And then he had panicked, worried that he had lost her.
Thankfully, her mother, the eternally malleable Georgia, had helped with that.
But the game had changed.
His obsession was no longer to have her, not forever anyway. Now, it was to break her, to make her capitulate to him fully, to have her beg him to love her, to save her. Then he would end her.
His mistress touched his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the room. He reached back and locked the door behind him. She pointed to her bare foot, and he stepped out of his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall to the concrete floor, warm underfoot. Down the hallway, she opened the door. The lights were low. He smelled the room before he entered.
Cinnamon, lavender, a hint of citrus. At the threshold, he inhaled deeply. Stepping inside, he was already rock hard.
The lock on the door clicked in place behind him.
She waited for his sign.
He drew a breath and nodded.
She touched a button, and the music blared in his ears. Painfully loud. She led him to the table. He dropped his pants in a heap, which she kicked aside. Then his boxers.
As he lay down, he felt the gentle vibration of the bed. Soothing under the raucous music.
But when she lifted the wand, his body tensed. His erection stiffened and jumped off his belly.
Her lips touched his ear. “Do you need to be restrained?”
“No.”
She watched his face, giving him a chance to change his mind.
“No,” he repeated.
The wand lowered toward his chest, the rounded wire at the end, closing in on the sensitive skin on his nipple.
Keep your eyes open. Do not close them.
But then he couldn’t. He fought it, but fear triumphed, and he squeezed his eyes closed as the electricity scalded the sensitive skin, and he cried out in a voice that didn’t sound like his own.
21
After Schwartzman had Hal go through the results of Malik Washington’s autopsy, she retreated to her office. It was clear that Hal was disappointed. He hadn’t had any luck with a trip to the Laughlins’ apartment, and he’d hoped the autopsy would yield a lead. But he’d found nothing there.
And Roger was coming up empty as well. No luck tracing the weapon. The lab was still working on Hal’s only promising lead, Aleena Laughlin’s Jeep.
Schwartzman paused on the threshold of the small interior office. She spent less and less time in this room, preferring to work from the strange comfort of the sterile morgue or, in the evenings, seated with a cup of tea at the window seat in the small den of her new home. Between the biker who’d suffered a cardiac arrest and driven into the pond, the two homicide victims, and three other deaths requiring autopsy, she’d been busy the past few days. It was how she liked it—the fast pace of the work making the days speed by, keeping her mind alert and focused.
The downside of a lot of cases was the inevitable aftermath of paperwork.
As she settled behind her desk, she was greeted by a mountain of reports and dozens of unanswered emails. She’d work for an hour and see how much she got through before heading home to let Buster out. When he returned from the yard, he would watch her sort emails or complete a report, until he thought she’d had enough. Buster seemed to have a knack for knowing when she was ready for a break. Getting up from his spot under the window seat, he would nudge her, and they would go into the backyard so he could roll in the grass while she pulled the little weeds that had sprouted overnight. Or they would bundle up and go for a walk, rain or shine.
A year ago, she might have ordered dinner in and stayed at the office until the wee hours of the night, but Buster’s presence at home meant she didn’t work those long days anymore.
And she enjoyed that someone was at home, waiting for her.
Even so, she was at her best in the morgue. And, as bizarre as it seemed to others, it was the place she felt most herself. Even at home, in her lovely new house, she struggled to be at ease. She was not someone who relaxed well. Doing nothing made her antsy.
Her father had often pointed out this particular trait. Because he had been the same.
For him, relaxing meant working on a puzzle—sometimes one to do with his job, sometimes not. He was a faithful fan of the Times Sunday crossword, and he read the New Yorker each week, cover to cover.
For her, the morgue was the place where she solved her puzzles, and being there made her feel useful, engaged. And while she loved her new house, she loved the morgue more.
Occasionally, she pondered why the morgue made her feel this way. Perhaps she preferred the morgue because she clung to the notion that it was safe, while her home was not. And, of course, being at the department, surrounded by people in law enforcement, certainly didn’t hurt. But she had been verbally assaulted by an employee at the morgue. Twelve months earlier, a morgue assistant, Roy, had threatened her, uttering racial slurs. It had taken weeks to separate the visceral memories of that encounter from her love for her workplace.
Even Spencer himself had reached her—albeit by phone—in that room. So it wasn’t the security, and yet it was her favorite place.
Settled at her desk, she scanned her in-box, and her stomach dropped. An email from Harper Leighton. A wave of guilt rose in her. The Charleston detective had done nothing but try to help her, and yet her name—the very thought of her—brought the Spencer nightmare back. What if she had news about Spencer?
Schwartzman stared at the message, the subject line Greetings, and had to force herself to open it. The note that followed only made her feel worse.
Wanted to check in and see how you are doing. I was glad to hear that the scan came back clear. You kicked cancer’s ass.
Schwartzman wished she had a way to support Harper the way the detective had her. Even when the evidence at Spencer’s house had been linked to Harper’s teenage daughter, Harper never had backed down.
