Secrets and Sins: Chayot: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite)

by Naima Simone

  She waved off his apology. “No worries. It’s not the first time I’ve heard ‘horny’ or used worse myself.”

  The detective nodded. “Anyway, yes, he’s probably…that as well. But a criminal capable of masterminding an attempted kidnapping? I doubt it. Anything’s possible, but,” he shrugged, “in my opinion, doubtful.”

  “How did he know where she lived? That she was even there? Aslyn tried to keep that information private,” Chay said, speaking up for the first time.

  “His best friend lives in the house behind Ms. Jericho’s. Apparently, his friend noticed her sitting on her porch several nights out of the week and told the suspect. So the kid decided to get a closer look.” He shook his head and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “Stupid-ass teenagers.”

  The explanation made sense. But damn. For Aslyn’s sake he’d hoped Rafe’s phone call had signaled the end of the terror. Though he didn’t know the detective, Adams wasn’t inexperienced or a rookie. With his graying hair and world-weary eyes, the seasoned detective had likely witnessed a lot in his career. And he agreed with Adams that her stalker seemed more sophisticated then a neighborhood teen. The detective had also spent three hours interrogating the suspect. And if Adams surmised the boy was guilty of trespassing and being a horny dumbass but probably not waging a campaign of terror against Aslyn, then Chay was inclined to agree with him.

  Didn’t mean he wouldn’t ask Rafe to perform a thorough background check on the idiot, the idiot’s friend, and the idiot’s family.

  “We’re still holding him,” Detective Adams continued. “And he will be charged with disorderly conduct and trespassing, and we will definitely verify his statement. But at this time I’m afraid we don’t have enough evidence to hold him regarding the harassment, assault, and kidnap attempt.”

  Her shoulders slumped forward the tiniest bit. Disappointment sat in his gut like a lump of cold lead. Reaching over, he gripped her hand and entwined his fingers between hers. She glanced at him, inhaled, and straightened. Resolve looked damn fine on her. He hadn’t thought it possible, but she earned even more of his admiration.

  “Thank you, Detective,” she said, standing and holding out her hand.

  Adams shook it, regret in the downward slant of his eyebrows and small shake of his head.

  “That’s what we’re here for, Ms. Jericho. And I understand it may not seem like much considering the circumstances, but we will continue to have patrol cars drive by your home.”

  She nodded, smiled. “It is a comfort, and I appreciate your efforts.”

  “Let me show you the way out.”

  The detective guided them from the room and to the lobby where Chay and Rafe had waited for her days earlier. Once they stood outside of the station, they headed toward his SUV. He unlocked the vehicle and opened the passenger door. She stepped forward then stopped, staring into the interior.

  “I thought,” she began but broke off. Dragging her hand through her hair, she loosed a short crack of laughter. “I stupidly thought this would all be over quickly. When I entered the police station, I allowed myself to believe I would leave free. But now I feel worse because for a moment there I had hope. Stupid, stupid hope.”

  Chay shifted closer until his chest touched her back. And though he was always in a state of semi-erection around her—pressed against her ass, it wasn’t with arousal that he kissed the top of her head or cradled her in his arms. He got disappointment and the frustration in witnessing your expectations crumble around your feet. Since he couldn’t shield her from the hurt, he offered her his body as a resting place…or a hiding place.

  “We’ll get him, Aslyn,” he promised.

  They would, damn it.

  She deserved to have her life back. To live, not just exist. She reminded him of the bright exotic birds he’d seen at Franklin Park Zoo on a school field trip. It’d always seemed a shame they were caged. Gorgeous, vibrant, and a little wild, the parrots and raptors should’ve been free to soar and hunt, not trapped for others’ pleasure, no matter how pretty and comfortable the prison.

  She nodded, tipped her head back.

  “I believe you,” she whispered and climbed into the car. As he closed the door and rounded the front of the SUV, he vowed not to break that trust.

