Devil's Dawn (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 2)

by Raine, Charlotte

  There's a sudden movement near my couch. Surprised, I drop the container of Chinese food. The container bounces off my shoe and pops open, spraying noodles and sauce everywhere, but I can't care about that because my hand has instinctively reached for my gun. I point it at the creeping shadow until the shadow sheds itself in the light to reveal itself as Aaron.

  "What the flying fuck." I snarl and lower the gun, though, honestly, I don't want to.

  He rubs his eyes as if he's five years old. His black hair is sticking up in all directions, and while he's six feet tall and has the body frame of a quarterback, he looks smaller now in the vast space of my condo and the juvenile confusion on his face.

  "What?" he mumbles.

  "Why are you in my condo?" I demand. "And why the hell are all these photographs hanging on my wall?"

  I don't wait for him to answer. No explanation could ever justify any of this. I storm into the kitchen, tear off about two feet worth of paper towels, and begin to clean up the mess. The oil of the food soaks through the paper towels. It has already soaked my pant hem and the food has splattered globs across the waxed wood of the entry space, and even reached the white carpet in the living room.

  I'll never be able to get this out.

  "I wanted to surprise you," Aaron mutters.

  "Well, good job. You did it. Next time, just send me flowers or don't do anything at all."

  "Teresa, could you look at me while we're talking?"

  "No!" I snap. "Because I need to get all this food off this wood to make sure ants don't find it later, and I need to get it out of the carpet before it stains. I need to get—"

  He grabs me by the shoulders. I look up at him.

  "Take a breath. I get it. You're angry. I'm sorry. Like I said, all I wanted to do was surprise you. What time is it anyway?"

  "It's eight o' clock."

  "Why are you getting home at eight o' clock?"

  "Because I was trying to get to know my partner, so we went to a bar. Is this an interrogation? Am I a suspect for something because I'm not the one who broke into someone's condo."

  "I didn't break in!" he snaps. "You gave me the key. And, no, I'm not interrogating you. I was just wondering if you've been out with Nathan this whole time."

  "Why the hell would I be with Nathan?"

  He stomps to the living room then returns with my shoebox. He holds up a folded photograph—a picture Nathan had taken when our relationship had still been new. When we had been in love—or at least, we thought we had been.

  "What makes you think that means anything?"

  "Because he sent it a couple months ago and you never said anything," he says. "And it was at the bottom of the box. Why would your most recent photograph be at the bottom of a box?"

  "Because," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but I'm speaking through my teeth anyway, "when I first got the photograph that box was on the top shelf in my closet. I reached up for the box to put it inside and the box fell. So, when I threw them all back in, that photo must have been one of the first ones I put back."

  "Did you call him?" he demands.

  "Call him? No, I didn't call him. Not that it's any of your damn business if I did! The real question should be—what the hell were you doing going through my things?"

  "I was trying to surprise you! Help you! You hadn't gotten around to framing those and hanging them up—"

  "I don't want them hanging up, Aaron! I don't—"

  "What is wrong with you? That's…this is your family!" he shouts.

  "Yes, it's my family. Not yours. It's not your problem…just go. Go home, Aaron," I say, throwing the dirty paper towels into the trash.

  He shakes his head, grabbing his jacket and cell phone. "Well, happy birthday," he mutters as he places the shoebox, including my picture, gently on the entryway floor before walking out, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aaron, 2015 (Monday night)

  A STRING OF expletives is on the tip of my tongue as I storm out of Teresa's condo, but I bite them all back. I feel gut-punched, angry, embarrassed, and helpless, but anger roars inside me more than anything. I'm not even sure who I'm angrier at—Teresa or myself.

  It's her birthday. Didn't she want to be nice to herself today? What kind of an idiot was I for assuming she gave a damn about family or wanting to make a life with me? She was an FBI agent. She hadn't even painted the walls of her condo, and she lived her entire life as if she could pick up and go anywhere at any time. Which she would likely do as soon as a big crime happened somewhere else in Alaska.

