What Doesn't Kill You

by Aimee Hix

  I started to enter the number when my phone rang. Right. I had blackmailed and threatened someone’s grandfather. I was going to hell. I clicked Accept.

  “Willa Pennington here. I do not want you to say your name.”

  “Uh … okay.”

  The voice was soft and girlish. And scared. I fought back the urge to reassure her. It wasn’t my responsibility to make sure she was emotionally secure while she was on the lam.

  “I need you to tell me about your boyfriend’s friends. I need names, phone numbers, addresses, any and everything you have.”

  “I don’t have any idea who his friends are. Were.”

  “Seriously? You lived with him and you don’t know anything about any of his friends? Not even a damn first name?”

  And she promptly dissolved into whimpering little sobs. The tiniest shred of sympathy I had for her was gone, but I wasn’t getting anywhere with her being my usual charming self.

  “Look, I know I’m being harsh, but I need your help. I need information only you have, Violet. Help me help you.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Any exculpatory evidence I found would go straight to Boyd. Unless that evidence pointed to Seth and then … then I’d deal with it when I had to.

  “He was friends with a guy named Mark. I didn’t like him. He was mean. He gave me the creeps.”

  I had to wonder what qualified Mark as mean if she loved a guy who smacked her around. Nothing I was comfortable with came to mind.

  “Mean? Mean to you?”

  “To Joe. Joe didn’t like to have his friends over much. And after they left, he would get mean too. He wasn’t always mean, you know. Sometimes he was nice.”

  Defending her abuser even though he was a dead man or defending herself for staying with him even though he hurt her? I didn’t care. It made sense that feeling small around Mark would have made Joe treat Violet even worse. I had never understood men like that—I’d seen too many examples of real men, who didn’t need an ego boost from smacking around someone smaller and weaker.

  “Did Mark drive a big silver pickup truck?”

  She gasped softly. Had she really thought her grandfather wouldn’t tell me?

  “The one time Joe had his friends over I stayed upstairs while they watched a football game downstairs. Joe told me to keep my mouth shut and stay out of their way.”

  It would have been a little too convenient to be able to wrap up the case like that. Silver truck at scene, Mark drives silver truck, ergo I have not had sex with a multiple murderer. He’d just committed the one murder. I don’t know why I thought that would be any better.

  “I heard Joe was doing some kind of manual labor. Was he working construction or as landscaper, maybe?”

  “I’m not sure. He didn’t come home too dirty.”

  So Joe wasn’t working one of the few jobs he was qualified for. Another dead end. Did this girl know anything about the man she’d been sleeping next to?

  “Can you tell me anything that might help us find who did this so you can come home?”

  Her voice was still soft but I heard strength in it too. “I want to help. I do. I just … I know lots of stuff but I’m not really sure if I know anything useful.”

  “How about this? How about you go through your memories of any time he talked about his friends or his work. Any time he mentioned something about people he knew. Any mentions of what happened during his day. Write it all down, even if it seems unimportant. It could be the tiniest piece of information that makes a difference.”

  “I can do that.” Her voice had grown stronger during the call. I wondered if everyone had been underestimating this girl. “Okay, I have to go now. My friend says—”

  “No.” I stopped her before she could give me more information than I wanted to be responsible for. I hadn’t lied to Boyd yet and I didn’t want to start. “I don’t need to know. You’re safe and that’s all that matters. Call me at this same time in two days and give me your list okay?”

  The hesitance was back in her voice when she answered, “I will.”

  Mark was a good lead but I couldn’t let her off the phone without asking her what I desperately needed to know.

  “One last question. Did Joe know a man named Seth?”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah! He came by the house once when Joe was out. He was nice.”

  “Light hair, green eyes?”

  “Yes, that’s the guy. He had a nice smile.”

  So, to recap, Seth had broken into my office to read my case file on a murder he shouldn’t have known about, a pending charge for Accessory to Murder (which, let’s face it, was just a legal term for we have slightly less evidence than we’d need to prove he’s an actual killer) under an alias I knew was his, and I could place him both at the scene of a second murder and having known the victim.

  Well, at least Violet thought he had a nice smile.

  Shit.

  Chapter

  8

  I pulled up outside the work address I found for Seth’s alias. The sign on the painted cinderblock building read Andrews Motorcycle Repair. Seth’s alias owned a motorcycle repair business? That hadn’t shown up in any of the records. I thought Seth had gone the federal contractor route after leaving the service like most people in the area. Michael had been deployed so my contact with Seth the last few years had been holidays and family get-togethers. He’d been vague when people brought up work but that wasn’t unusual for contracting. Even in a boring desk job that involved pushing papers, the papers pushed were usually stamped CLASSIFIED. It had been easier to fall back into watching movies, bantering—small talk would have just exacerbated the awkward tension—and using Ben as a buffer. Why was Seth running a garage, under an alias no less? He said he’d only had his bike for a few months. And romancing me then breaking into my home?

