Fragile

by Shiloh Walker

  Headlights splashed across her yard as she climbed the porch steps. She glanced over, watched as Danielle pulled into her driveway and parked her little red Spider.

  “Devon, the cops know what they are doing.”

  “And so do I,” she responded. “Look, I know my kids.” Unlocking the front door, she paused inside just long enough to reset the alarm, and then she locked the door and dumped her bags on the narrow console table just inside the entryway. “Most of them aren’t capable of this, Luke. I know it.”

  “Glad to hear it. But I’m not worried about the kids, Devon. I’m worried about the adults. If this is related to your work at all, then it’s probably a parent.”

  She kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes, rotated her ankles before heading into the living room. “I’ve thought of that, too, Luke. I’m doing what I can to get a list together for that, but that one is going to take more time.”

  “You don’t think the cops can figure out how to narrow down a list?”

  Devon sighed. “Luke, the cops don’t know the families. They weren’t there when things went down. They won’t know the details that I know. I know which parents were pissed that I took their kids, which ones couldn’t care less, and which ones were mad enough that they would be willing to kill Lassie and leave her body as a message.”

  “Lassie?”

  With a sheepish grin, she replied, “I can’t seem to quit thinking about her. Should probably call her something.”

  “How many parents are on this list?”

  A face loomed large in her mind as she headed into the living room. She went to check the wood bin and saw that Luke had already laid logs out for a fire. A goofy, sappy smile curled her lips, and she almost forgot he’d asked a question.

  “How many?” he repeated.

  “How many . . . Oh. Oh. Um . . .” Devon squinted up at the ceiling and did a quick mental tally. “Maybe eight or nine.”

  Right at the top of the list was Curtis Wilder/Waller.

  “His eyes, they are empty.”

  Reluctantly, she said, “There’s one dad in particular that’s right at the top of the list.”

  “And did you tell the cops about him?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she replied in a mocking voice. “I also ate all of my lunch, and I’ll wash behind my ears before I go to bed, too.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  Devon grinned. “Maybe you’d like to help—” Her voice broke off as she heard his name on the overhead speaker through the phone line. “Sounds like you’re being summoned.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to call again here in a little while.”

  “You’re scheduled to get off at midnight, Luke. There’s no reason to call.”

  “I’ll call,” he repeated, his voice hard. The line clicked and then went dead. She stood there for a minute, staring at the phone, and then she crouched down in front of the fireplace.

  Luke wouldn’t be home until midnight, but Devon had a feeling she wouldn’t sleep until he was home anyway.

  ELEVEN

  IT was an uneasy week that passed. When Luke told her he’d cut back to two shifts a week, she’d yelled at him. It ended up being their first actual fight, and for nearly a week, the tension was thick enough to choke her.

  They lay in bed beside each other at night, not touching, but come morning, she’d wake up plastered against him with his arms wrapped around her. Embarrassed, aroused, but still too stubborn to back down, she’d squirm away from him the minute she woke up—and spend yet another miserable day wondering if she hadn’t bitten off more than she could chew.

  Complication: that’s what she’d decided Luke was back before they’d started dating. But now she knew complicated didn’t even begin to cover it.

  Friday rolled around, and she sat at her desk, reading through a couple of reports, brooding, and then tossing the reports down in disgust when she realized she couldn’t remember a damn thing of what she’d just read.

  When the phone rang, she answered it with a weary, “Hello.” Within five seconds, she wished she’d let it go to voice mail.

  It was Detective Miranda White. Yeah, white was an accurate description, all right. Snowy white skin, hair so pale a blonde it appeared white, and pale, pale blue eyes with only a hint of color. She was every bit as thin as Devon herself was, but the detective was nearly a foot taller. She looked like a stiff wind would blow her away, and Devon couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the concept of the detective arresting some three-hundred-pound drug dealer and manhandling him into a squad car.

  That was until Devon had to deal with her.

  The woman was a bulldog. A bulldog with a chip on her shoulder and an ax to grind, and she managed to make Devon feel defensive in under two minutes flat—and Devon didn’t have a damn thing to feel defensive about.

  “I’ve been going through the names you’ve given me, talked to most of them. So far, nothing’s popped. Wanted to touch base with you, see if maybe there are other people we should look at . . . Perhaps there’s somebody not related to your job. Ex-boyfriends?”

  “That list would be pretty much nonexistent, Detective,” Devon answered. She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temple. Already there was a headache brewing, a headache of mammoth proportions.

  “Come on, Devon. Help me out here.”

  “I can’t,” Devon replied. “There aren’t any exes out there carrying a grudge, Detective. The only serious relationship I had before Luke was six years ago, back in college, and he moved away and got married. Up until I started going out with Luke, I had maybe two dates a year, and never with the same guy.”

  “No one-night stands, no affairs gone bad?”

  Devon snorted. “You sound like you watch too much Law and Order, Detective. I just told you . . . there’s nobody. No ugly affairs. There’s no furious wife out there plotting revenge, no obsessive, controlling old boyfriend.”

  “What about your aunt?”

