gaze jerked to my face, almost as though I’d shouted the word. “Give me one good reason why I should.”
“Because you’re not him.”
Her mouth worked for a moment as she realized the truth of that. “It isn’t fair,” she cried out. “He’s had so many more years than he deserved, years he stole from us. He should’ve been executed a long time ago. What’re they waiting for?”
“We have a system in place and a process to follow. Maybe it isn’t perfect, and it damn sure isn’t fair, but that’s the way the law works,” I said quietly. “If we’re going to put someone to death, there are rules we have to abide by—”
“Fuck your rules!”
“Shawna—”
“God, that’s my name, isn’t it?” Her grip loosened, and Kane gasped for air, looking much like a landed fish. His fingers flew to his throat, massaging the skin there.
Shawna let out a shaky breath. “It’s so good to hear my name. My real name. Shawna Murphy. Not fucking Veilchenblau.”
Kane’s color was starting to return. Dark purple fingerprints marked either side of his neck, and he let out a raspy growl. “You have them doing your bidding now?”
“That was her decision. And her decision to stop,” I reminded him in case he got any bright ideas. “I don’t have control over that.”
“And if she decides to do that to me when you’re not here?” he demanded. “What then?”
Then, you reap what the fuck you sow.
My expression made his face darken with anger. “You’re never gonna get those Roses. You hear me, boy?”
“I already have them,” I said coldly. I opened the folder and pulled out an aerial shot of River Island grove. “Nothing stays buried forever, Kane. You should know that.”
His mouth fell open a little with shock as he stared down at the picture. After a beat of silence, I put another photo on the table that really brought the hammer down. “The scent of oranges confused the dogs for a while, but as you can see, the recovery team found all the barrels.”
The barrels were standard in size, with the logo JJM stamped on the side. Not that we’d needed further proof, but Graycie confirmed that Kane had cleaned for a company called John James Machinery. No one even noticed when a few old barrels went missing.
“No, that’s not right,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “This isn’t the way things are supposed to go.”
Tough titty said the kitty, but the milk’s still good.
His face suffused with color as he tried to regain control. I wasn’t going to give him the chance. I pushed away from the table and stood. He watched, still a little slack-jawed as I gathered my things. “Where do you think you’re going?” he snapped.
I headed for the door. “I think we’re all done here.”
He hit the table again, this time with both fists. The chains around his wrists and hands made a godawful cacophony as it struck the metal surface. “I’ll see ya real soon, Doc,” he vowed dangerously. “That’s a promise.”
The door clanged shut behind me. I glanced back through the observation window. He was surrounded by his “art,” and they weren’t exactly keeping their distance. He flinched as Janet brushed a finger across his ear, and I saw yet another emotion on his face that I’d never seen him display.
Fear.
Chapter 20
I got home slightly after dusk.
The house was quiet and dark and I wasn’t sure if I was happy about that or not. I slipped off my shoes by the door and headed for the bedroom, flipping on lights as I went. On the one hand, I could use Danny’s stalwart, unflappable presence. On the other, I wasn’t fit company for anyone.
A long shower helped. Doing routine things around the house helped even more. I puttered about busily, loading the dishwasher and wiping down counters. I disinfected the already pristine microwave door and all the cupboard door handles. By the time I turned on the Roomba and took out the trash, I was starting to feel a little more like myself.
I was slightly derailed by the cardinal rule of refrigerators—if you pass by a fridge five times, you must look inside. And no, it doesn’t matter if you’re hungry. It’s just what you do.
I pulled on the handle and stared at the contents for a while, wasting electricity and letting the cold air wash over my bare feet. In the end, I decided food in all its forms was too much trouble. I was too tired to cook, I wasn’t hungry enough to roll the dice on old takeout, and I wasn’t motivated enough to get new takeout.
I shut the door.
I made my way to the living room and flopped on the couch. Just as I flicked on the TV, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Graycie. I groaned. It had taken a good two hours to drain the tension from my body, and I knew even before I answered that he was going to single-handedly put every ounce of it back.
I put the TV on Mute and answered on speaker. “What is it now?” I asked wearily.
“What the fuck did you tell those ghosts to do?”
“Excuse me?”
“Thomas Kane is dead.” Graycie was never one to belabor the point. “So I repeat, just what the fuck did you tell those ghosts to do?”
“Trust me, Grace, if I could manipulate those ghosts to do anything, you’d be in serious trouble right now.” I continued to peruse the TV guide restlessly. “What’s the cause of death?”
“Asphyxia,” Graycie said. When I didn’t respond, he let out a humorless chuckle. “Good to know you’re still embracing your cold, analytical, emotionless side. You’ve always excelled at that.”
Didn’t seem to stop you from hitting on me every six seconds.
“Were you expecting me to fall to my knees sobbing?” I raised an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see me. “I assumed his work Visa from hell had to expire sometime.”
“He died in
his cell. Alone.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Should it?”
“Well, some of the guards have been talking. They said odd things were happening around Kane.” He paused yet again, dramatic enough to audition for any soap opera. “They also claimed that you talked to yourself when you were alone in the interrogation room.”
“Well, case closed then. Lock me up and throw away the key. Talking to yourself gets you twenty to life, right?”
“I’m just telling you what they’re saying,” he said. “If you’re going to be working for me again, you need to avoid even a hint of suspicion.”
“That would be great if I was actually coming back to the FBI.”
I did a quick mental check to see how I felt about that. My emotional meter pinged on zero. I wasn’t disappointed or upset. If anything, I felt relieved to have finally made a choice. It just felt… right. I was all in with the PTU and that was just that.
Graycie had never been all that keen on the word no. “Is that your final answer?”
“Yes, Regis.”
“You know you’d be better off at the FBI. We have better resources. Better opportunities for someone with your unique capability. Tell me I’m wrong,” he demanded.
“Grace? Take a page from Frozen. Let it the fuck go.”
He made a huffy sound. “I’m assuming you’re still available to consult?”
“We’ll see.”
“On what?” he growled.
“On whether it fits my schedule or not. The PTU comes first.”
“Yeah? And what does your detective think about you using ghosts as your hit squad?”
“I don’t know what he thinks, but I think you should blow it out your ass,” I suggested kindly.
He sighed. “At least you found the Roses. And solved the copycat murders.”
“We also found Delilah Rose,” I reminded him.
“That is true. I still don’t know whether to kiss or throttle you.”
“Luckily for you, I respond to both of those options the same way,” I said sweetly. “With a knee to the nuts.”
