by Virna DePaul
The flare of anger in his eyes dissipated. He pushed away from her and shook his head, pity flooding his eyes. “I’m not going to do that. I can help. This isn’t just about your mother anymore. It’s about you. Two of the three girls look—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” She looked at the ground and felt the fight leave her body. She’d beg him if she had to. She raised her gaze to his and forced herself not to look away. “Please, John. I fought with my mother that night. And then afterward, when I found her—she was lying there—killed by a man I—I’d befriended—”
Her voice broke and she struggled to breathe.
“Your mother’s death wasn’t your fault, Lily. And it wasn’t mine. But this isn’t going to just go away. And neither am I.”
Propping her hands on her hips, she thrust out her jaw, the words coming out before she could stop them. “My father’s a judge now. I’m sure he can arrange to have this reassigned to someone who didn’t know the victim or the witnesses.”
John’s eyes narrowed and his smile made her shiver. He dropped his bag with a thump and once again moved toward her. “I don’t like being threatened, Lily. And I’m sure your father wouldn’t do something so foolish. Let the experts do what needs to be done, small fry.”
She tried to shove him away, but he grasped her wrists, easily holding her hands against his chest. Her fingers flexed, wanting to sink deeper into his taut muscles. Wanting to pull him closer.
Whimpering, she pulled away and he released her. Jaw clenched tight, he glanced down a split second before his horror-filled eyes met her own.
She looked at the bloody images. Her mother. Her beautiful mother. Nausea rushed straight into her throat.
John cursed. “I’m so sorry, Lily—”
Backing away from him and shaking her head, she whispered, “Why are you doing this?” She fumbled for the doorknob behind her.
“Lily—”
Finally, she got the door open, stumbled inside, then stared at him one last time.
“I just want to help, small fry.”
“Then leave me alone.” With bone-shattering control, she closed the door and engaged the lock with a quiet click.
* * *
John swiped his hands over his face in frustration. Damn, that had gone even worse than he’d expected. He shoved the photos and papers that had fallen back into his satchel. Standing, hands on his hips, he stared at Lily’s front door, cursed, then made his way to his car. Once inside, he simply stared some more at Lily’s house.
He hated it.
The small blue-shingled A-frame with black shutters fit in well with the cozy downtown Sacramento neighborhood. Older but not outdated. Paint holding up well. Certainly nothing extravagant. But it had a generic green lawn. No flowers. No decorations. No welcome mat. It was simple and quiet.
It reminded him of Ravenswood, the rehabilitation clinic she’d been admitted to after her mother’s murder, the place he’d visited her only once before her agonized screams had chased him away, resolved never to come back. And it wasn’t at all what he’d imagined for her.
Even at sixteen, Lily Cantrell had been complex. Colorful. Unpredictable. Dark, soulful eyes. A crease in her left cheek that never quite developed into a dimple when she smiled. A quick laugh and quicker temper.
She’d been more complex than her staid, generic home revealed. She still was.
And she was more beautiful than ever.
Her face was a mix of her father’s Anglo background and her mother’s Asian roots, pale skin with freckles and slightly slanted eyes. She still had shiny dark hair and a petite frame, but she’d gained enough weight to give her luscious breasts and hips where before she’d had none.
Her mouth seemed different, too. Less innocent. More sinful. Soft and full.
Rolling his shoulders, he closed his eyes. He’d hoped the passage of time and his current assignment would create some kind of natural barrier against any lingering feelings they had for one another, good or bad. He should have known it wouldn’t happen.
He’d always felt a strong connection to Lily. She’d been the ultimate good girl and he the neighborhood bad boy, but they’d been drawn to one another, first by the friendship between their mothers, then by the sheer pleasure of each other’s company. Eventually, he’d trusted her in a way he hadn’t even trusted his own family. Years ago, when his girlfriend Stacy Mitchell had accused him of dealing drugs, he’d told Lily the reason she’d done it—to hide the fact that she’d been doing it herself. That her father hit her and her uncle had done far worse. Wanting to protect Stacy despite what she’d done, he’d cautioned Lily not to tell anyone. She’d believed him and refused to give up their friendship, causing enormous strife between her and her parents.
