The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  “Morning,” Lawrence grunts, attacking the countertops with more cleaning spray.

  “I think it’s clean.”

  He huffs and slams the bottle down. “I thought you could tell me anything,” he snaps, and Dexter sighs loudly, dropping his spoon and reaching for his eyes under his glasses, rubbing into his sockets.

  I collect the pot of coffee. “I can,” I reply. Most of the time.

  “Then why the silence now? I know something’s going on.”

  “Nothing is going on.” My words are robotic, my patience wearing thin. I abandon my coffee and throw my bag over my shoulder. “I’m going to work.”

  “Where? You’ve not even talked about this new job. You always tell me what you’re painting, where you’re painting, what colors you’re painting. You’ve not murmured a word about this one.”

  I hurry toward the door, Lawrence on my tail. “It’s an office,” I call back, the front door in sight, my escape close.

  “Beau, please. I’m so worried about you.”

  Guilt grabs me and squeezes hard. God damn guilt. I slow to a stop and face my uncle. The true concern splattered across his smooth face only enhances my shame. I go to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I hate making him feel like this. I really do. He and Dexter had a fabulous, easygoing life before Mom died. That was hard for them too, but then I crashed into their orbit with my pain and sorrow. They’ve taken me in, shown me nothing but unconditional love, and I am so extremely thankful for that. For them. I need their love, but I also need them to respect some boundaries too. I’m not a child, just a woman whose world imploded very suddenly. This thing with James? It’s respite. Like therapy. “You’ve nothing to be worried about.” I kiss his cheek. “Promise.” I break away and jolt when Lawrence grabs my wrist, pulling me to a stop again. My hiss of pain isn’t avoidable, and Lawrence drops his hold fast, alarmed. I cringe, feeling at my wrist over the sleeve of my shirt. Fuck.

  Tension floods the hallway, and I swallow, yelling at myself to leave. Get out of here. Go before—

  He lunges forward and yanks the sleeve of my shirt up, revealing the red, blistered skin on my wrist. His gasp is loud and shocked enough to bring Dexter crashing into the hallway. “Beau?” Lawrence asks quietly, looking up at me through glazed eyes. I can’t bear the questions in his voice. Can’t bear the worry.

  Can’t explain, either.

  I turn and rush out of the house, feeling shame I don’t want to feel and remorse that matches the routine feelings of secret self-pity. This is not how I want to feel. It’s no good going through blissful escapism if your reality is going to be ten times worse when you have to face it again.

  I jump in Dolly and start her up. She doesn’t bang to life, but she does splutter a few times, and I don’t will her to get moving as she starts to chug down the road. I have no words, not even to encourage my dilapidated old car. I reach the junction. I should be turning left to go to James’s. To finish his office. Turn left to do it all over again.

  I turn right.

  After stopping at my regular florist, I go to see Mom. It’s a gray day, the clouds heavy with rain waiting to pour, the sun a dull haze a million miles away. I let myself through the rickety gate and tread my way through the long grass, weaving around the headstones to the far side by the derelict stone wall that separates the graveyard from the world. The tulips I left over a week ago look sad and droopy, so I set about changing the water and flowers, busying myself for over an hour, weeding and fiddling around Mom’s grave. I ignore the texts that come in from Lawrence and Dexter. I’ll talk with them later. Maybe. I also ignore three calls from James. He’s undoubtedly wondering where I am.

  On his fourth attempt to get hold of me, I’ve finished fixing the tulips. I take a deep breath and take his call. “Where are you?” he asks, sounding a little indignant.

  “I’m not coming.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this can’t last, James.” Not just whatever is happening between us, but the feelings he provoked in me. It’s not sustainable. That’s been proven this morning by my confrontation with Lawrence and the onslaught of shittiness that followed. It would be a wholly unhealthy cycle of relief and shame. I’d be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Setting myself up for a bigger fall. No. I need to call my therapist. James will have to find someone else to finish painting his office.

  “And you need it to last,” he says simply, with no judgement.

