I’d opened my mouth in preparation to shout at him, but I spluttered instead.
“You didn’t think I could be honest, did you? Well there you go, Patti, you’re about to leave, so what’s the harm? You drive me wild. I don’t know why. And it doesn’t matter.”
I was blushing and tingling all over.
“It might be my acerbic personality,” I tried through a tight breath.
“It’s not that,” he shook his head resolutely. “You’re only acerbic when you’re pushed. The rest of the time you pleasantly cynical.”
No one had ever described me as pleasantly cynical before.
“Then I guess it’s my looks. Maybe you go for homely, girl-next-door dimples.”
He shook his head. “The girl next door to me was Stacey Clarke, and she grew up to be a model.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe it’s my money? No one else in this town can stop talking about it.”
“I’ve saved since I started working. I invest, and I squirrel away what I don’t have to spend on suits and food. Now I’m not saying I have as much as you do, but I can get by. It’s not your money.”
I was forced to bring my hands up in exasperation. “Then I have no idea what it is. Maybe you’ve secretly had a thing for me ever since high school?” I asked, now blushing furiously.
After all, it was every teenage girl’s fantasy that the hottest guy in school would one day turn around and tell her she was the most wildly attractive woman in the world.
“I never noticed you in high school,” he answered truthfully.
“Well then, I am fresh out of ideas.”
“You give up too easy,” he toyed with me.
Again I raised my eyebrows.
We were way beyond flirting now. We were into some strange realm of unresolved sexual tension into which I had never ventured and had little experience with.
This was the most intense romantic twenty questions I’d ever gone through. Which made perfect sense when you realized Denver Scott was the one doing the questioning.
“Are you going to tell me?” I asked after a pause.
“In the Bureau they teach us to reveal as little information as we can,” Denver said blankly.
“But they teach you to relentlessly pursue it, I see?”
He nodded. “So Patti, why are you attracted to me?”
Damn.
That was direct.
It was also not how flirting worked.
Some subtle hints here and there, a saucy smile, and some flowers if you wanted to overdo it—but not this, whatever this way.
I gave the kind of shaking, bust-heaving breath any bodice-clad damsel would be proud of.
“Don’t blush, don’t splutter, just tell me,” he said.
Again I was suddenly struck with the furious desire to hit the man.
Where did he get off being so… so… direct?
That’s it; Denver was direct. He was the most direct man I’d ever met.
“Is this where I’m meant to tell you that I had a thing for you ever since high school?” I controlled my tone, insuring it didn’t waver with anything but sarcasm.
“It’s been a long time since high school. And I’ve changed. I was a bully in high school. I broke hearts and I didn’t give a damn—anything to impress my friends. So no, I don’t want you to tell me you liked me since high school.” He hadn’t moved towards me and he hadn’t moved away. He was still standing in the exact same spot, the porch lights shining down from above and defining every tight line and angle to his muscles and jaw.
“What do you want me to say then?” I asked.
“The truth.”
“And you think you’ve earned that?” I clamped my hands before me, trying to look proper.
“Yes,” he answered flatly.
Damn.
Maybe he had.
“I don’t see why you get to ask all the questions and I have to answer them.” I laced my fingers together and squeezed them tight, trying to ignore the tide of nerves and pleasant tingles racing up and down my back.
“Because I’m better at this,” he answered triumphantly.
I smiled. Snidely. The arrogant-brute routine could only go so far.
I was done being pushed and pulled by Denver Scott. It was time for him to make up his mind or to leave me alone.
“Well then, if you’re better at this, then you’ll have to find a way to stop me from leaving,” I turned and walked past him.
I made it to the porch.
Then down onto the grass.
This was the bit where he should stop me. Run after me. Say my name, tenderly grab my arm, and do anything to stop me from leaving him.
. . . .
He didn’t come after me.
Well fine then.
His loss.
But I wasn’t going to look back at him, not even once.
Seriously.
I had enough self-control not to look back.
I made it all the way back to my car. Placing my fingers on the handle, I paused.
I told myself to open it. To drive away.
I hadn’t exactly apologized to Denver, but then again, this apology had taken me in a direction I hadn’t been expecting.
Or had I?
Perhaps that was the real reason I’d come back to the motel.
“You have to open the door to drive away, Patti,” he pointed out sarcastically.
Jesus Christ he was a jerk.
Through and through.
To his family, to his brother, and to me.
The guy was more complicated than my high school brain would ever have been able to predict.
I spent my working life warning women off men like Denver Scott.
Sure, they were fun to begin with, but it wouldn’t last.
Movies and novels made tortured souls like Denver look great. But movies and novels never stuck around long enough to show you the aftermath. Sure, they would be there when the disastrous couple got together, but they wouldn’t show you when they broke apart. In flames.
