by Lisa Regan
“April 11th,” I said.
“So I have until April to get my affairs in order and move east. I’ll start making phone calls on Monday.”
“Jory—”
“I can’t believe it,” he said. He shook his head slowly. He couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m going to be a father!”
“Yes, you are.”
“I don’t want you to do this alone. I mean I don’t want you to do it without me.”
“I know.”
“I want to be a part of this, a part of your life.”
“I know that too. It’s just that this doesn’t change the fact that I have reservations about us jumping into this.”
He reached up and stroked my cheek. “Kass, we’re having a baby. This changes everything.”
I looked out the window, watching hotel guests come and go, wheeling suitcases of various sizes alongside or behind them. “In some ways, yes,” I conceded. “Jory, you have a life here—”
Gently, Jory turned my face toward his. “Kass, my life is with you and my child. Nothing else matters now. Listen, you have to give this a chance. You have to give us a chance. If not for me, then do it for our baby.”
To emphasize his point, he slid one hand over my abdomen. I groaned lightly and shook my head. “You cannot use this baby to smother all of my objections. I am still afraid.”
Jory laughed. “I’m not using the baby, although it does give me an advantage. I know you’re scared, but we love each other. I am not going to hurt you. I want to be with you. Now there is just one more reason for us to go for it, and it’s a pretty damn important one.”
I couldn’t really argue with him. Although I had my doubts about whether or not our relationship would survive the long term, I would never deny Jory access to his own child. I wanted us to be a family.
Jory squeezed my hand. “Just let go. Take this risk. We’ll figure the rest out as we go along.”
I nodded, the motion jerky. I looked back out the window. We sat that way for a few minutes, me looking out the window, him looking at me, holding my hand.
Then he said, softly, “Come on. Let’s go inside. We’ll order room service.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WYATT
October 2nd
Wyatt was dreaming about blood when the sound of a car door slamming jolted him awake. He glanced at the hotel entrance. How long had he been out? He shifted in his seat and wiped a thin line of drool from his chin. It was hot inside the Honda. He turned the key to the start position and rolled the window down, sucking in the cool, moist air. He blinked, trying to rid his mind of the bloody images his dreams had dredged up.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d been there over an hour, but he had no way of telling how long he had been asleep. He was about to take a cruise around the parking lot to see if the black Ford Taurus was still there when Jory Ralston emerged from the hotel’s entrance. The man walked at a brisk pace, his stride purposeful and confident. The sight of him made Wyatt’s chest constrict. He felt as if a steel band were wrapped around his torso, slowly crushing his sternum.
Wyatt slipped on a pair of sunglasses and started the Honda. He was about to pull out when Ralston stopped abruptly and turned back toward the double glass doors. The man smiled, his entire face lighting up. Gone was the severity in his demeanor. The hard line of his brow softened, and a dimple appeared in his right cheek.
Then Kassidy appeared, smiling, her face uncharacteristically flushed and unguarded. Wyatt clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. They kissed—a long, deep, unapologetic kiss which drew stares from passersby. Ralston cupped her cheeks and spoke to her. He was turned away from Wyatt so Wyatt could not read the man’s lips. But he could clearly read her lips, and her words tightened the vise around Wyatt’s chest.
“I love you,” she said.
Wyatt leaned forward and opened his mouth, gulping air. There wasn’t enough of it. He wanted to reach in front of him and grab big handfuls of air and stuff his face with it, but he could not even move.
When he looked up again, she was gone and so was the hotel. Wyatt was no longer in a parking lot. He was parallel parked curbside, watching Jory Ralston fill his tank at a gas station across the street.
“Shit,” Wyatt muttered.
He looked for street signs. Disorientation made his head hurt. He had no memory of following Ralston—no memory of driving away from the hotel at all. He’d forgotten how disconcerting losing time could be. It had been years since he’d lost time that way. It was similar to when the beast woke and took over. In fact, the many psychologists who had examined, evaluated and tested him so extensively when he was younger had had conflicting diagnoses. Some claimed he had multiple personality disorder and others said he merely suffered from dissociative fugues. Whichever it was, during the blackouts Wyatt forgot himself completely. He had no idea what transpired during the lost time, no memory of anything he may have said or done. The hours and sometimes days lost were black spots in his mind, dark and empty.
Wyatt blamed Jory Ralston for these latest instances, even though it was Wyatt who had grossly underestimated the seriousness of Kassidy’s relationship with the man. Wyatt had not anticipated her falling in love with him, much less the two of them having a child together.
She had always been alone, and she was supposed to stay that way. She was alone the way he was—as if on some subconscious level she knew that she was his. That they were meant for one another. As if, subconsciously, she knew that no man could or would ever love her the way Wyatt did. His life’s work was an homage to her. Maybe she didn’t realize it, but it was as though, in the same way she wrapped broken glass in newspaper before placing it in her trash, she had foregone relationships with men because she already had Wyatt.
It had been that way for nearly twenty years—the two of them living on opposing sides of a single reality. But always, she remained alone and by default, his.