  Devon stilled. “My aunt?” she repeated carefully. Hell, she hadn’t once thought of Cyndi. She doubted Cyndi would even know where to look for her now. Or that she’d care enough to try.

  “Yes. Your aunt. Looks like her last name is Hopkins now . . . She does go through the husbands, doesn’t she?” Detective White spoke in a cheerful, almost joking voice as she mentioned, “Looks like the first one ended up going to prison and dying there. Do you remember Boyd Chancellor?”

  In a faint voice, she replied, “I remember him.”

  “You think there’s any reason your aunt could be doing this? Holding a grudge against you over something? Maybe something related to him?”

  That bitch. She knew. Devon didn’t know why she hadn’t realized it before now, but White had gone looking through Devon’s past, and she’d found out about Boyd. His trial was public record, and now the detective knew. Her gut roiled, and she swallowed back the bile rising in her throat.

  “My aunt doesn’t care enough about me to hold any sort of grudge, Detective,” Devon finally managed to get out.

  “Hmmm.” It was a noncommittal sound, bland, neutral—and it left Devon totally unprepared for what came next. “What about an ex-john?”

  “An ex-what?”

  On the other end of the line, Detective White chuckled. “Don’t sound so surprised, Devon. I realize your juvie record was sealed, but there’s always a way through that. You ran away from home when you were thirteen . . . spent some time living on the streets, doing drugs. Sounds like a hard life. It’s forced a lot of girls into prostitution—not like you’re the first.”

  It took a lot to throw Devon off guard. She’d seen too many weird, strange, or just plain evil things. She’d spent her own time in hell when she was a kid, and for the past four years, she’d spent her life trying to save other kids from that kind of torment.

  Catching her off guard just wasn’t that easy.

  But Miranda White had just done it. For a minute, Devon sat there opening and closing her mouth, trying to gi
ve voice to the words bubbling in her throat. Scathing insults, derisive laughs, but none of them managed to get past her tight throat.

  She managed to squeak out, “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, Devon. Don’t hand me the innocent, outraged routine. Girls on the streets don’t have too many options. It’s a sad, ugly fact, but don’t worry; I’m not going to share this with your employers or your boyfriend. But you need to be straight with me. You come across any of your former . . . acquaintances? Any of them capable of this?”

  Her voice rusty, Devon forced out, “You don’t know jack shit, Detective. I lived on the streets, stole money, stole food, went cold more nights than I can count, but I never whored for money. I couldn’t stand the sight of most men. There was no way I could let one touch me.”

  Miranda gave a world-weary sigh, the long-suffering sort of sound that practically every cop practiced to perfection. “You’re not helping me out here, Ms. Manning. Don’t you want us to find this creep?”

  In an icy voice, Devon replied, “Yeah, I want you to find the creep. Preferably before he decides killing animals isn’t fun anymore, and he decides I’m next. But if you’re looking for an ex-john to investigate, you won’t find one. He doesn’t exist. Now, unless you have something serious and a little less insulting to ask me, then I have work to do.”

  She slammed the phone down and sat back in her seat and sent it rolling back two feet until it crashed into the wall of her cubicle. Bringing her hands up, she covered her face and swore.

  For the most part, Devon had nothing but respect for cops. They had a hard road, maligned by a huge part of the population, all because a few select assholes popped up from time to time and managed to grab a few minutes in the spotlight. Most of them were decent, hardworking people who just wanted to help in some way, shape, or form.

  But in that moment, Devon wasn’t feeling too friendly toward cops, and even less friendly toward any cop that was investigating the mutilated animal and Devon’s stalker . . .

  Stalker.

  A chill raced down her spine as the thought circled through her mind. Stalker. Somebody who watched her closely enough to know when she wouldn’t be home, somebody who knew how to get into her house.

  Her belly cramped. Folding her arms across her abdomen, she leaned forward. “I’m going to be sick.” She stayed huddled over like that for what seemed like ages, her blood roaring in her ears, a clammy sweat breaking out over her body.

  When a hand touched the back of her neck, she was so scared, she yelped. Without hesitating, she shoved back from her chair, slid out of the seat, and grabbed a heavy marble paperweight from her desk. Then she felt like a total fool as Luke rocked back on his feet and tucked his hands into his pockets. There was a smile on his face, that same gentle smile she’d seen him give to scared, hurt children, but the hard glint of fury darkened his eyes to pewter, and she heard it edge into his voice as well as he murmured, “It’s just me, Devon.”

  Sheepish, she put the paperweight back on her desk. It was about the size and shape of one of those silly eight ball games, and it weighed a ton. It hit her desk with a dull thud.

  Giving him a forced smile, she asked, “So what are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “Wanted to see you.” He slid her a look from under his lashes. “The past week has kind of sucked.”

  “Yeah,” she murmured quietly. “It has.” Sliding back into her chair, she braced her elbows on her desk and dropped her head into her hands, shaking a little as residual adrenaline hit her system.

  “Sorry I almost brained you there. I’m a little jumpy,” she mumbled into her hands.

  This time, when he touched her neck, she leaned into his touch. “You’re tight,” he said softly. He shifted around until he stood behind her chair and brought up his other hand, massaging her neck.