  “I don’t know what I need.”

  “What if I do?”

  “You could never even comprehend what I need, James.” I cut the call and sink to my back on the grass, chasing the clouds with my eyes, willing them into various recognizable objects. I spot a car. A dog. An enormous heart. The clouds are being kind to me today.

  My cell rings again. “Stop,” I order him quietly, lifting my arm to see the screen. But it’s not James. It’s someone else—another person I’d rather not speak to. But a mindless phone call every so often keeps him at a distance. I don’t have to see him. Face him. Restrain myself from unleashing my anger on him.

  I answer. “Dad.”

  “My darling girl.”

  My teeth grate, my smile tight. “How are you?” I ask. I only have to look in a newspaper to find that out.

  “You missed my birthday.”

  “I did?”

  “You can make up for it. Come to dinner with us.”

  Us. Him and his girlfriend. I cringe. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I’ll book the entire restaurant out. It’ll be just us three.”

  You can’t knock the man for trying and usually I wouldn’t have a problem declining, whether politely or not. But today? “Can I think about it?” What the hell?

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  I can’t bear the hope in his voice. The happiness. “I’ll call you.” I hang up and sigh in despair. I can’t forgive. Won’t. But surely that’s a healthier option than this madness I’m going through with James. It has to be.

  I don’t know. I honestly don’t know, and that’s why I hate this life. I. Don’t. Know. I was never indecisive in the past. I was on top of life.

  Was.

  Was.

  Was.

  What am I now? Desperate? Bitter? Twisted? All of the above?

  Again . . .

  I. Don’t. Know.

  I chase more clouds, these ones darker, and the sky finally relents, the rain falling. It comes hard and fast. I don’t run to the church for cover. Instead, I lie there, being thrashed by the angry bullets of water, letting it numb my skin.

  The thunder clashing matches my loud, crowded head.

  Lonely?

  Always.

  It’s getting dark by the time I find the will to move. There have been many days when I’ve sat with Mom for hours, but today is a record. I’m drenched through, my clothes stuck to me, my hair heavy. I trudge through the sodden graveyard and slide into Dolly, looking up into the rearview mirror and wiping under my eyes to get rid of the black smudges.

  Then I drive to Walmart.

  I grab a cart and start my usual route through the aisles, finally ending up at the alcohol section. I grab a bottle.

  “I’m not following you, I promise.”

  I glance to my left. “You sure?” I ask, as I place my wine in the cart. “Because you look as guilty as sin.”

  Ollie shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pant pockets. “I didn’t think you still did this anymore.”

  “Shopping?” I question, and he rolls his eyes as I start walking. This habit of mine started only a week after I was discharged from the hospital. Everywhere just felt so crowded, even our spacious apartment with only two of us living there. But when Ollie would get home from work, the suffocating feeling would overwhelm me. So I’d come here. He found me on numerous occasions when I’d go missing, roaming the aisles.

  I arrive at the checkout and place my wine on the belt, and Ollie grabs a bag and flaps it o
pen, slipping the bottle inside once the lady’s scanned it. “Let me get this,” he says, pulling out his wallet.

  I smile, but it’s sad. I should never have had that coffee with him. Should never have fallen apart on him. Definitely shouldn’t have let him take me back to the apartment we shared. “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to. It’s been a long time since I could buy you a drink.”

  I don’t have the energy to fight him, offering a small smile instead. He’s just an additional element to my ever-increasing mindfuck.

  He pays and we walk toward the exit together. “So are you going to tell me why you look like a drowned rat?” he asks, looking me up and down.

  I reach for my shirt and pull the cold, wet material away from my stomach. “I went to see Mom. I got caught in the downpour.”

  “It’s not rained since three o’clock.” He looks down at his watch, as if checking it’s as late as he thinks it is.

  I don’t bother explaining. “Anymore dead bodies at scrapyards?”

  “Stop it,” he warns, giving me a playful nudge. “Just think, if you go back to work, we could talk all day long about the mutilated remains of various wanted men.”

