by L E Fraser
Blood pounded in Reece’s head and he ground his teeth together to keep the rage from his voice. “He wants you to visit.”
“Four young men—that we know of—are missing,” she retorted in a defensive tone. “And we can’t find Bart Walsh. We have to investigate all leads because we need evidence. Bryce will discount supposition, just like he did yesterday.”
Reece’s eyes widened with disbelief. “You’re considering it? The man is a psychopath. He’s trifling with your emotions.”
Her lips puckered and she glared at him. “Contrary to your opinion, I can take care of myself. Busy as you are doing you, it may have escaped your notice, but I’m completing a PhD in deviant psychology.”
“I agree that you’re a talented psychologist. But you aren’t impartial. And Bryce ordered us to stand down and stay out of his investigation,” Reece said firmly. “I am begging you to leave this with the homicide squad. Look, even when I was an inspector with the OPP that would be protocol.”
“Oh, I realize I failed to rise to the lofty rank you did in law enforcement, but I muddle along. I was the one who identified Incubus, in case you’ve forgotten.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
Reece scrubbed his hands over his face. “Stop reading negative subtext into everything I say.” His eyes itched from fatigue and he struggled to rein in his temper. “You’re angry over what happened at Bryce’s office,” he continued in a moderate tone. “You have every right, and I owe you an explanation and an apology.”
Her face softened. “I’m listening.”
He paused. Before he told her about Angelina Stuart, he needed to make her understand how dangerous it was for her to visit the prison. “We’ll talk, but first I need you to promise me you won’t go to Millhaven.”
Over the rim of her coffee mug, her green eyes hardened.
“The animal killed your sister,” Reece said. “You can’t manipulate him and crawl into his head. This will backfire. He has an agenda and it isn’t about helping police apprehend a killer.” He reached for her hand. “Promise me you won’t go to Millhaven.”
She squeezed his fingers. “You’re exhausted. Go take a nap.”
Her refusal to placate him meant either that she was going to the prison or she hadn’t made up her mind. Arguing was pointless. If he pushed too hard, she’d do the opposite of what he wanted.
“He’ll never tell you what the lily meant,” Reece said softly.
She dropped her eyes and picked at a loose thread on her sweater. “It symbolized something. I have to know what.”
He knew Sam believed that once she understood the meaning of Incubus’s lily calling card she’d find peace. But Reece doubted it would be that easy. Her obsession was an addiction that shielded her from painful emotions. Until she confronted those bottled-up feelings, Incubus would always have the upper hand. It terrified Reece.
“Can you do one thing for me?” he asked.
“What’s that?”
“When he writes again, I want to read it.”
Incubus would write to her again. The monster had an end game and he wouldn’t give up until he accomplished his objective. In order to protect her, Reece had to read those letters. Maybe he could figure out what game the psychopath was playing.
She pulled her hand out of his grasp and studied him with no expression.
“We’re partners in business and in life.” Reece relaxed his stance and kept his voice pleasant. “I want to support you.”
Her lips thinned and she crossed her arms against her chest. “We are partners, and I want an explanation for what happened yesterday.”
“Let’s talk.” Taking her hand again, he led her across the open-concept space toward the sitting area.
Her phone rang and she frowned at the display. “It’s Harvey.” She released his hand. “Give me a minute.”
She marched to the wall of windows and stood with her back turned. As she listened to her stepfather, her spine tightened.
In the two years they’d been together, Reece hadn’t met Grace or Harvey. Sam and her mother were estranged. Her stepfather wanted Sam to reconcile with Grace, but Sam had erected strong walls to prevent her mother from ever hurting her again. It was hard to forgive someone who perpetuated unkind behaviour and refused to own it. Reece got that. But he needed Sam to understand that forgiveness wasn’t for the benefit of the person who wronged you. It was a means of letting go of the pain.
“I’ll talk to him,” Sam was saying. “He’s busy with law school so it depends on his schedule.” There was a long pause before she said, “I’m not blaming anyone and I’m not making excuses.”
Reece sat on the leather sofa beside Brandy. Her tail wagged in response to his gentle pats.
A minute later, Sam flopped onto the sofa beside him and tucked her legs beneath her. “Harvey wants us to go over for drinks.”
Reece put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She relaxed into the embrace and laid her head on his chest.
“Let’s get it over with,” he said and yawned. “How bad can it be?”
She laughed. “Bad. My mother blames me for Joyce’s murder. My stepfather blames me for not reconciling with my sister after the argument we had before she died.” With a deep sigh, Sam lifted her head and gazed around the loft. “Harvey paid for all this.”
They had a hefty mortgage and Sam had told him that she’d paid the down payment from her savings. “I don’t get it,” Reece said. “What did he pay for?”
“Renovations. They were expensive.”