  As I get back into my car and begin the half hour drive back to Wyatt, something itches at the back of my mind. There was an important date two weeks ago. October 12th.

  October 12th was Lisa's birthday. My daughter's birthday.

  I hadn't even thought about it. I hadn't thought about her or her mother, both of whom loved me and were still my whole life even two years after they had died.

  I had forgotten Lisa's birthday, which must make me the shittiest father in the world.

  What was I doing? Was I so wrapped up in Teresa that every other thought and memory scattered in my mind? How could I be so cruel to forget my daughter's birthday?

  I don't know what I'm doing, but I damn well know that I'm going to get drunk tonight. I may have been sober since Teresa and I had worked together on the Sarah Latham case, but tonight seemed a good a night as any to feel that burning liquid slide down my throat and burn me from the inside.

  My normal ringtone sounds, so I know it's not Nick. I glance at the screen—Greg Stalinski.

  Greg is a detective in my department. The last thing I want to do is work right now, but as acting chief of police, it's a bad idea for me to ignore anything or else I'll wake up to headlines like: Chief Grant Doesn't Care about Wyatt and Chief Grant takes Wyatt for Granted.

  I pull over to the side of the road. By the time I've parked, the call has already ended. I call Greg back.

  "Hey, Aaron," Greg answers. "Sorry to call you so late."

  "It's fine, Greg. What's going on?"

  "Well, there's been a murder."

  I sigh. Of course. Why not make my night worse. Guilt consumes me again as I realize I'm feeling more pity for myself than the victim. "Who is it?"

  "Brianna Cull."

  And worse. Brianna is around the age Lisa would have been.

  "What happened?"

  "Well, Junior is the one who called it in. He told me his niece had been shot and killed. We got here and it looks like she was shot right after she stepped out of her car. There's blood and brain matter everywhere. It's pretty bad. We're trying to get ahold of Elizabeth and Tom Cull, but we haven't had any luck—Junior says they're in Anchorage celebrating their anniversary, so you know, they could be having some alone time."

  "Well, this will certainly ruin it for them. Are you at the Culls' house now?"

  "Yep. That's why I can tell you about the brain matter."

  "Okay. I'll be there in…fifteen minutes or so."

  "I hope you didn't eat anything because you wouldn't be the first one to throw up here."

  "Thanks, Greg."

  "No problem."

  I hang up. It will be good to work and have something to focus on. The Culls need me. Nick needs me. Wyatt needs me. Teresa…I don't know what she needs.

  I set my phone down, shift into drive, and pull my car back onto the road. I feel like I'm following my headlights, which seems foolish when there is such vast darkness in front of me that I'm not paying attention to.

  Chapter Twelve

  Teresa, 2015 (Monday night)

  NO MATTER HOW hard I scrub my carpet, the grease stain is still evident. I have half a mind to set this one patch of carpet on fire to get rid of it. The only logic stopping me is I don't want to answer the Bureau's questions when my whole condo ends up on fire.

  But, I suppose, they might be used to it. That's just my MO…if I can't get exactly what I want, I'll just
burn the whole fucker down.

  Like my argument with Aaron.

  I hadn't anticipated Aaron finding out today was my birthday—I can only assume it was in some profile the Bureau sent to his department—but I should have known it's his style to try to make something like a birthday into a celebration. Donovan's way of wishing me a happy birthday was what I would have preferred, but Aaron isn't Donovan. He isn't Donovan, he isn't Nathan, he isn't even Stephen.

  I'm not sure what Aaron is, but I have a feeling that "was" will soon be used to describe him.

  The thought doesn't make me sad. Or angry. I'm not angry anymore, because I'm too exhausted to be angry. I just feel….empty. I almost always have.

  Almost always.

