"It seems nice here."
"You want me to see what I can find out about that cottage? I think it's for rent. It's owned by this old lady in town. It's been there forever."
"I don't know. It might be beyond my price range. I have to be careful with my money."
He halted the plane construction to meet her gaze across the table. "I could check. It might be nice to chill out in the same place for a few days. Get your bearings."
"It would be."
He slid off the bench. "Hang on. Let me go grab my cell; I left it in my bag. I'll make a few phone calls. My dad knows this realtor. He's kind of a jerk, but he knows everybody in town." He dragged his fingertips along the table as he walked away. "Be right back."
A minute later, Kristen set two plastic cups of soda and straws on the table. "Burgers will be up in a couple of minutes."
"Thanks." Jillian picked up one of the straws and tore off the paper. As she dropped it into one of the sodas, the diner's door opened, and a very tall, slender woman in what she now recognized as a local police uniform walked in. Despite the uniform, blond hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail at the nape of her neck, and lack of makeup, the policewoman was what Jillian would have described as a gorgeous, willowy blonde. The officer stood in the doorway for a second, surveying the diners and then made a beeline toward the table of Goth teens.
"Get up, Ashley," she said to the girl with the black lipstick.
Jillian knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but she couldn't help herself. With no life of her own right now, other people's fascinated her.
One of the girl's companions snickered.
"Mom," the teen groaned, rolling her blue eyes lined thickly in black.
"Either you get up and walk out of here or I take you out," the policewoman threatened in a low voice that even Jillian could interpret as that she meant business.
Ashley, obviously the policewoman's daughter, pushed her soda aside and reached for her purse, managing to make each movement dramatic.
"You're still on restriction. You were supposed to go straight to your grandparents after work, so they could drive you home."
"I was on my way," the teen answered sourly. "I just stopped for a drink. Can't a person get something to drink if they're thirsty?"
"Yeah, can't a person stop for a drink if they're thirsty, Chief Drummond?"
The young man who spoke was tall and angular with the same shoe-polish black hair as his companions. He wore a ragged black T-shirt and a chain around his neck that appeared to come from a gate or a fence. The necklace was so ridiculous in appearance that it was laughable, but obviously from the young man's tone of voice, it made him think he was tough.
"A person certainly can," Chief Drummond answered, imitating the boy's tone of voice, "Chain—unless, of course, she's a minor and her parent has deemed that she may not stop for a drink, not even if she is dying of thirst."
The female companion again sniggered, but when the policewoman eyed her, she shut right up.
Jillian couldn't resist a smile as she sipped her Coke. Obviously the blond cop was a woman to be reckoned with, and Jillian immediately admired her.
The police chief stepped aside to allow her daughter to exit the booth. "Be sure to say good-bye to your friends, Ashley. You won't be seeing them, or speaking with them on the phone or Internet, for another three days."
"Three days?"
The cop/mom crossed her arms over her chest. "The length of the extension of your restriction for this violation."
Again, the eye roll, but young Ashley climbed out of the booth, dragging her purse behind her. Her mother let her pass and then followed her out the door, where the two disappeared down the steps into the parking lot.
"Good news."
Jillian looked up to see Ty sliding into the seat across from her, setting down his cell phone.
"What's that?" she slid his straw to him.
"That house is for rent." He leaned forward as if he possessed a secret. "Cheap. Someone backed out of the lease for the month of July after paying half up front as security. I guess this whole mess with the serial killer spooked them. The owner just wants someone in the house, so she's willing to rent it for the balance of the rent. I warn you, it's basic. Small, no cable, no phone, and no air conditioning."
He named the price and Jillian found herself smiling back at him. That was doable. Very doable. "Two questions," she said as she leaned back to allow Kristen to slide her plate in front of her. "One, when can I move in?"
He reached for the bottle of ketchup and began to squirt it all over his fries and on the hamburger. "Tonight if you like. Key is hidden on the property, and I know the secret place. You can sign the contract in the morning." He put down the ketchup bottle and squashed the bun on top of the first burger. "And question number two?"