  “So he was wanted?” I ask, ignoring everything else.

  Ollie rolls his eyes. “One of The Bear’s men.”

  I blow out my cheeks. “There’s gonna be no more bad guys for you to lock up soon.”

  “Hmmm,” he hums, thoughtful.

  “Are we talking serial killer?”

  He sighs, and I see him cave under my questioning. And perhaps just his need to keep my attention. “Do you remember hearing about The Enigma?” he asks, and I nod, knowing the name well.

  “Assassin. Mom’s nemesis,” I confirm. “She swore she’d catch him before she retired. Or at least find out who he was.”

  “Yeah. He went quiet for a while. After your Mom . . .” Ollie looks down at me, pensive. Nervous. “Well, the last three bodies suggest he’s back. Or has been resurrected. Or that we’re now finding the bodies given one was a few years old.”

  “Wow,” I breathe, my mind racing. The Enigma. He was top of Mom’s list. What would she think if he was caught? If it was me who caught him?

  Shit.

  “You sound like you have a lot on your plate,” I say, getting my thoughts back under control. Nothing could make me return to the MPD. Nothing.

  “Coffee?”

  I slow to a stop, as does Ollie, and I hate the hope I see in his brown eyes. “You don’t want me back,” I say evenly but softly, because I just know where this is leading. “Really, you don’t.”

  “Don’t tell me what I want, Beau. You did that when you left me at the church too. That was twenty months ago, and I still want you.”

  “I’m a different person.”

  “You mean bitter? Twisted?”

  I look away.

  “I still love you despite that.”

  “You shouldn’t.” I return my eyes to him. He was a popular guy at the force, with his male colleagues, and definitely with the female ones. I can’t imagine that’s changed since he’s moved on to the FBI. He could have had the pick of the bunch. And he chose me. Mistake. I tried so hard to see our wedding through. I sat by Mom’s graveside in my dress, a mess of a woman, willing her to give me the sense and courage I needed to marry Ollie four months after she was taken from me. She didn’t speak to me. I couldn’t go through with it.

  I sigh and loop my arm through his, getting us moving again. “How many women have you dated since we split up?”

  He scoffs. “None. You know I’m shit at dating.”

  I smile. He obviously hasn’t improved since our first date. He was so nervous, and the nerves made him clumsy. It was endearing and hilarious all at once. And aside from his fine build and handsomeness, it was one of the things that attracted me to Ollie. How together he was as a cop, and how utterly disastrous he was as a date. The two sides of him were contrasting and lovable. “How many women have you slept with?” I ask, wincing at the mere thought, wondering why the fucking hell I’m asking such stupid questions.

  He stops us and turns into me, his expression irritated. “Don’t try and do that thing women do. When they try to be your friend as a consolation prize.”

  “I’m not a consolation for you, Ollie. I’m a lucky escape.”

  His hand drags through his hair roughly. “You’re so fucking self-destructive, Beau. Resentment is eating you up inside.”

  “I’m getting better,” I say, unable to get angry with him. Anger is exhausting, like hate. I’m too tired right now to feel either. “I really am.”

  He sighs, and I see something in him settle. Defeat. “I just need you to have peace again,” he says. “There are no questions to be answered, Beau. It was a freak fucking accident, and you need to move on.”

  Move on. I hate those words. Only people who have never lost someone they love use those two insensitive words. “Something doesn’t feel right,” I mumble, swallowing, and he exhales, pulling me in for a hug. I sink into his hard chest, my eyes closing. “I need you to stop believing you can give me peace,” I say, letting my arms hold him. This hug feels so final. Does he sense that? “Let me go, Ollie,” I order gently, opening my eyes. He doesn’t ease up, and I don’t reinforce my request. Because something has captured my attention across the parking lot in the distance.

  James.

  He’s standing by a silver Range Rover, watching me. Watching us.

  What the hell? I pull away from Ollie and step back. Not because James is watching, but because Ollie is hoping. “It’s time for you to move on too,” I whisper, reaching for his arm and giving it a squeeze.