  From the corner of my eye, I spot the photo Nathan had sent me. I drop my cleaning rag onto the carpet. I take it from the box and stare at it. I remember that night as if that dress were still clinging to my body. It was a political fundraiser for some politician with a funny name—Jim Blow, Dick Harding, or something like that—and I was bored most of the time, but then Nathan began doing various dances—the mambo, the jive, ballet, flamenco, interpretive dance—in order to keep me entertained. It was one of those times I felt truly loved. Nathan was the type who cared too much about what other people thought, and he was risking embarrassing himself for my sake. I had been happy. Genuinely so. I had felt as complete with my clothes on that night as I'd felt when I'd first gotten naked with Aaron. Whole. A part of something.

  And Nathan had been such a mistake.

  Maybe it was good Aaron and I had this fight now, instead of later. Maybe it was a sign the relationship was going to be a mistake. I was already not paying as much attention to my job as I should have—and now was not the time to start letting my work slip. There are many jobs that you can make mistakes in, but being an FBI agent isn't one of them.

  It was good Aaron and I had this argument now, because we would have inevitably crashed and burned. It was better we hadn't wasted even more of each other's time, and I wasn't so emotionally involved that I could barely find myself again.

  I stand up and walk into my home office. It's small, cramped, and the last time I used it was when Aaron and I had sex on the desk.

  I set the photograph inside the mouth of the shredder and push it in. The room is filled with the grinding sound until the photograph is crosscut shreds and barely even a memory. I can't afford to keep memories anymore.

  I go back out to the entrance and begin to take down the other photographs, making sure I don't look at my childhood face. I can never return to the girl I used to be. I can only learn from her mistakes and never form attachments to anyone ever again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aaron, 2015 (Monday night)

  IT STARTS RAINING as soon as I swing off the highway and onto Gershawn Road. It's supposed to stay above freezing tonight, but that wouldn't be true for much longer. I catch glimpses of the full moon fighting through the thickening clouds, glinting off the termination dust of the high ridges to the north-northeast.

  As I drive up to the Culls' house, I see the forensic team already trying to gather evidence. There's a blue tarp over Brianna's body, hiked as high as it can be so Greg can finish taking pictures. He knows we need to have enough of the crime scene preserved before evidence washes away or sinks into the mud.

  Flares are out and I can see the glow of flashlights in different areas of the woods around the house. Kathy St. Johns, the Culls' nearest neighbor and a fellow police officer, lifts a section of the tarp as she holds a battery-operated lantern. Her truck is partially parked in the yard and on the road, with its driver's side door still open. I close the door as I walk up to the scene. Kathy keeps her gaze averted from the body, but it's clear it's not out of guilt—she knew Brianna since she was a baby.

  Junior is also there, sitting with his elbows on his knees on the front step of the Culls' house, getting soaked to the bone through his khakis and his polo shirt that has The Charcoal Grill logo—a C and G interlocked with a small flame in between them. He's not wearing a jacket or hat, and it's not clear if his face is wet from rain or tears. When he sees me, he jerks onto his feet, and begins babbling at me.

  "I tried CPR. Even though I…know CPR can't do much for a head wound, I thought maybe…that's why her blood's on me. I-I realized her head wasn't bleeding anymore, which means that…it means that she's been dead for a while now, right? I mean, maybe at least an hour before I called you guys? I was at work the whole time. My waitresses are witnesses. Oh, God. Elizabeth is going to be so wrecked. She's gonna…she's gonna kill me if she realizes her daughter was dead for so long before I—before I realized she was missing from work. She was supposed to come in at…I don't remember when she was supposed to come in, but she was a couple hours late. I should have been keeping track of her, but I was back in my office doing…doing paperwork—"

  "Junior, have you reached Brianna's parents, yet?"

  He shakes his head, his lower lip trembling like a child's.

  "Do you know where they're staying for their anniversary?"

  He shakes his head again. "I guess…there might be something in the house about that. I guess they probably left Brianna information in case she needed to get ahold of them. I-I just haven't gone into the house because I don't have a key."