"I guess I'm asking these questions out of order," Jillian said, grabbing a fry that appeared to have been freshly cut with its skin still on. "But what serial killer?"
Chapter 2
Ty took a massive bite of his burger. "You haven't seen the papers? Watched the news? We're on national TV."
"No, I can't say that I have."
"Right. I guess you've been a little busy, huh?" He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and took another bite. "We seem to have a slight serial killer problem in good old Albany Beach." He shook the burger at her. "Now, mind you, this is the first time ever. First homicides in like a hundred years or something."
Still watching him, she used her knife to cut the huge burger on her plate in half, then in more manageable quarters. "You said serial killer?"
He grimaced. "'Fraid so. Three women. No one's drawn any definite conclusions yet, tests still coming back from the lab on possible evidence, yada, yada, yada, but everyone's saying it's the same killer. The papers are calling him Bloody Bob or something asinine like that." Ty stuffed some fries in his mouth and reached for a squirt bottle beside the ketchup. "Vinegar. You have to try this on your fries. It's the best."
Jillian watched as he squirted the perfectly delicious fries with the strong-smelling stuff. "I don't think so." She popped a fry, minus the vinegar, into her mouth thoughtfully. "You don't seem to be taking this serial killer thing very seriously."
One-shouldered shrug. "I don't mean to make light of the women's murders. I just think that if there is one guy out there killing women, we shouldn't be plastering it all over the newspapers, radio, and TV. It gives him what he wants—notoriety."
"You think he's killing for the notoriety?"
"They all do, don't they?"
Jillian took a tentative bite of her burger; it was as good as Ty had promised. "What's the connection between the women?"
Ty shook his head. "That's the weird thing. So far, nothing. You saw our police chief, Claire Drummond, in here a minute ago, dragging off her derelict daughter? Well, it's no wonder she's in a pissy mood. She's in charge of the investigation. So far, apparently, she has almost nothing, and I hear the mayor is really putting it to her. I guess city revenue is down, and this is our first really busy week of the summer. People don't want to vacation in a place where you can get murdered while taking an evening walk. This town lives—or could die—by the summer tourist population."
"Three dead women and the police have nothing?" Jillian leaned over her glass to take a drink. "How's that possible with all the techniques available to crime investigators these days?"
"Not TV, I guess. All the police know is that he picks them up on the street after dark, kills them, and then dumps them a day or two later." He finished off the last of his first burger. "Oh, and the victims are always blond-haired and blue-eyed."
She almost choked on a mouthful of soda. Without thinking, her hand went to her own natural blond hair. Blue eyes, too.
"Jillian," Ty said softly, leaning forward on the table. "I don't think you have to be afraid. I really don't. Look around you. Look how many blond-haired, blue-eyed women there are in town. There's got to be somet
hing more with this nutball than just looks. And I really think Chief Drummond is going to nail the bastard soon."
"But you said the police have no leads."
He made a face and added ketchup beneath the second burger bun. "No leads that they're telling the public. If you were Chief Drummond and you were tracking down a guy who kills women by bleeding them to death, then tossing them in dumpsters, would you tell the papers what direction your investigation was taking or who your suspects were?"
Despite the humid warmth of the day, Jillian fought a shiver akin to the one she had felt a couple of times while still in the hospital. It was fear. "I suppose not."
He reached for his glass, but didn't drink. He shifted on the bench. "Listen, you should do what you want to. If you want to rent the cottage for the month, even for a week, that's cool. You've got a much better chance of dying by choking on one of those fries or by getting into a car accident a block from here than by running into a serial killer. But if you feel like you should move on"—he hesitated—"then you should trust your gut feeling."
And what if her gut feeling involved her attraction to a barely-of-legal-age man? Jillian wondered. Could she trust that?