But now there was Jory Ralston. Now there would be a child with wide-set, hazel eyes and a strong jaw—a child half Ralston’s and half Kassidy’s. The thought made Wyatt’s stomach burn.
Wyatt’s thoughts were focused so intently on the offspring that, in spite of the fact that he had been watching Jory Ralston pump gas into his Taurus, he did not realize that Ralston was striding directly toward him. He was already tugging at the door handle by the time Wyatt got his bearings. Luckily, Wyatt had locked the door. Ralston knocked on the window with his knuckles. “Hey, hey,” he said. He leaned down and peered into the car. “You,” he called. “Open up.”
Slowly, Wyatt rolled the window down and met Ralston’s eyes. Hatred rose like bile in his throat. He thought of Ralston touching her. They’d been alone in her hotel room for over an hour. He knew they’d been intimate. He tried to quell images of him touching her, kissing her naked body, pushing himself inside her. Wyatt felt sick again.
“Why are you following me?” Ralston asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. Something in his face changed. Ralston recognized him. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“That’s not your concern,” Wyatt answered.
Ralston’s head was nearly in the car. “Are you spying on me? Are you spying on Kassidy?”
“Don’t say her name.” The words seemed to come from someone else. Wyatt almost looked in the backseat to see if there was someone there—someone else who had said the words. He looked away from Ralston, his face burning.
Ralston laughed. “You’re spying on her, you sick bastard.”
Wyatt looked back at the other man. “I’m looking out for her. I’m watching over her, which is more than I can say for you. You’re just going to hurt her. She’s been through enough.”
“Does she know you’re here? Does she know you’re ‘watching over’ her?”
�
��She doesn’t need to know. That’s not important.”
Ralston laughed again. “Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, you gutless fucking stalker. I’m telling her.”
Ralston turned and walked back to the other side of the street. Wyatt watched him get into the Taurus. Momentarily, Wyatt was transported back in time to a dorm room in Philadelphia. A face identical to Kassidy’s looked at him with the same disgust Wyatt had just seen on Ralston’s face. “You’re pathetic,” she had said. “You’re a pathetic stalker. You’re afraid to talk to her—to really talk to her because you’re afraid she’ll reject you, and it will be over. As long as you avoid her, you’ll never be rejected by her.”
Ralston pulled out of the gas station and turned North on Route 26. “Wait,” Wyatt muttered.
Then he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, a glass of scotch in his right hand. He stood up and walked to the table where his laptop rested. He booted it up and checked the date and time. Four hours had passed since the confrontation with Jory Ralston across from the gas station. Wyatt looked around the room, looking for some clue as to what he’d done during that time.
Two wallets rested on the nightstand. One of them belonged to Wyatt Anderton. The other belonged to Jory Ralston.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
KASSIDY
October 2nd
“We got a partial print.” I heard TK’s voice seconds before he entered my room through the door which connected mine to his. I froze when he walked in, the bed sheets bunched up in my arms. My face flushed.
He smiled. “Oh,” he said. “Detective Portland was here.”
I raised an eyebrow at him and started remaking the bed. “What did you say?”
He looked excited, like a kid who’d just gotten his first bike. His eyes were wide. He paced the room.
“A partial print,” TK said. “There was a partial print left at Megan Wilkins’ house. It doesn’t belong to her or her daughter. They’re running it through AFIS now.”
AFIS was actually IAFIS—Integrated Automatic Fingerprint Identification System—a national database of fingerprints maintained by the Bureau.
I shook my head. “I think the UNSUB is too slick. I don’t think he’ll be in AFIS.”
TK plopped into the chair across from the bed. “For a woman in love, you sure are pessimistic.”
I smiled in spite of myself. I thought of Jory and the afternoon we’d spent together, which had ended in me chasing after him and confessing my love for him once and for all. Even now, hours later, the moment seemed surreal like it hadn’t happened to me but to another woman. A woman who had given in, let go of her fear for one terrifying, reckless moment. The whole thing made me breathless just thinking about it.
“I’m realistic,” I said. “A criminal record is not in this guy’s profile. Whatever he did, he did without getting caught. That won’t show up in AFIS.”
TK tapped his long fingers on his knee. “Well then, here is something else unusual—the medical examiner’s preliminary findings indicate that our UNSUB beat Wilkins before her death.”
“Really?”
“Well, she wasn’t beaten as badly as the other vics, but most of the trauma she sustained was inflicted before she died,” TK said. “And it looks like he used his hands this time—not the baseball bat.”
“This guy is all over the place,” I said. “Did the ME say what the cause of death was?”
TK shook his head. “They were still working over the body when I left. Never could stomach the autopsies.”
I plopped onto the bed and pulled out the room service menu. Jory and I had actually ordered room service, most of which I had devoured with little help from him, but I was hungry again. “Let’s order some food, and you can tell me about the interview with Wilkins’ daughter.”
TK clapped his hands together. “Only if I get to hear about your ‘interview’ with Detective Portland.”
“Not a chance,” I said.