I knew men like Denver Scott.
They were too complicated.
And it was my number one rule never to get involved with complicated guys.
So why was I turning around?
Why was I walking across the car park, across the lawn, and up the porch steps?
Why was I staring at him?
Why wasn’t I looking away when he stared back?
Because just maybe I didn’t know as much as I thought.
Wetlake had brought surprises.
It was about to bring another.
Chapter 15
I reached him.
My bag dropped off my shoulder as I pushed into him.
He collapsed his arms around my middle. Bringing his head down, his breath beat hard into my neck as he leaned his full weight against mine.
Running my hands down his arms, I felt him smiling as he pressed his cheek against mine.
Mumbling something, he leaned into me again until he pressed me against the door.
Before I could question whether we were going to do this outside, I felt him pull his keys from his pocket. Slipping his hand past my waist, he fumbled with them until the lock unclicked. Pushing the door open, I fell back.
My arms around his neck and back, I took him with me.
We thumped against the soft but warn carpet of the motel room.
Laughing into my hair, he pushed his hand down my arm, over my back, and around to my stomach.
“The door’s still open,” I pointed out as I finally kissed him.
His lips locked against mine.
Twisting his head and pushing harder into my mouth, he let his fingers and thumbs drag distractingly over my neck and chest.
I grabbed my hands over his jaw, leaning up and into him. Breaking apart, but still holding onto his face, I looked into his eyes for a moment. “Is this a good idea?” I asked breathlessly.
“It’s a terrible idea; the door’
s still open,” he replied.
My lips curled into the sliest of smiles.
Denver Scott let his hands drop from my stomach and back as he stood up.
He walked over to the door.
He stepped out.
He grabbed my bag.
He walked back in. He placed my bag respectfully on the side table.
He closed the door and bolted it.
Then he turned on the lights.
I watched him smile, and then he reached me.
Chapter 16
I woke up to the familiar sound of someone knocking insistently on the door.
But something was different this time.
As I opened my eyes, I opened them to the sight of Denver Scott.
Blinking his own eyes open, he looked confusedly at me for just a second. Then he smiled.
Then the knocking continued.
“Shit,” he said through a short breath.
“Denver? Denver, is that you? Are you in there?”
We both looked at each other as if we’d been sprung, but fortunately the voice didn’t belong to Thorne Scott.
It was a woman.
“Who is it?” Denver finally called out.
“It’s me, Annabelle. I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
Denver turned to me and mouthed the word Annabelle with a confused look on his face.
I shrugged my shoulders.
But I didn’t say anything.
“What is this about? I’m just getting dressed,” Denver said as he got out of bed, still looking at me as he did.
“The murders, it’s important I talk to you.”
Denver swore softly.
“Right, I’ll be out in a second.”
I watched him dress quickly.
“Are you coming?” he whispered.
I shook my head and hugged my pillow determinedly.
This elicited a soft snort from him.
“She doesn’t want me; she wants you,” I whispered back.
“I’ll be quick,” as he said that, he stared right at me.
Damn him, because tingles—quick, fast, and wholly effective—shot all the way through my back and stomach.
“Right, you’re not going to drive away in your big old country truck as soon as I turn my back on you?” he questioned as he walked backwards towards the door.
I paused to look as if I were thinking, then I shook my head.
“Promise?”
I nodded.
He finally turned around, opened the door a crack, and walked out without ever revealing too much of his room and the fact that little old Patti Smith was sleeping in his bed.
I stayed there huddled against the pillow as I smiled wildly.
I wasn’t usually one to smile wildly.
Hell, in a moment I might even have to start giggling.
Before I could, however, I frowned as I listened to what Denver and Annabelle were talking about.
Though I couldn’t hear everything, one word came up clearly.
A rather memorable one.
Patti.
Why were they talking about me in conjunction with the murders?
Reluctantly I got out of bed and I padded across the floor and pressed my ear hard against the door.
The wood was cold, but I didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, Denver, but I couldn’t sleep last night. I just had to tell somebody.”
“What?” I heard Denver’s voice ripple with suspicion.
“About Patti Smith. There’s something… not right there. She is so damn arrogant. Rubbing our faces in her wealth. Shit, you would think we’re all dirt compared to her.”
“You said you have information about the murders,” Denver prompted quickly.
“Not information so much as a hunch. Look, I had to tell somebody, but when I picked Patti up yesterday, she kept on asking questions about Nancy. Really personal questions. She wanted to know where Nancy lived, whether she still had any family, where she was going after Wetlake, what she did for a living, who her friends are. The questions just wouldn’t stop. And you should have seen the look in her eyes, Denver; I’m telling you something isn’t right there.”
What on earth was going on here?