  Moments later, he started the engine and glanced over. Like he couldn’t keep his eyes off her for any length of time. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t. He enjoyed looking at her. Studying the ever-changing nuances of her facial expressions. The molten silver of her eyes when he was buried inside her, or the stormy gray when she was angry or saddened. The dark brown fringe of her lashes and the honeyed glint of skin. Every time he looked at her, he saw something new, something fascinating.

  “You’re staring again,” she murmured, removing her cell phone from her pants pocket.

  “Yes,” he simply said.

  One side of her mouth quirked, and he wanted to lick it. Just taste the smile on her mouth. He unbuckled his seat belt, ready to give into the need when she stiffened. The phone tumbled from her fingers to her lap. Her head lifted, and her eyes, wide and dark with shock, gazed back at him. She paled, the peach gloss on her lush, trembling mouth the only spot of color on her face.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” When she didn’t reply, but continued to regard him with that horrible blank stare, he reached for her phone. She didn’t try to stop him. Didn’t move. Just. Stared.

  He glanced down at the cell.

  “Shit.”

  His heart plummeted to his gut. A surge of bile scalded his chest and throat. He gripped the phone so tight the plastic casing crackled in protest.

  Jesus Christ.

  The photo filled the phone’s screen like a gory wallpaper.

  A man’s body. Sprawled in death. Blood splattered the chest. And his face…

  His face was gone. Obliterated into a mess of blood and tissue.

  And above the picture, two words that shot the fear of God into his heart.

  YOU’RE NEXT.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “It can’t be Liam,” Aslyn mumbled, arms wrapped around her torso. “It’s not. It can’t be.”

  She babbled; a small voice in the back of her head ordered her to shut up. But she couldn’t. Because every time she stopped, she glanced toward the front of her rental house. And every time she glanced toward the front of the rental house, she glimpsed yellow and black caution tape stretched across the front porch. And every time she glimpsed the yellow and black caution tape stretched across the front porch, she remembered why. Remembered why police officers in white booties and gloves entered her home. Remembered why a crime scene unit van was parked on her curb.

  She remembered.

  And she didn’t want to.

  “Aslyn.” Chay cupped the nape of her neck, and the warmth from his hand seeped into her skin. No. She stepped forward. No warmth. No comfort. She needed to remain numb. Cold. Because if she started to feel she would crack. Right here on the street in front of God and country.

  “It’s not him, Chay. It’s not.”

  He didn’t say anything, just replaced his hand on her neck and drew her into the shield of his large body. God, she wanted to curl into him. Beg him to cover her, shelter her from the grief that nipped at the heels of denial.

  “It can’t be,” she rasped.

  But again he said nothing, and the silence was telling in itself. Because he’d seen the same photo as she. Had noted not just the terrible, profane image of death, but the piano. The black grand piano the body had been slumped over.

  Her house.

  And only one person other than herself had access to the house…

  No.

  Her mind shouted the objection. “No,” she whispered.

  A detective emerged from the house and paused to speak with the uniformed officer next to the door who logged each person as they entered and exited. Whipping off his paper booties and gloves, he deposited them in a clear bag
before heading down the steps and across the front lawn. Toward her.

  She met him on the sidewalk.

  “Ms. Jericho?” he asked, ducking under the caution tape. “I’m Detective Ronald Wilson. Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Yes, of course.” Anything so he could assure her the body in the picture hadn’t been her best friend.

  “You told the responding officer you received a text with a picture of the body?” He flipped to a page in the small notebook he carried.

  “Yes,” she repeated. And relayed the stalking incidents from the past week. The detective jotted down notes as she spoke, occasionally interrupting with a clarifying question. “I filed reports each time, and the police are investigating the attempted kidnapping.”

  “Did the text come from the same number that you’d been receiving harassing phone calls from?”

  She shook her head, the horrifying image flashing unbidden in front of her mind’s eye. Nausea roiled in her belly, and her throat squeezed tight in response.