  No other cars sat in the shallow lot sandwiched between the road and the front of the building. I got out of the car and looked around. There was no entrance that I could see. I walked to the side of the building where a rutted dirt lane ran past. There had to be a door into the place somewhere.

  As I rounded the corner, I saw that there were bays along the wall of the building and past those was a metal staircase up to a door. None of the bays were open even a sliver and I couldn’t hear any noise coming from inside. I wondered how wise it was to walk into a situation I had no information on. The little voice in my head—which had been getting quite a workout the past two days—shouted, Not smart at all! Then she started listing off different scenarios I could be exposing us to like a movie trailer for Slow and Painful Ways to Die. I told her to shut the hell up and quit being a wimp.

  I was debating the best way to get into one of the bays when the door at the top of the stairs banged open against the railing and an angry man stepped out. His head bent, he stomped down the metal stairs, heavy boots causing the steel to sing and creak with each step. He was so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t notice me until he was a few steps away. I flattened myself against the bay door.

  He stopped in front of me and glared. His red face was shot with veins across his nose and cheeks. A sickly sweet smell poured off him so strongly my stomach flipped. It was obvious years of alcohol abuse had taken their toll on him. “What the hell are you staring at, girly?”

  Smart me kept her mouth shut. Dumbass mouthy me couldn’t resist. “Nothing. I can’t see a damn thing through the fumes.” I pushed past him and sauntered off as casually as I could with smart me chastising me for turning my back on a man I had just insulted.

  The door sitting open at the top of the steps seemed promising. I walked up the stairs as quietly as I could. Stealth seemed to appease the part of my brain that had been urging me to run home like a good little girl since the second I’d arrived and was currently cowering after the exchange with the stranger. I continued to ignore it like I had been for the pas
t twenty-some years and concentrated on sneaking up the really loud stairs. Failing to be ultra-quiet, I just hoped the person was preoccupied. Or people.

  I got to the top and stopped before the landing to poke my head around. My training officer had drilled into me that stepping full into a doorway without looking was a good way to end up with an honors guard funeral. The room was empty. So the red-faced man had been mad he couldn’t talk to whoever he was looking for. Was that Seth? I was so confused. These were the parts of an investigation I’d never seen as a cop; I got to see the beginnings and the endings. Apparently, being a PI was all about the middles.

  I stepped up to the landing and into the office, shooting another glance down the stairs. I was alone. I walked into the room and looked around. I moved toward the large plate glass that framed a view of the whole ground floor. There were mechanics working on motorcycles. It appeared to be exactly what the sign said.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I spun around. Seth was standing in the doorway I’d just come through. Obviously he knew how to sneak into a room, but he’d proven that last night.

  “Jesus, Willa, how did you even find this place?”

  The minor nerves I’d refused to indulge in on the drive over broke free and I couldn’t remember any of the pithy remarks I’d prepared. He didn’t look like a killer. He looked like Seth.

  As he closed the door, Seth looked over at me. “Get away from the window.”

  Without thought, I took a step toward the back wall as requested then stopped. “Seriously? What the hell am I doing here? How did I find the place? After last night, that’s what you have to say to me?”

  “Willa, please, step away from the window.”

  I stayed in the middle of the room. “No, you tell me what’s going on. How you knew about Joe Reagan. How you have an alias and that alias owns a business. What the hell you were thinking coming on to me last night.”

  “I can’t give you the answers you want.” He glanced over at the window. “Did anyone see you when you arrived?”

  I paced around the room, staying away from the window and surveying it covertly. I’d never been in a garage office before but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, other than its barrenness. The room wasn’t quite the length of the building, maybe three-quarters, with battered metal desks lining the glass wall. The whole place looked unused. There were no papers or objects on any of the desks. Industrial gray was the color scheme. At least it was clean. From what I’d been able to see of the four guys working down in the bay they did seem to be actually repairing motorcycles, even if they looked the opposite of law-abiding.

  “Again, you’re saying you can’t. You can, you just won’t. Do you even care that I’m thinking the worst things about you? That I’ve been trying to come up with rationalizations for your actions? How have you been charged with murder, Seth Andrews?”

  At the mention of his fake last name and the murder charges, he pressed his lips tightly together, the cords in his neck standing out prominently against the tanned skin.

  There was no information about him in the room we were in. I saw a door that had to be for a closet or storeroom. I wondered what I’d find in there. I wondered what Seth would do if I tried to open the door. I walked away from him and turned the knob. I found a small storage with a few stacked boxes, a cot, and half-bath facilities.

  “You want to turn out my pockets too, Willa? There’s nothing here for you. You need to go. Now. Do not come back.”

  “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?” I didn’t bother to conceal my annoyance with him. It wouldn’t have helped anyway. He always knew when I was mad at him. Probably because I wasn’t good at hiding it. Other emotions, definitely, otherwise the little dance we had been doing most of our acquaintance would have ended up in a bed a hell of a lot sooner and with a hell of a lot less tequila. But I wanted some damn answers.

  His eyes darted over to the window. “Keep your voice down.”

  My eyes narrowed. He was too concerned with who had seen me or who might hear me. He clearly had more secrets he didn’t want me digging in.