She looked down at her burger, then up at Ty. "I think I'd like to take the place. For the week, at least, if that's okay?"
"Okay?" He reached for his burger. "That's great. After we're done here, I'll ride back with you, get the key the old lady keeps hidden, and help you get settled. I know just the place we can snag some sheets and stuff. Rentals around here don't usually include that."
She smiled back. "That would be great."
* * *
The Bloodsucker pulled a white T-shirt from the dryer, still warm, and buried his face in it. It smelled "mountain fresh," like fabric softener, but there was another scent, one that was stronger and more primal. One most people couldn't detect. But then, he wasn't most people.
He inhaled deeply, letting his eyes drift shut and the power wash over him. Blood. He could smell her blood.
Phoebe Matthews had put up quite a fight in the very end. She had flung blood all over, making him thankful he was prepared with the new walls made with the plastic drop cloths to catch the spatter. He had bought them at the dollar store, and they were pretty decent for a buck. He'd have to get some more.
The Bloodsucker knew he had to be careful. Cops had ways of detecting blood. Luminol was one. When they sprayed it on a surface that appeared to be wiped clean, it would glow under blue light. He had seen it on TV. Of course, Albany Beach didn't have the budget to pay for such fancy technology.
He lifted the white T-shirt up to the light. Even though it had been bleached and he could no longer see the red droplets, he knew they were still there. In his mind's eye, he could see them, hear them, taste them on the very tip of his tongue.
The Bloodsucker shook out the shirt and began to fold it the way Granny had taught him. Nice and neat. Perfect square to add to an entire drawer of underwear folded in perfect squares. He could have gotten a job folding if he wanted to, in a Gap or a J. Crew at the outlets, his creases were so perfect. The shirt folded, he cradled his left forearm to his chest and pressed the shirt against it like a compress. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the healing power.
After a moment, he opened his eyes and added the shirt to the growing basket of clean clothes at his feet. He always washed his whites separately; he would never allow the dye from darks to bleed on his pristine clothes. As he fished two matching white athletic socks from the dryer and smoothed them out to roll them, he allowed his mind to drift to thoughts of the blonde he had seen today.
So pretty. So nice. Not like that Phoebe Matthews with her black, traitorous heart and foul mouth. He hadn't liked her. She had been rude and uncooperative when she realized he wasn't going to let her go. She had been a poor conversationalist who thought everything in the world revolved around her. And she hadn't even liked movies. He'd offered to try and hook the TV up in the barn so they could watch something together, but she had laughed at him. He'd almost been glad when she died.
But that was all done and over with, neatly tidied up. And conveniently, a new woman had walked right into his life today.
The Bloodsucker knew, of course, that he couldn't pursue her right away. He would have to lay low and keep his distance for a few weeks... at least days. And then he would have to weigh his options. The police chief, Claire-Bear, was sniffing around a lot. He saw her looking at everyone she met, studying them, wondering if each familiar face she encountered could be a person capable of such heinous crimes.
She never suspected him, of course, because he didn't fit the type. And because he was smart. Granny said he was stupid, worthless. An idiot. But she was wrong and he was proving it, wasn't he? He was smarter than them all.
* * *
"You sure you're going to be okay here alone?" Ty carried her small duffle bags to the larger of the two bedrooms. There Jillian was making the bed with sheets he had borrowed from his mother's linen closet. There were towels and washcloths in the bathroom now, too. Renters usually brought their own, he had explained, but there was no need for her to go out and buy anything, not when his mother owned enough sheets to put everyone in Albany Beach to bed.
"I'll be fine." Jillian added the floral top sheet to the queen-sized bed and smoothed out the wrinkles. The sheets smelled of detergent and sunshine. She bet his mother still hung out laundry on a clothesline. She didn't think she had ever had a clothesline in a backyard, but the idea fascinated her. It was like bringing the sun into her bed, making it with these sheets that had hung outside. "I'm not afraid of the Boogey Man or your Bloody Bob."