  “He must’ve switched phones, because I didn’t recognize the number, Detective.” She paused to clear her throat of the hoarseness. “Detective, my manager, Liam Ahearn, owns this home. He allowed me to stay here for some months. He arrived in Boston from California yesterday morning, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him today. I—” Her voice cracked, and her legs trembled. The only thing holding her up was the strong hand on her nape. “I need to know if he’s okay. If the man in the picture—in the house—is him.”

  The officer’s gaze sharpened. “Does Mr. Ahearn have a key to the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the alarm system?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Since it’s his house, when the system was installed, I gave him the code.”

  He scribbled another note down then scratched his jaw, frowning. “Ms. Jericho, I’m going to be blunt. The injury to the face makes a facial identification impossible. And until the ME has the body and examines it, we won’t be able to run fingerprints.”

  She flinched, the words “injury,” “facial identification,” and “ME” like mini explosions detonating against her one by one. “I understand.”

  “Does Mr. Ahearn have any identifying features? A tattoo? A scar?”

  She was already shaking her head before he finished the questions. “Liam didn’t—doesn’t—have any tattoos. He hated them. As for scars, I don’t know.” She rubbed her forehead. Think. Think. The answer popped into her mind like a light bulb over her head. “His ring. It’s a family heirloom. As long as I’ve known him, he’s worn it on his right ring finger.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Wilson strode back up the walk, donned new protective gear, then disappeared inside the house again. Minutes later, he reappeared inside the doorway, not stepping back out on the porch.

  “Ms. Jericho,” he called. “Would you mind coming here?”

  She stiffened. Go inside that house? Witness the horror from the picture in terrifying reality? Hell no, her brain screamed. But even as the cry bounced off her skull, she stepped forward. Dread had replaced blood in her veins, but she had to know. She had to eliminate the possibility that Liam was…was…

  A firm hand grasped her elbow and guided her under the tape. In seconds, Chay stood beside her on the other side of the barrier. She gaped at him.

  “I don’t think you can—”

  “You’re not going in there alone,” he stated, his tone hard as steel.

  Relief poured through her and almost buckled her knees. Tears pricked her eyes, so she closed them, fighting back the stinging moisture. An emotion she shied away from labeling pressed against her sternum. Alone. She’d been in that big, cold, empty place before. Not with Chay, though.

  God, I need him.

  Under normal circumstances she would’ve balked at admitting such a weakening statement unless his hands were on her, pleasuring her. But these weren’t normal circumstances. She walked toward the door that loomed like the opening to hell and allowed the moment of fragility. Of exposure. Later, she’d deal with the repercussions.

  “Sir.” When they topped the porch, the uniformed officer with the log held up a hand, halting them. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to return to the other side of the tape.”

  Before Chay could reply, she jerked her attention to Detective Wilson.

  “I’m not going in there without him.” She couldn’t. Fuck it. She wouldn’t. Let them think she was pulling a diva moment; she didn’t care. No way could she face what awaited her in the living room where she’d drunk coffee, curled up on the couch, and read without the silent, stalwart support that was Chay.

  Maybe the detective noted her stubborn resolve…or desperation. Either way, after a long moment, he shifted his regard to the other cop.

  “It’s okay. Let them both in.”

  After supplying their information to the officer and slipping on the protective footwear and gloves, they entered the house. In spite of the law enforcement presence, the house seemed eerily quiet. Like a great pall had descended over the room, enshrouding it in death and violence.

  The smell hit her first. Metallic. Wet. Filthy, like rancid meat and waste. She reeled, rocked back on her heels.

  “Easy, baby.” Chay cupped her hips, his hard chest a solid wall behind her. “Breathe,” he softly instructed into her ear. “Through your mouth.” His calm voice steadied her as nothing else could’ve—that and the unyielding strength he offered her.

  Until then she hadn’t let herself peek at the living room floor. But she did now.