  "It's probably best that you don't go inside," I say. "This could have been a robbery or the killer could have gone into the house for some reason and there could be evidence in there."

  Greg walks up to us. Greg's in his early-to-mid thirties and he resembles a grizzly bear—large body, massive black beard, and wild hair, but he's a fairly mellow guy. The only caution I would give anyone is to not be around him when he's drinking. Then he turns into a fairly mellow guy who likes to arm wrestle. Only tourists and idiots arm wrestle Stalinski.

  "I doubt it," Greg says. "If the killer wanted something in the house, they could have waited for Brianna to enter the house and it looks like she didn't. She hadn't changed out of her school uniform and from the blood spatter, the car door was open when she was shot, which means she was just stepping out of it or stepping into it. If she hadn't changed into her work clothes that likely means, she was stepping out of her car. There's also no sign of forced entry or that the shooter was anywhere near Brianna when he shot her. I have guys looking through the woods, but at this time of night…we're not going to find anything. I've called Lyra Blair. She's on her way to collect the body. She should at least be able to figure out what kind of gun was used."

  "Do you think it could have been a hunting accident?" I ask. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Junior twitch. It's strange, but I would suspect anyone who didn't act crazed after seeing someone with a bullet hole in her head, especially if the victim was their niece.

  "I'm not sure," he says. "There wasn't any ricochet off the ground or the vehicle, and the two points of entry are relatively close together, as if the shooter fired at a fixed target twice in rapid succession. That doesn't seem like an accident."

  "I didn't do it." Junior admits. "Brianna was late for work, so I thought I'd—"

  "Nobody accused you, Junior," Greg said. "Is there a reason you're being so defensive?"

  Kathy St. Johns steps up beside Junior and places her hand on his shoulder. He jerks in surprise, but relaxes when he sees who it is.

  "Can't you see he's shaken up?" she says. "Once in one's lifetime is enough to be finding a murder victim…"

  "Don't say that!" Junior jumps to his feet. "Don't say that!"

  "Junior, I think it's time for you to get home." I inch closer to him as Kathy steps away. "I'll drop you off at your house after we stop by the station to get your statement."

  "I don't—what? Why am I going to the station? I've already given my statement. I don't have anything else to say."

  "I don't have my laptop with me. I was supposed to be out on a date right now," I huff.

  Junior's whole body slumps. I put my hand on his upper
back and guide him to my car. Once we're both inside, I drive away from the Culls' house and toward the station.

  I'm more shaken up by Brianna's death than I'm letting on. I was already feeling guilty about letting things drop because of Teresa, heartsick over forgetting my late daughter's birthday, and now I'm likely not going to be home before Nick goes to sleep. As I pass by my house, I check to see if Nick's bike is on the front porch. It's not.

  "Son of a bitch," I mutter. Junior is cradling his head in his hands and doesn't seem to notice that I'm talking to myself. I'm sure he's saying worse things inside his head. I'll have to text Nick later and tell him to get home. The last thing I need is a teenager who had drug-dealing parents wandering around at nighttime.

  At that station, there's only a couple of officers there because everyone else is at the Culls' house. I take Junior to the break room, so he doesn't feel like he's being interrogated.

  "Coffee?" I ask. He shakes his head, and I pour myself a cup. The coffee here tastes as if the plastic of the machine is melting into the coffee grounds.

  "So, Junior. When did you realize that Brianna was missing?"

  "Uh, well, one of my waitresses—Birdie, the weird one—said she was late fifteen minutes after she was supposed to come in, but Brianna is always late, so I didn't think much about it. After a couple hours passed by, I decided to go check on her."

  "It took you two hours to check on your niece?"

  "Hey, come on." He whines. "Do you know how hard it is to run a restaurant?"

  "I would guess it's as hard as running a police department," I say. "But I would notice if one of my relatives I work with is missing."