Lily’s relationship with her cop father had suffered the most, leaving Lily particularly vulnerable when Chris Hardesty, a homeless man who had started hanging around at a nearby park, befriended her. Eventually, it was that friendship that had led Hardesty to Lily’s mother, Tina.
John reached for his cell phone and dialed the office number of Deputy Attorney General Lucas Thorn.
“Hi,” he said when the man answered. “This is John. I just saw Lily Cantrell and she wasn’t happy about it. Don’t be surprised if you get a call from Judge Cantrell fairly soon.”
“Damn. I was hoping she’d cooperate. Doesn’t she get we’re trying to speed Hardesty’s execution along, not stall it?”
John frowned at Thorn’s choice of words. He wasn’t trying to speed anything along, just trying to make sure both The Razor and Tina’s murderer were brought to justice, regardless of whether they were the same person or not. He knew Thorn wanted the same thing—he was probably just frustrated that the governor was taking Hardesty’s claims about The Razor seriously. “Did you tell the governor that a patch of Sandy LaMonte’s hair had been shaven, too, just like the girls before her?”
Thorn sighed on the other line. “I did. He doesn’t see it as a significant deviation from how Tina died. She was stabbed just like Tina. And as you already pointed out yourself, LaMonte looks even more like Tina than the victims before her.”
More like Tina. And more like Lily, John thought. Which was the only reason he was here. Once again, he stared at Lily’s door, as if doing so would give him another glimpse of the young girl who’d turned into a beautiful albeit mistrustful woman.
Had he been wrong to believe Lily’s life was in danger? Or had he simply used his fear to justify seeing her, when he’d sworn long ago to leave her in peace?
But it was Thorn who’d asked John to look into Tina Cantrell’s case. Thorn who hoped John’s findings would mollify the governor and rule out any connection with The Razor. And contrary to jumping at the opportunity, John had even expressed reluctance at first.
“But I knew the Cantrell family. We were neighbors. Our mothers were friends,” he’d said.
Only Thorn hadn’t seen that as a problem. It was a long time ago, and he trusted John to look at the evidence objectively. Besides, Thorn reminded him, looking into Tina’s murder was just a formality. It wasn’t as if anyone actually believed Hardesty was innocent.
Still, John hadn’t wanted to dig up old memories or the pain that came with them. Plus, looking into the case meant probably having to interview Tina’s family, including Lily. Better to let a stranger handle it, right?
But then something had struck him… .
Inside his car, he reached into his satchel and shuffled through the photos until he had the right one, the one of The Razor’s latest victim, LaMonte.
Like the other victims, neither her purse nor the jewelry she was wearing had been disturbed. And she looked startlingly like Tina Cantrell and her daughter, Lily.
The Razor’s other victims had been dark-haired and petite, too, something he’d registered, of course, but it wasn’t until he’d put all the photos side by side that he saw just how much each subsequent victim looked more and more the way Lily had at si
xteen.
It had to be coincidence. After all, if The Razor had killed Tina, why had he waited so long to kill again? Granted, they couldn’t know for sure he hadn’t killed other girls in other locations, but still…
In the end, logic hadn’t mattered. In that moment, he’d feared Lily was in danger. He still did.
Even after all the separation and regret, he wasn’t going to walk away. Even if it meant having to face her and their past, he wasn’t taking any chances. Lily had implied he was trying to hurt her and her family, but all he wanted to do was make sure they were safe, her most of all.
Fifteen years ago, she’d offered her love to him and he’d done what he’d thought was best. But in doing so, he’d hurt her. Terribly. Keeping her safe now was the least he could do.