“Oh, well. We’ll pay him back.”
“I’ve tried a hundred times but he refuses to take it. Feeling like I owe him money is an albatross around my neck.” She nestled closer to his body. “I’m sure Harvey doesn’t realize why the debt bothers me so much.”
Or Harvey understood exactly what the debt symbolized. “Did he ever ask for anything in return for the loan?”
“After Joyce and I argued, the next day Harvey asked me to offer an olive branch and give her the cottage.” Her voice caught and she pulled away from his arms and stood. “If I had given her the cottage, we wouldn’t have argued outside the house that night.” Her shoulders hunched and she shuffled to the stairs.
Before she reached the top of the staircase, Reece heard her say, “I’m the reason my sister is dead.”
CHAPTER TEN
Three Years Earlier
Sam
THE LOFT IS going to be wonderful. Positive thoughts are important because right now it’s one-thousand-square-feet of disaster. After three weeks, the space still resembles what it is—a third-floor chunk of a warehouse that once stored archived files. And I hate my contractor, Marcus. The feeling is mutual. Even a self-absorbed narcissist would sense the man’s exasperation and passive aggression.
“Carrera marble isn’t a good option in a kitchen,” he insists for the umpteenth time. “It’s too high-maintenance.” He blows air through his pursed lips and rolls his eyes, as if I’m the stupidest person he’s ever had to deal with. “It will destroy resale value. Pick one of these.”
Blocks of ugly quartz squat on a makeshift table, and he waves his hand with an aspiring magician’s fanfare. Marcus even has the requisite fake smile plastered on his face.
“Marble,” I say. “Did you get the stainless steel and frosted glass partitions for the upstairs loft?”
“Yes, but your choice of stairs is impractical,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “You’ve got eighteen-foot ceilings, so the staircase has to ascend nine feet. The staircase base will extend too far into the centre of the downstairs space.” He pokes the blueprint. “Do you see what I mean?”
No wonder he’s single. Marcus probably communicates to all females in the patronizing way he speaks to me.
The engineer is on site to ensure the beams supporting the second floor are to code. I call him over. “Can we use a ladder staircase?”
He studies the plans. “It’ll be steep. If you close it i
n with the glass partitions it will add safety.” He eyes Brandy, my golden retriever. “It’ll be tricky for her to navigate.”
“I’ll carry her,” I say. “Let’s talk about the flooring.”
Marcus rubs his hands across the stubble on his chin. “Does it have to be hemlock?”
I nod.
“You can’t pull out the grey without the natural red in the wood ruining it.” Marcus turns to the engineer. “You tell her. Maybe she’ll listen.”
“Weathered hemlock will work,” the engineer says. “What are you doing with the backsplash?” He nudges the contentious Marcus aside and digs through papers to uncover the sketch I drew. “Herringbone stainless steel inset against glass, eh?” He whistles. “It’s going to be a bitch to install.” He kneels and rubs Brandy’s ears. “Who’s a pretty dog? You are, aren’t you?”
Brandy is a big suck and everyone loves her… except Marcus. Brandy is my furry soulmate and the love of my life. This is her home, too, and she’s getting a luxurious bed and feeding station built into the kitchen. The fountain water bowl connects to a filter on the water line. Her bed has in-floor heating and a GFCI electrical outlet for a weight-sensor cooling pad in the summer. The bed is orthopedic gel memory foam. Marcus thinks it’s all ridiculous. He told me if a dog doesn’t have a dog job, it isn’t worth the cost of food. The comment warranted immediate termination but I didn’t want to offend my stepfather.
Harvey comes down from the upper loft, marches over to Marcus, and begins firing questions at him. Considering my stepfather’s aggressive tone, it’s prudent to stay out of the conversation. I wander over to check on the window installer. The design calls for seventy-five feet of floor-to-ceiling windows, which has caused endless installation woes. So far, everything has taken twice as long and has cost double the quote. I don’t know how I’ll ever pay my stepfather back.
“They should be further along.” Harvey drapes his arm around my shoulder. “I put some fire under Marcus’s ass. Guess you two aren’t going out for drinks anytime soon.”
I shudder at the thought of a date with Mr. Misogynist and Harvey laughs.
A newspaper is on a folding chair beside us. He picks it up before he sits. “Those poor women. Can you imagine how they suffered?”
I can and it’s horrific. The killer removed the women’s wombs so they bled to death. Toxicology identified no drugs in their system. Each one was alive and not anesthetized when he penetrated her cervix and tore out her uterus. Mortician’s makeup covered deep ligature marks on his victims’ wrists and ankles. The women fought but the psychopath didn’t want marks to mar the perfection of their naked skin. The monster tattooed a white lily with an icy green centre on the exterior of each victim’s right ankle. He took time to manicure his victims’ fingernails and toenails, wash and style their long black hair, and expertly apply makeup.