No evidence ever emerged to connect Spencer to Lucy’s school. No images of him on or near campus, no kids who had come forward—despite an outpouring of requests that the kids check their phones—with an image of Spencer interacting with a student.
Somehow, he had gotten that necklace to Lucy.
To this day, they had no idea how.
It was likely they would never know.
After an hour sorting through her emails, organizing tasks, and completing those that were most urgent or easiest, Schwartzman shut down the computer and packed it into her bag. She locked up the office and headed out to her car. The evening was clear, the scattered clouds against the brilliant blue a welcome change after so many days of gray.
Keys gripped in her hand, she thought about a walk with Buster. It was early enough that plenty of people still came and went from the department buildings. The sky was not yet dark. When she caught motion from the corner of her eye, she glanced over her shoulder, certain she would recognize the face. After eighteen months, she’d seen most of them enough times.
But there was no one.
Around her, the parking lot was more than half full, though she didn’t see any other people. At this time of day, windshields often caught the reflection of the sun, making motion where none existed. She had taken a few steps down the aisle between two rows of cars when she heard the distinctive crunch of gravel under a shoe. She stopped and turned.
No one.
She listened, hearing the whine of 18-wheelers on the freeway overhead, the traffic on the streets, the intermittent blare of a horn. No footsteps. No gravel. It had been a long time since the shivers had trailed up her spine as they did now. Sliding her house key between two fingers so that the rough-edged tip became a weapon, she waited.
It’s not even dark, she told herself.
You’re being paranoid.
Plenty of predators attack in daylight.
You’re being smart.
Her mind was playing tricks on her.
Keeping an eye over her shoulder
, she strode toward her car. She reached the driver’s side door, which unlocked by sensor in the presence of the keys. She stepped inside and pulled the door closed, punching the lock button. Then she swung around to check the backseat, the keys clenched in her fist.
No one.
You’re safe.
She pushed the button to start the engine and checked behind her as she pulled out of the parking space. As she did, a blond head ducked behind a car two rows away.
Her first thought was Roy.
She continued backing out slowly, searching for the head between the cars. The parking lot was quiet again. It couldn’t have been Roy.
The strange morgue assistant had crossed her mind earlier, a reminder that she was vulnerable even at work. And then she’d imagined that blond head belonged to him.
The blond was almost certainly a kid on a skateboard, fooling around, doing parkour in the parking structure. The police chased them off all the time. But the scuffing noise on the gravel had made her think of hard-soled shoes. Dress shoes rather than sneakers.
Though the night wasn’t particularly cold, Schwartzman struggled to get warm on the ride home. The radio played NPR, This American Life, Ira Glass’s mesmerizing voice luring her into a story about some new place. But she couldn’t concentrate on his words. She switched to the jazz station and let the horns sweep over her.
She felt jittery, as if she’d had too much coffee, buzzed from being hyperaware.
Grateful to be home, she shut off the engine and palmed the can of bear spray she kept under the driver’s seat. A gift from Hal—presented as a sort of joke, though he was dead serious about it. Better bear spray than a gun. She had both now. She would be happy to have that gun tonight.
The house looked as it always did. Peaceful, quiet. She made her way down the little path, between the two Japanese maples that offered her front door a curtain of privacy. As she reached the door, Buster was barking.
“Hey, buddy,” she said, shifting the bear spray into her left hand to unlock the door.
She touched the key to the lock. Before she could slide the metal into the bolt, the door creaked open.
The door was unlocked. Why was it unlocked?
Buster barked loudly, making her jump.
She stumbled backward, swung around, and checked behind her.
He was here.
He was back.
Spencer.
22
The front hallway was dark. Too dark.
Schwartzman stumbled backward, tripping off the small porch rise and falling into the shrubs beneath the maple.
Buster barked louder.
She gripped the bear spray in her right hand and pulled the white tab free.
Buster’s bark rose to a fevered pitch. She imagined someone holding on to him.
She couldn’t go in there.
She wasn’t going to leave him.
Trembling, she stepped back onto the porch. Aimed the can at the door. Took a long, deep breath and kicked it open before pedaling away and stopping halfway down the path to the curb.
The door flung wide and slammed against the far wall. Then it slowly swung back again.
The front room was empty. Dark. The kitchen and hallway, too, all of it dark.
It shouldn’t have been dark.
Before the door closed again, Buster barreled out, his ears alert and faced forward, his tail a straight extension of his back, and the fur along his spine standing on end. She latched onto his collar, her keys biting into her palm as she pulled him backward down the walkway. She glanced over her shoulder and then back into the house.
Black.
Why wasn’t the light on in the kitchen? And in the back hallway? She always left those on so that Buster wasn’t alone in the dark, especially as the days grew shorter.
She reached the street and circled the car, half running. She bobbled the bear spray to open the door, lifting Buster onto the seat and sliding in behind him.
Safely inside, she punched the doors locked and started the car. Seconds later, she was driving away from her house. Someone was there. She never left the door unlocked. Rule number one.