Thorn’s comment about speeding along Hardesty’s execution once again echoed in his mind. It had just been a poor choice of words, John told himself. Thorn’s caseload had gotten intense in the past few months, which had to have contributed to his breakup with Carmen. It still pissed John off, especially when he saw how badly Carmen was taking the breakup, but he knew Thorn was hurting, too. It was obvious any time Carmen’s name came up. Plus, he’d worked with Thorn for years. He trusted him. He was a good guy.
Too bad Lily no longer trusted him.
Chapter 2
It was barely past dawn when John strode up to the El Dorado County Sheriff’s Satellite Office. Despite the prominent flagpole with the state and national flags in front, the squat tan building looked like a strip-mall dental office. Still, he loved working here, only about an hour north from where he’d grown up. The South Lake Tahoe scenery was idyllic—lush green trees, sparkling water, and snow-capped mountains. The pace was slow. The people relatively peaceful. It was a constant challenge that so many acted immune to the dangers of larger cities.
The murder of local girl Sandy LaMonte and the others before her proved they weren’t.
Going through the police reports in Tina Cantrell’s case hadn’t weakened his belief in Hardesty’s guilt. As Thorn kept telling him, the evidence against Hardesty was solid. But John also couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. Something having to do with Lily’s hostility yesterday—even as understandable as it was—as well as her father’s subsequent refusal to talk to him.
He hesitated before entering his office and thought about Lily. It didn’t take long before his erection strained against the fly of his pants. John took a shaky breath.
It had been the same reaction he’d had yesterday. It was like he was twenty years old again and he couldn’t keep his body from wanting her no matter how unwise the response. Back then, he’d pushed her away when she’d come to him. And now? Now he expected her and her family to…what? Forgive him? Understand? Cooperate?
He snorted. Right. What a mess.
With a sigh, he finally went inside. He greeted the receptionist and then went into the back office that he shared with the office’s three deputies.
“Hi, John.” Deputy Tom Murdoch appeared in the doorway just as John sat down behind his desk.
He motioned Murdoch inside. “Hey. Anything helpful from LaMonte’s parents?”
Murdock shook his head. “She had a habit of hitchhiking from their home in Incline Village. Who knows where he picked her up. Here are their statements.”
John took the folder and opened it. Yesterday, sitting in his car outside Lily’s house, he’d studied a close-up photo of LaMonte’s face. This photo focused on her stab wounds. On film, LaMonte’s injuries seemed even more severe than they had in person at the crime scene, which was the opposite of what one would expect. But without her face as a distraction, without the nerves and adrenaline and compassion that had rattled through him at the crime scene, all John had to focus on were her torn flesh and blood.
The photos themselves seemed inhumane. Cold. As cold as the man who’d done this. He set the file aside. Hopefully, the guy had left plenty of evidence behind.
“What about the jacket we found?”
“Doesn’t look like it belonged to her, but it’s being tested along with the evidence collected from her body. The coroner found a credit card she’d tucked into her sweater pocket.”
John remembered the thin gold chain around LaMonte’s neck and the small earrings in her ears. Was it ethics or simply disinterest that had kept her killer from taking them and the credit card? He hadn’t taken anything from his other victims either, even though Diane Lopez had at least fifty bucks still on her and Shannon Petersen had half-carat diamonds in her ears.
“The coroner confirmed sexual assault,” Murdoch said. “Took a vaginal swab and other evidence from the body.”
“It’ll match the others.” John sighed. “So we’re back to square one. We’ve got his DNA, but no one to connect it to.”
“What about DNA evidence from the Tina Cantrell case?”
“Never done. Back then, it wasn’t required and Hardesty confessed so why waste the time or money.”
“Is having the evidence tested the next step?”
“For some reason, the defense hasn’t asked for it. And the prosecution’s position is it’s not needed, so Thorn’s certainly not going to.” In fact, Thorn had been adamant on that point. As he’d pointed out, “It’s costly, unwarranted, and could potentially just complicate things. If another person’s DNA is found on her body, it doesn’t prove Hardesty didn’t kill her. It just gives the defense another opportunity to delay the execution while they talk about a phantom suspect.”