Ty went to the other side of the bed and helped her spread the light summer quilt in blue and yellow that matched the sheets and the pale blue curtains hanging from heavy rods almost perfectly. "I know. It's just got to be weird being alone in a house when you've been staying in a hotel full of people." He glanced up, grinning boyishly. "I could sleep on your couch, if you want. Or wherever."
She ignored the underlying suggestion, though she was certainly tempted. "I don't need a babysitter. Go home and get some sleep. You said you had to be on the beach at ten tomorrow morning."
The bed made, she walked out of the bedroom, down the short hallway past the full bath and smaller bedroom, to the living room and kitchen-dining room, which were really just one room. The cottage was tiny, as Ty had warned. It had no air-conditioning, but it did have running water, electricity, and a view of the Atlantic Ocean.
What else could a woman ask for—except maybe a phone, and then who would she call?
In the front of the house, Ty walked to the door. "Okay, I can see I'm being kicked out." He pressed one hand to his chest dramatically. "But I'm a man who can take it." He opened the door. "I'll stop by tomorrow after work, maybe even lunchtime when I get my break, to see how you're making out."
"That would be great. I need to get some blood tests done to satisfy my doctors in Virginia. I thought I might do that in the morning. Where's the closest lab?"
"Hospital. You should have seen it as you came into town."
She rested her hand on the old doorknob. "Great. Listen, I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me today. You're a complete stranger and yet—"
"I'm not a stranger anymore." He stepped out onto the dark porch, holding open the screen door. "See you tomorrow." He turned to go, then back around, touching the top of his head. "Sunglasses."
"Oh, on the table." She went back into the kitchen, grabbed his sunglasses off the table, and met him at the door. "'Night."
Jillian closed and locked the door behind Ty and then watched him cross the porch and disappear around the side of the cottage. Moments later, she heard his motorcycle start and then the sound of the engine until it died away down the street.
She stood at the door for a moment and surveyed her new surroundings. The cottage was really quite nice even though it could have used a p
aint touch-up here and there. It wasn't even hot. With the windows open in the back and the front, the way Ty had showed her, she got a cool breeze off the ocean that bordered on chilly.
Her gaze settled on the kitchen cabinets. Behind one glass door there were stacks of old flowered china. Something about the little blue and yellow flowers seemed so familiar. The cabinets with their little windows looking in at the old dishes seemed familiar. She felt as if she had been here before. Dried those dishes.
Which was silly, of course. She must have seen half the locals of Albany Beach while in the diner. Ty seemed to be friends with every one of them. No one recognized her.
Jillian checked her Timex on her wrist. It was only nine; too early to go to bed. She padded down the hall, the old linoleum cool on her bare feet, and retrieved a paperback book she'd bought in a drugstore in Virginia. She carried it into the living room thinking she would read for a while and then turn in. It was an espionage book with spies and double agents by an author she sensed she'd read before, and she hoped it would keep her mind occupied.
Jillian settled on one end of the almost-new couch Ty had removed the dust cover from, and opened the book to the page she'd folded back. She read a page, glanced up, then read the same page again.
The house was so quiet. Yet it wasn't. If she listened carefully, she could hear the ticking of an old clock on the kitchen wall, complete with electric cord running down the wall to the outlet near the floor. She could hear the rustle of the curtains in the back bedroom where she would sleep. And the ocean. She could hear the water breaking on the beach as if she were on her own little island, surrounded by the incoming waves.
In a way, she supposed, she was.
Jillian took another look at the room around her. The glass-doored cabinets, the flowered dishes. She felt as if this had been a good decision, stopping here. And not just because of Ty who, in an instant, had become her new best friend. Her only friend. There was something about this cottage that made her think the secret to her identity lay locked somewhere here. Maybe it wasn't the house; maybe it was the town. She didn't know. But when she considered the possibility, she felt a spark of hope. Maybe she wouldn't be Jillian Deere forever.
She'll Never Know Page 3