Was Annabelle, seemingly the nicest most genuine person in all of Wetlake, stabbing me in the back?
“I see,” Denver said objectively.
Christ… he couldn’t believe this, could he?
“I need more. Do you have… ,” he trailed off.
“Evidence? Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t have evidence? She left something at my house last night. I can’t even imagine why I let her come home with me in the first place. But you know us people from Wetlake; we’re just too trusting. Anyhow, I thought you could come and have a look at what she left. It’s a little… scrapbook thing. Full of pictures, and I don’t even want to know what they depict and where they came from. But Denver, I think you need to see them.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth.
What in holy hell was happening here?
I hadn’t left anything at Annabelle’s… except for my clothes. And as for scrapbooks, she’d shoved a couple of her own under my face, but that was it.
I’d never scrapbooked anything in my life.
What the hell was she talking about?
“Did you call this in?” Denver asked quietly.
“Of course I did; I told the local police everything I’m telling you. But everyone is so busy, I thought I’d come and get you personally. Plus, I don’t want some clod I barely know mucking up my house. And though I love your brother dearly, he seems a little out of his depth here.”
I listened to Annabelle with my mouth pressed open and my hands shaking.
“I mean, don’t you think it’s a little bit more than a coincidence that Patti Smith, the one person who hated Wetlake High more than any other, shows up and suddenly people start dying? Her classmates? The very same people who ridiculed her? I’m telling you, something snapped in that there brain of hers, and I’ve got the evidence to prove it. And it’s got her fingerprints all over it,” she added triumphantly.
Denver didn’t say a word. Yet he had to know that I was right behind the door.
“She told me about receiving that threatening note on the back of a postcard lowered into her bathroom while she was in the shower. It makes no sense, right? Someone managed to get into her room without her hearing? Yeah right. When she told me that story, I could see she was lying. It would be the perfect distraction. Keep you and the rest of the police busy thinking she’s the next in line while she goes off and murders another one of our classmates.”
“Take me to your house,” Denver said quietly.
I closed my eyes and pressed them shut as tight as I could.
“It will be a relief to have a professional look over it. I just… don’t want to even look at the stuff,” Annabelle said, her voice getting further away as she clearly walked down the porch and onto the grass.
Soon their voices grew distant until I could no longer make them out at all.
A few minutes later, I heard the rumble of engines and then a crunching sound as tires traveled over the gravel.
Then nothing.
I just sat there for god knows how long, wondering what in the hell had just happened.
Annabelle was meant to be nice, but now she was trying to stitch me up.
Holy crap.
Holy crap.
What the hell was I meant to do?
Go straight to the police station, hand myself in, and call my lawyer?
I didn’t want to head off in my truck and try to go home only to have every Federal Agent in the vicinity of Wetlake swoop down on me in helicopters toting enormous guns.
So I just… sat there.
Chapter 17
It took me a long time to force myself to get up. I couldn’t simply sit there in Denver’s room waiting for him to come back. Time ticked on,
and he didn’t return and neither did the police suddenly surround the motel, kick in the door, and drag me off to prison.
Walking back and forth across the carpet, I couldn’t believe this was happening. Why had Annabelle said those things? Why was she setting me up?
Was she jealous of me?
Had she snapped?
Or… Christ… was there a far more malevolent explanation?
I stopped.
I paled.
Annabelle had always been one of the nicest, most sociable people at school.
Outgoing, friendly, and ready to give you a hand.
Rubbing my head furiously, I walked into the bathroom, turned a faucet on, and washed my face.
Then I slowly stared at the mirror.
My reflection stared back at me.
The faucet still on, I heard the water pooling and gurgling down the drain.
Could Annabelle be confused?
Could I have freaked her out somehow?
No.
She hadn’t just shared her suspicions with Denver; she’d made up a story. She’d also offered to show him evidence.
. . . .
Could Annabelle be the murderer?
I closed the faucet. Still staring at myself.
It was the only thing that made sense, wasn’t it?
She was stitching me up to take the heat off herself.
She worked at the school; she had access to the grounds, she had access to the board inside where photos of both murdered men had been found pinned up with goddamn blue pins.
The blue pins could easily be her calling card. All serial killers had them, didn’t they?
God.
I had to do something.
But what?
Call the police?
That was the sensible thing to do, right?
Reluctantly I made my way over to the table, grabbed at my bag, and yanked up my cellphone. As I did, something fell onto the floor.
Reaching down quickly, I realized what it was.
The card Denver had given me.
His number.
Before thinking, I started to dial it.
I had to tell him I had nothing to do with this, that Annabelle was lying, and that she may in fact be the murderer.
Odette C. Bell - Ladies in Luck - An Unlucky Reunion Page 18