But he’d left out one crucial fact, one he was smart enough to know. Another person’s DNA could show Hardesty hadn’t been working alone. He might have had an accomplice. An accomplice who was at this very moment on the loose—the man they’d dubbed The Razor. Soon, John was going to talk to Chris Hardesty about that possibility.
“Right now,” John continued, “Thorn just wants me to look over the evidence we already have and explore any possible holes. To appease the governor so the execution goes forward as planned.”
“And what if Hardesty’s telling the truth? What if The Razor really killed Tina Cantrell?”
John stared at Murdoch but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
If it turned out the same man killed Sandy LaMonte, the two other girls, and Tina Cantrell, then the media would have a field day. He could see the headlines now:
Innocent Death Row Inmate Barely Escapes With His Life.
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” John said. “Listen, Murdoch. I appreciate you working the extra hours on this. As soon as we eliminate the theory that the same man killed Tina Cantrell and Sandy LaMonte, Hardesty’s claims of innocence are going to have zero credibility. But I trust you to keep focus on what’s important. No matter what happens with the Cantrell case, we still have to find the animal who’s killing these girls.”
“Sure,” Murdoch said, then hesitated. “How young do you think the next one’s going to be?”
Grimly, John opened the file and flipped through the photos until he found one depicting LaMonte’s face. He knew Murdoch was thinking of his own teenage girls. “I don’t know.” The Razor’s first victim had been twenty-five. His second, twenty. LaMonte, eighteen. Were their decreasing ages significant? Was Tina’s? She’d been forty when she’d been killed.
Murdoch paused on his way out. “Oh, the A.G. stopped by about ten minutes ago looking for you. Something about Tina’s daughter slapping a guy at the murder scene fifteen years ago. He wants to talk to you about it right away.”
John closed his eyes and raked his hand through his hair. “Great,” he drawled.
When he opened his eyes, Murdoch stared at him. “I take it this isn’t good news?”
John laughed humorously. “No. It isn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the guy she slapped.”
August 29
12:45 a.m.
Sacramento, CA
John’s little apart
ment was trashed. The smell of pizza and beer and other things made him dizzy, and all he wanted was for the last few stragglers to leave. Especially his ex-girlfriend, Stacy.
Tormented by the hurt look on Lily’s face before she’d run away from him, John nudged Stacy toward her roommate. “But I don’t wanna go, Johnny. I wanna shtay here with you.”
Patting her arm, he passed her into her roommate’s arms along with twenty bucks. “The cab’s waiting. Here’s enough for the fare and tip.”
“Hey! Where’s the party?”
Three men John vaguely recognized jogged up the walkway. Gritting his teeth, he blocked the doorway. “Sorry,” he said, although his tone telegraphed the opposite sentiment. “Party’s over.”
One of the men punched another in the chest. “I told you we shouldn’t have stopped.”
His friend rubbed his arm. “Like you didn’t want to know why there were cop cars swarming down the block!”
It was unsettling how fast John thought of Lily. He lunged and grabbed the guy’s shirt. “What are you talking about?”
Eyes wide, the guy jerked his thumb in the direction of Lily’s street. “We—we saw some cop cars in front of a house. A murder, it sounded like. The neighbors said the Cantrells lived there.”
John released him with a shove and started running. He ran as if his life was in danger. He ran faster than he’d ever run in his life.
Heart pumping, John’s legs wobbled every time his feet hit concrete. He pushed himself to go faster, ignoring the terror stiffening his muscles and hitching his breath.
She’s fine. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. She’s fine.
But when he turned the corner to her street, he knew Lily wasn’t fine. Three police cars were parked haphazardly in front of the house. An ambulance. A white van imprinted with the word Coroner in large, block letters. Yellow tape bordered the front walk, keeping out the crowd that had gathered there.
Guilt flooded through him. If he hadn’t messed with her feelings, she wouldn’t have run off. Had he put her in danger? Had she been hurt because of him? John stumbled, moving forward, pushing through the crowd and shouting Lily’s name.