  “Oh God,” she whispered, the plea fervent with a tinge of panic. “Oh. God.”

  A large figure lay on the floor in front of the piano, a white sheet draped over it. Crimson dotted the material at the head and torso. Though she could no longer view the damage, she could clearly still see it in her mind. Understood why blood smeared the sheet. In perfect, Technicolor detail.

  The body was large, tall. Liam stood at six feet, two inches, but his frame hadn’t been that wide, had it? No. She shook her head, although the detective hadn’t yet posed the question. Not Liam. Relief shot through her nerves like the first intoxicating hit of a drug.

  “Detective—”

  Wilson knelt beside the body and flipped the sheet back, revealing a hand and upper arm.

  And a thick, heavy ring with a garnet set in the middle of the square. Ivy-like vines surrounded the setting.

  She knew that ring. Had seen it often over the last ten years since Liam never removed it.

  Not even in death.

  In the distance, someone called her name. Shouted it. And she tried to answer, tried to tell them she’d heard them. She was okay.

  But her throat wouldn’t work. Her vision dimmed, blackened.

  And then nothing.

  “Here. Drink this.”

  Aslyn glanced up from her blind contemplation of the afternoon sun shining over the waters of Boston Harbor and accepted the cup Chay pressed into her hand. He settled on the living room floor beside her, and drawing up his legs, looped his arms around his knees. His shoulder brushed her arm, and the slight contact shivered over her, through her, trickling tendrils of warmth that tried to infiltrate the cold, the numbness. She closed her eyes, concentrating on that cold, willing it to spread, to thicken. Because grief—gnashing, clawing, ravenous grief—waited for her beneath the ice. She wasn’t ready to face it or the rage, the paralyzing loss. She shifted, breaking the contact.

  So hard to believe her world had morphed so much after that early phone call from Rafe. Her best friend was dead. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but the day felt like it should be almost over. She resembled an emotional icicle, frozen from the inside out.

  Lifting her lashes, she sipped from the hot mug. Tea eased over her tongue, down her throat—

  She coughed, her throat spasming, trying to somehow extinguish the fire razing a path over her esophagus and muscles.


  “What the hell?” she wheezed. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  The sensual curve of his mouth didn’t even twitch, but his hazel eyes lit with amusement. “It’s tea.” He shrugged. “With a shot of bourbon.”

  “A shot?” she rasped. “More like the whole damn bottle. Jesus Christ, I’m about to start spitting fire like a fucking dragon.”

  He snickered and tapped the side of the mug. “It gets better. Have another sip.”

  “This is such a cliché,” she snapped, setting the cup down on the floor. The blaze in her throat had downgraded from a three-alarm to containable. “Why do people give each other hundred-proof alcohol in times of trouble? As if laying them out on their asses cures the problem.”

  “Probably because breathing takes priority and gives you a temporary reprieve from everything else.”

  “Nothing can do that,” she murmured, but picked up the tea and bourbon cocktail again.

  This time when she drank, the alcohol didn’t flay the lining from her throat as much. By the fourth sip, the muscles were most likely anesthetized, because she didn’t feel a thing. Except heat. The bourbon worked its way through her blood, forging a path of alcohol-laced heat. Hot enough to warm her but not enough to penetrate the frigid barrier around her emotions.

  Silence weighed between them, the only sound the click and whir of the central air kicking in.

  “If I had called him earlier in the day Thursday,” she whispered, “or even right after the assault, he would’ve stayed in Los Angeles. He wouldn’t have been here in Boston within easy access to a lunatic.”

  “You don’t know that,” he objected gently. Firmly. “This guy who’s after you is obsessed, unpredictable, and homicidal. Once he didn’t have access to you anymore, he became even more unhinged. As evidenced by those voice messages on your phone. As unbalanced as this bastard is, he could’ve flown out to L.A. to harm Liam, because he knew it would devastate you,” he added.