  “Nice business you’ve got here, Mr. Andrews,” I said, motioning to the view below. “A fine crew of mechanics you’ve got down there too. Quite a few changes for you since you left the Army. Preppy clothes gone, motorcycle, criminal record. Anything else you want to make me dig up on my own? You know what I can come up with in less than a day. You sure you don’t want to just come clean?”

  “I know what you think you’ve come up with, Willa. It’s all stuff I can live with.”

  “You can live with me thinking you’re a murderer?”

  He nodded, jamming his hands into his back pockets, and rolled his neck to loosen the muscles. But he wasn’t okay with it. He was a clean poker player but in life, he had three tells. That neck roll was one of them just like rubbing his thumb nail and mirroring my body language.

  “Really?”

  “What? You can’t imagine me not giving a damn? Oh, Sunshine, you overestimate your appeal. You were a decent lay, I will give you that, but it was any port in a storm that night. Plus it was easy. All I had to do was apply a little liquor and I knew you’d drop your panties.”

  The pulse in my throat jumped. “You bastard.”

  “Acting like you were so much better than me. Being a tease all those years. Admit it, you’d been dying for an excuse. You didn’t even have to admit you wanted to spread your legs for me. Michael biting it gave you the perfect opportunity.”

  I didn’t even realize I had slapped him until he started laughing. “Is that the best you’ve got? Good thing you ditched the uniform, Sunshine. I’ve got to know though: Did you keep the handcuffs? You must have because you sure loved it when I held you down. If you’re up for a go right now, I’d be happy to oblige. I’ve got a cot in the back or I can bend you right over the desk and make your day, but then you’ve really got to go.”

  Sonofabitch. The slap hadn’t gotten his attention, but the second time I used my fist and his head rocked to the side. My dad had taught me to throw a great right hook and I put my whole body into it. I had no idea how he hadn’t seen it coming because I’d telegraphed the damn thing all the way from my hip.

  “Better, Sunshine. Always lead with your best punch.” His hand whipped out and grabbed my wrist tightly before I could hit him a third time. He pulled me into his body and the collision made me bite my tongue.

  I yanked my arm back trying to dislodge his grip, but he held on. “You can go fuck yourself sideways with a red hot poker, Seth.”

  “I’m not playing with you anymore, Willa.”

  My stomach turned into a hard ball of nerves, but I wasn’t letting him win. I swept his leg and we tumbled. Seth refused to let go of my wrist and dragged me down on top of him in a tangle of limbs and solid muscles. We were not a graceful heap, all artfully arranged like on television. I banged my elbow on the concrete floor.

  Before I could register the pain shooting down my arm, Seth had me rolled over on my back, his weight pressing me into the floor. Real and true panic blossomed as I lay there pinned. His hand came up over my mouth, covering it, pressing the meat of his palm up against my nostrils.

  In my panic, all I could register was that this was not the man I once knew; the one I’d gone camping with and who’d taught me how to fish, always baiting the hooks for me because I couldn’t bear to hurt the worms. The one who’d sacrificed himself to keep me and his little brother from getting caught drinking at fifteen. That guy would never have talked to me like I was trash. He would have never laid a hand on me in anger. This was not my Seth.

  For a second, I saw regret and shame in his eyes. He started to roll off me and I pushed up hard, scrambling to my feet, haste winning out over grace.

  I stared at him, trying to regain any semblance of control over myself and the situ
ation.

  “Charms and lies have worn off so you have to resort to insults and force, Seth? You’ve lost your edge,” I said. It probably would have been a more effective slight if I hadn’t been snorting air like a bull.

  The only sound in the room was me panting. I desperately wanted to rub my wrist to ease both the ache and the indignity from being manhandled. I resisted and slowed my breathing. I refused to show him any fear. Or pain. I had assured him the last time I saw him that he wasn’t capable of hurting me. I was living the lie.

  The best defense is a good offense. “Who in the hell do you think you are? Or don’t you know anymore? Seth Anderson, Seth Andrews. War hero, garage owner. Killer. Let me tell you who you’re not: You’re not someone who will ever put his hands on me again. Take that to the fucking bank.”

  I headed for the door and turned back, rage and fear combining in an almost overwhelming adrenaline cocktail, my fingers in a minor tremor, all pins and needles.

  “I mean it, Seth. I’ll keep your secrets. Your parents have been through enough, but if you come near me again … ”

  I trailed off, not even sure what I could threaten him with. He outweighed me by at least seventy pounds and had changed in ways I couldn’t even fathom.

  “Sunshine?” The mocking tone in his voice burned my cheeks. “Stay away.”

  I turned the knob and dashed out for real as full-blown shaking began in my hands. It took three tries to get the keys in the ignition and I had to pull over a block from the shop. I rubbed the pain away from my wrists until my fingers stopped tingling.

  The voice in my head mocked me by replaying Seth telling me last night he’d never lie about his feelings for me. If I believed what he’d said today, he’d been lying for a long time.

  Chapter