That house.
Hal had told her it was too exposed, too easy to access. Spencer.
But he’d left her alone for a year. More than a year . . .
Why come back now?
The car chirped at her to fasten her seat belt, but she couldn’t pry her fingers from the wheel. White-knuckled, she gripped, steering to the end of the block and turning north, then east, and then north again until she reached Valencia and was surrounded by cars. Finally getting her seat belt fastened to quiet the insistent dinging, she drove two blocks, watching the rearview mirror. Beside her, Buster panted, his face against the windshield.
His tail started to wag again.
No one was behind her. Not that she was certain. She took a couple of extra turns, sticking to the crowded streets, and pulled to the curb once. The other cars rushed by, oblivious to her panic. Back in traffic, she drove until she came to a gas station and drove under the canopy, parking next to one of the empty pumps. Then she punched the phone button on the console.
“Call Hal mobile.”
“Calling Hal mobile,” came Siri’s male Australian voice. Mick. She and Hal had named him after the Crocodile Dundee character.
“Hey,” came Hal’s voice.
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Something’s wrong. The door to my house is open. It was unlocked. I went to open it, and it just—”
“Where are you?” His voice was sharp, tight. Scared.
“I’m at a gas station on Valencia.” She peered out the window. “It’s a 76 station.”
“There are people around?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re safe?” The whispered sound of his breath.
“Yes,” she said again, swiping the tear off her face. Damn it. Damn Spencer.
“Tell me the address. I’m on my way.”
“Hold on. I’ve got to find my phone.” It was linked to the car, but it must have been somewhere in her purse. She dragged the bag into her lap and started to rifle through it.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“What? How?”
“You’re sharing your location with me. We set it up last year. I can see you. You’re at Valencia and Twenty-fourth.”
She saw a familiar restaurant on the corner, the dry cleaner she’d driven by before. “Right.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t move, and don’t get out of the car.”
She drew a slow breath as Buster nosed her arm.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll be right here.”
“And, Anna?”
She started at his use of her first name. “What?”
“Don’t hang up.”
“Okay.”
Hal was running. She heard the quick breaths, the snap, snap, snap of his dress shoes on the linoleum floor, the squeal of one of the department’s exterior doors opening, and the low whine as it closed. The noises were familiar. He had exited the rear of the building, heading to the parking lot.
“Hal?”
“What? You okay?”
“Fine. I’m going to put gas in my car.”
“There are people around?”
Schwartzman scanned the gas station. In front of her, a woman gassed up her minivan. A child sang loudly from the car. At the adjacent pump, a man stood against his car, his arms crossed, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Was he watching her? Dark glasses hid his eyes. Another man wore a ball cap pulled low over his face. A windbreaker made him thick in the middle, but she couldn’t see his face as he moved around the car.
“Schwartzman?” Hal’s voice was urgent.
“Two other people are pumping gas.”
“Okay, but don’t hang up.”
Out of her car, Schwartzman moved quickly to insert her credit card and start pumping. While the tank filled, she ret
urned to the warm safety of the car. The numbers on the pump moved slowly. The woman climbed into the minivan and left.
Schwartzman eyed the pump. Only twelve dollars of gas. It was enough to get by for now.
No, she’d fill the tank.
As the total passed fifteen dollars, a loud click pierced the air, the sound of a pump finishing.
She jumped. It wasn’t her pump.
The man in the sunglasses tucked the unlit cigarette behind his ear before removing the nozzle from his car and climbing into his sedan.
A moment later, he drove away.
Only she and the baseball cap remained.
A pillar blocked her view so that she got only tiny slivers of him as he moved beside the pump. He’d been here when she arrived. Surely, his tank was full.
The loud clack of the pump shutting off vibrated the car.
She poised with her fingers on the door. Get out and put the nozzle away. She watched the pillar for another glance of the man. He was hidden. But too close.
She squeezed her fist, gathering the nerve to go out there. The man passed between the pillar and the pump, giving her a brief view of him. The cap shadowed his eyes, but he turned his face in her direction. His lips formed a strange, eerie smile.
As he slipped out of view, she locked the doors.
“Hal?” she called out.
“I’m on my way.”
Hurry, she thought. Please hurry.
23
The man in the baseball cap hadn’t left the gas station. At least, his car hadn’t. Schwartzman didn’t have a good view of him, and she wasn’t getting out of her car.
Over her speaker was the humming of Hal’s engine. She didn’t want to ask him how close he was. She didn’t want to admit how scared she was. Again.
It was cold in the car, and she longed to start the engine, but with the nozzle still in the tank, she didn’t dare. She pictured the man with the cigarette draped from his mouth.
She shuddered, rubbing her arms.
Buster let out a low whine.
She reached out to rub his head. Someone knocked on the window. Schwartzman jumped, letting out a shout as Buster barked, the gravelly sound filling the car. Her pulse in her throat, Schwartzman saw Hal, standing at the driver’s side window.
Expose (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 3) Page 13