“So it was X-rated. You’re right. I don’t want to hear the steamy stuff. Did you tell him about the baby?”
I couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across my face. “I did.”
TK’s grin matched my own. “By the look on your face, I’m guessing it went pretty well. I’m happy for you, Bishop. Don’t forget me when you’re picking out godparents.”
I laughed and tossed the menu at him. “Pick something. I have to pee.”
We spent the evening discussing the Wilkins file and arguing about what it meant to our profile, specifically about TK’s assertion that there were two killers. Thoughts of Jory floated to the surface of my mind again and again, making it hard to concentrate. He had said he would be back, although he didn’t say what time. It was after ten o’clock at night when the knock came. Remy Caldwell stood on the other side of the door, and I knew at once that something had gone horribly wrong. My chest felt impossibly tight. I couldn’t breathe.
He wasted no time. He stepped inside my hotel room where TK and I stood. His face was pale. He didn’t look at me. He said, “Agent Bishop, there’s been an accident. A car accident.” He met my eyes. “Jory’s car went off the road and hit a tree on Route 26. He died at the scene. We’re still not sure what happened. There weren’t any witnesses. He was going to my house to get something. He had called the division a few minutes before the accident to find out if there was any news on the For You case. I’m sorry. He’s gone.”
Then grief. I knew this feeling. First, the smoky cloud of denial because the reality was so foreign, so alien, so contrary to everything you knew as a human being, that it simply could not be true. For a split second, you hoped your denial would make it so. Then there was the sensation of falling. Reality snuck up on you. It took a convoluted path, but when it hit you, it hit like a door slamming closed for the last time.
The worst part was when it set in—the person was gone. They just weren’t there anymore. A whole life made up of sighs and breaths, laughter, skin and effort just vanished. Your image of the world broke. Suddenly, you were looking through a kaleidoscope, and no matter how you approached it, what angle you took, the pieces of the picture refused to tumble back into place. Every time you opened your eyes or blinked, the image shifted without making sense. The picture was no longer complete. And you were alone on that side of the kaleidoscope, staring out at the remaining population of your world through distorted glass and misshapen colors.
It was just like the night Lexie plummeted to her death. I had little memory of those first moments after her death. My mind went somewhere, quickly ducking out before the destructive explosion of grief aimed and fired its first blast. Again, I was vaguely aware of my mind’s absence as I watched Remy’s face float up and away like an errant balloon lost in the sky. His whole face creased, dry lines, like cracked leather.
When TK’s large hands grasped my shoulders and pulled me up, I realized I had sunk to the floor. I covered my stomach with both hands as he guided me to the edge of the bed. If the world could snatch Lexie and Jory away, it could surely snatch my child away. My hands were meager protection but warm and reassuring against the place where the baby rested. Remy followed, and he and TK stood over me, looking down with pinched expressions. They looked like they were watching someone get a limb amputated, their faces clenching as they imagined themselves in that position, imagined how much it must hurt.
“Agent Bishop,” Remy said. He held out his hand. In his calloused palm was a small velvet box, stained a deep blue. “Detective Ralst—Jory would want you to have this. He was saving that for the right time, for after his divorce was final.”
I nodded and took the box with a trembling hand.
“Oh man,” TK said, rubbing a hand over his cropped hair. He couldn’t stand still.
Remy finally had to open the box for me. He set it back in my h
and and there it was—a simple ring with inlaid jewels, aquamarine sapphires winking next to diamonds. It was exactly something I would have chosen myself. Nothing big or gaudy, just a sparkling band. My vision blurred with tears, and I felt the box lift from my hand. Then TK’s voice, quiet and grim, “He had it engraved.”
I couldn’t bring myself to look at the inside of the band. When TK held it out to me, I clasped it tightly in my fist and said a hoarse “thank you” to Remy.
He nodded solemnly. “I’ll let you know when the funeral will be,” he said.
TK thanked him and walked him out to the hotel parking lot. By the time he came back, I could no longer stop the tears.
TK sat next to me on the bed and held my hand while I cried. “I’m calling Linnea,” he said.
I don’t know how long I sat there. Time was suddenly irrelevant. It seemed like moments, but it also seemed like hours. There was a kind of comfort in the paralysis that had found me. I no longer felt the burning hunger pangs, the nausea or the stinging in my eyes. I couldn’t feel the tension in my hand, which clutched the small velvet box Remy had brought me with white knuckles. My body didn’t exist anymore. I was floating free in warm grief. It cushioned me and soaked me through. The ambient noise of the room and the world outside it receded into silence. It was almost a relief.
Then Linnea stood before me in torn jeans and a wrinkled purple blouse. She stunk of cigarette smoke. Her long fingers stroked my hair, tucking strands behind my left ear. She spoke, but I did not hear her. TK appeared next to her. They conferred, talking about me in hushed voices as if I were asleep and they didn’t want to wake me up—exactly like my parents and Linnea had spoken when they’d held vigil by my hospital bed after Nico Sala had nearly killed me. Linnea and TK discussed me, and TK left.