  Devon moaned. Her head dropped down until her chin nearly touched her chest. That was the only noise she made for the next few minutes. It was Luke who broke the silence as he asked, “What’s got you so jumpy?”

  “It’s going to sound a little lame.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. “Try me.”

  “It’s been a couple of weeks since we found Lassie,” she said, starting out slowly. “And logically, I knew what was going on, but I think I just now admitted it to myself: I’ve got a stalker. A genuine, bona fide stalker.” Ugly images and thoughts circled through her head. “I’ve worked with a couple of girls who have had problems with boyfriends stalking them. None of them had this same thing happen . . . but one of them ended up in the hospital after her boyfriend beat the shit out of her. Nobody took it seriously. Nobody took her seriously—until he damn near killed her.”

  Feeling a little disgusted, she added, “And while I am not going to let this bastard control my life in any way, I don’t think I’ve been taking it as seriously as I should.”

  “I have.” Luke’s fingers dug into her neck with a little more force, and his thumbs hit a spot just a little to the left, pushing, pressing, kneading. The tension melted away, and as it did, her headache faded. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Devon.”

  Don’t make promises you can’t keep. She kept the words to herself. Luke would do everything he could to keep her safe, and as of now, Devon was going to stop arguing with him about it so much. “I’m sorry I’ve been so stubborn about this,” she murmured.

  “So does that mean you’re going to stop fussing if I try to get a friend to come help me keep an eye on you for a while?”

  Devon stiffened. “No. It doesn’t mean that.”

  “Somehow, I knew you’d say that.”

  With a sigh, he bent down and slid his arms around her. The warmth of his body managed to penetrate the chill of hers, and slowly, she felt herself relaxing.

  “Maybe I’m being too pushy,” Luke murmured. “This just has my head messed up. Doesn’t help that the police haven’t been able to come up with any concrete information or get any idea who he is.”

  “Or you?” she asked mildly, sliding him a sidelong look from under her lashes. “I noticed you following me to work this morning.”

  He gave her an unrepentant grin and then dipped his head, nuzzled her neck. “You’ve got good eyes, then. I stayed pretty far back.” Straightening up, he moved around and leaned back against her desk, studying her with curious eyes. “You noticed me following you?”

  “Yeah. And a few times before this. How often have you been following me to work?”

  Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, he replied, “Pretty much every day if I’m not working. Just trying to see if I can see anybody else doing the same. Have you noticed anything?”

  She made a face. “No. But honestly, I usually don’t pay too much attention unless I’m in my neighborhood. I’ve just been more watchful lately because of everything that’s been going on.” She slid him another sidelong glance and added, “Besides, I wanted to make sure you hadn’t gone and put some bored army buddy on my tail after you’d told me you wouldn’t.”

  He cracked a grin at her. “It occurred to me.” He reached up, hooking a hand over the back of his neck. “So you notice anybody besides me?”

  “No.” She blew out a breath and closed her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean much.”

  Luke shook his head. “You’re more observant than you realize, Devon. You notice things. Some of it probably just goes with your job, but I think some of it comes from your past, who you are.”

  A nasty taste started to climb up the back of her throat, and she swallowed back the bile. Nervously, she picked up the marble paperweight and started to pass it from one hand to the other. “Speaking of my past, Detective White called me. Turns out she’s been snooping around, trying to get some information about me, see if that can give her any leads on who could have done this.” She glanced up him from under her lashes and then looked back at the paperweight.

  Although she’d never once thought about hooking, shame flooded her. How man
y people suspected that of her? Did her parents? No. No, they wouldn’t. Very, very few people knew. Devon preferred not to tell people. But the few people who did know, had they ever wondered if she’d gotten along by selling herself?

  Luke reached up, covered her hands with his. Gently, he took the paperweight away and then he crouched down in front of her. “You’ve got a record; I know that. But it’s sealed. She can’t . . .”

  Lifting her head, she met his eyes. “Yeah, it’s sealed. But there are ways to get around that . . . talk to people who worked my case, or bribe somebody to let her see the records.”

  “So she managed to get a look at them?” Luke asked.

  Something had happened. Luke doubted that having some cop check out her background would put that dark look in her eyes. She looked haunted, humiliated—and angry. Very angry. Her breathing sped up, and a sneer curled up one corner of her mouth.

  “I don’t know if she saw my records or not. But she’s put enough together to come up with some lame conclusion. A seriously way-off lame conclusion.”

  “And what would this lame conclusion be?” Luke asked, narrowing his eyes. Had to be something—something that would make her look so angry, so embarrassed.

  Devon averted her eyes. She licked her lips, ducked her head, and fiddled with the buttons on her dress. It was forest green, and it made her eyes look darker, mysterious. Her pale skin glowed against it; she looked absolutely gorgeous. Gorgeous, furious, ashamed. He reached up, cupped her chin, and forced her face back to his. “Out with it.”

  “She implied that when I was living on the streets, I got into prostitution. She has this theory that one of my johns or a pimp is behind this.” She spat the words out like they were acid.