  He nods slowly, beaten, handing me my wine and dipping to kiss my cheek. “Take care, Beau.” He turns and walks to his car, and the moment he’s pulled away, I seek James out again. He hasn’t moved.

  I wander over, feeling resolute and calm, but when I make it to him, just a few feet away, I can’t seem to find the right words.

  “Who was that?” he asks. They’re not the right words from him, either, and definitely not a question I’m interested in answering.

  “Why are you here?” I must change my hiding places. Two men have found me in twenty minutes.

  “Who was it?”

  “You think you can show up here and demand answers to questions you have no right to ask?” I sound calm. I feel anything but.

  He has the decency to look mildly ashamed. “I didn’t like it.”

  “What?”

  “You with that man,” he more or less snarls. “I didn’t like it.”

  Unbelievable. “You’re jealous?” Is he serious? One night of madness, and he’s jealous?

  “I didn’t like it,” he grates.

  “I don’t like the code language you use.”

  He opens the door of his car. “Get in.”

  I gawk at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Get in the car,” he hisses.

  “I have my own car.”

  “That’s not a car, Beau. It’s a fucking death trap.”

  God help me before I slap his obstinate face. “Tell me what you meant,” I snap, squaring up to him. “Your other name, what I’m getting myself into. Tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Then why the hell say it?”

  His jaw twitches dangerously. I’m with him. “Because I can’t seem to control my fucking mouth when you’re around.”

  “Tell me!”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m leaving.” I back away. “And you’re going to let me.”

  He inhales, gathering patience. “I don’t have much choice, do I?” He shuts the door of his car, regarding me for a short time. “You don’t want it again?”

  I take another step away from him, trying to escape the range of his magnet. “No,” I answer, not nearly quickly enough.

  His nostrils flare. “You’ll come back,” he says surely, drilling into me with his penetrative eyes before he
gets in and pulls away speedily, drawing the attention of a few shoppers leaving the store.

  I breathe out, deflating, my head spinning. I don’t even know what the fucking hell just happened. He came, we yelled, and he left before I had a chance to. But he left apparently certain that we’re not done.

  I don’t want him to be right. But I fear he is.

  I slowly walk to my car, looking at the bottle of wine. Drink it all. Every last drop.

  I’m interrupted from my recklessness by my cell. I don’t have the heart to ignore Lawrence’s call. So I answer, getting in Dolly and turning the heaters up. “I was with a man,” I say when I answer. I’m a grown woman. I shouldn’t feel like I have to hide this. Lawrence doesn’t need the details, and he doesn’t need to get excited about any future prospects, but he does need to know I was doing something relatively normal. Like having sex. The sordid details beyond that aren’t necessary. He’s seen them on my wrist, anyway. “That’s where I was last night. With a man.” Lawrence remains silent, and I frown at the windscreen. “It’s the man I am . . . was working for. It just happened, and I didn’t try to stop it. It felt good.” He should love that. He should relish the thought of me feeling good, even if it was brief. “There’s nothing to read into it past that. It was a one-off.” His lack of a reaction is starting to annoy me. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “A letter’s arrived.”

  My cell becomes heavy in my hand. My heart heavy in my chest. “Open it.”

  “Come home, Beau.”

  “Open it,” I repeat, turning off the heaters, suddenly roasting hot. Nervous. Hopeful. “Please.”

  “Not until you come home. We’ll open it together.” He hangs up, taking away my options.

  “Damn you, Lawrence.” I smack the steering wheel and pull out of the parking lot as fast as Dolly’s capable, and I drive home in a haze of panic and fear, my body racked with shakes.

  Jumping out of my car and racing up the path, I ignore the scratches from the overgrowth, not bothering to knock them out of my way.

  Bursting through the door, I hear Lawrence and Dexter in the kitchen, and I make my way to them, my heart pounding dangerously. They’re at the table, and they fall silent when I walk into the room.