The media calls him “Incubus” after the demon that violates women in their sleep, because the killer stages his victims as if they’re peaceful in slumber. He folds their manicured hands against their naked abdomens and leaves them holding a snowy white lily with a long stem. The thirty-year-old woman they found last night bears a striking resemblance to the victim they found two weeks ago. The crime scene descriptions are identical. Toronto is facing a serial killer, and I’m worried for the women who fit the psycho’s victim profile.
Harvey drops the newspaper to the floor and leans his elbows on his knees. “I’d like to talk with you.”
I pull over another folding chair and sit beside him. “You’re upset about what happened at dinner last night.” I have to raise my voice over the high-pitched whining of a circular saw.
“Joyce was out of line and Grace didn’t help,” Harvey states. “I should have stopped it.”
I appreciate the sentiment, but once my mother and sister get started, no one can stop them. “It’s not your fault.”
“I’d like to understand,” he says. “Is the cottage that important to you?”
There’s nothing accusatory in his tone but my hackles rise. “Joyce hated the cottage when we were growing up. She wants it because she’s mad that Dad left it to me.” I sound petulant.
Harvey sighs. “You’re grown women, not schoolchildren. Don’t take family for granted. You’ll regret it when they’re gone.”
His parents died in France during the Battle for Caen. He was six and his mother had protected him with her body. His first wife had died of cancer, and his daughter committed suicide shortly after. She was just sixteen. Celina’s last school photo decorates Harvey’s office desk. Her eyes are haunted and she looks much older than her age. He never talks about what inner demons his daughter failed to conquer.
I don’t want to cause this generous and kind man any more pain. “This will pass,” I tell him and pat his hand.
“Your dad was my best friend, but he wasn’t perfect. You were Colin’s favourite and he didn’t hide that fact. He had trouble understanding Joyce. He thought beauty pageants were frivolous and disliked her vying for attention and validation. Girls need a strong male figure and it wasn’t easy for Joyce to grow up with an emotionally absent father.”
My father paid attention to me because my mother ignored me. Joyce and Grace were inseparable, and my mother was cruel toward me growing up. I’m sick to death of everyone implying Joyce is a pitiful victim, but I’m not arguing with my stepfather.
“I agree that Joyce and I need to act civil,” I say. “But we’ll never be friends. Please drop this.”
“Do you know she’s taking fertility drugs?” he asks.
“No.”
My sister is thirty-three and has been married for over six years. Leo wants a big family and so does she, so it crossed my mind they were having trouble. If she wanted to share, she’d have told me. I’m not reaching out to her about something I’m learning second-hand.
“Are you ever going to use the cottage?” Harvey asks.
“You want me to give it to Joyce.” I can’t believe he’s taking her side.
He shakes his head. “I want you to follow your own compass. But I worry that you never confront your white whales. That cottage represents pain and loss.”
“That’s not what this is about,” I state sharply. “Giving the cottage to Joyce would make her happy, which is everyone’s prime directive in this family.”
“It would be an olive branch.”
So he does expect me to sign over the deed to my self-absorbed, entitled sister. I’m speechless. Hammering and sawing rebounds around my loft. I gaze through the dust at the bedlam. There’s a ton to do before I have a comfortable home. I feel trapped because of the money I’m borrowing. No gift ever comes without strings.
Harvey frowns, as if it’s just occurred to him that his timing sucks. “This has nothing to do with what’s going on here,” he says firmly. “Consider phoning your sister, okay? You can fix this.”
Unbelievable. He expects me to fix something I didn’t instigate.
“I’m due at the office.” He stands with a sad smile. “Let’s have dinner next week.”
Tears burn behind my eyes, which infuriates me. I’m enraged at my sister for causing all this drama. In the moment, I actually believe I hate her.
“Dinner would be great,” I lie.
At the door, I stuff him into the hallway. “Thanks for dropping over.” I close the door and lean against it, trying to steady my breathing.
The disarray is depressing and claustrophobic. Brandy trots over with her leash in her mouth. She has always had a sixth sense about what I need. We rush out before Marcus can criticize more of my design choices.
In the lobby, my phone chirps and I wait until we’re on the sidewalk to read the text. My sister is ordering me to meet and talk.
“And there I was all excited because you promised never to speak to me again,” I mutter.
I delete the text without responding.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sam
SAM TOOK A
few minutes in the bathroom to collect herself. When she went downstairs, Reece was snoring on the sofa. She wanted to talk to him about his attitude and hear his explanation, but it was ill advised to engage in a candid discussion right now. Exhaustion depleted a person’s cognitive reasoning. They could postpone their talk until he’d had some rest.
Reece was so exhausted that he didn’t even twitch in his sleep. A thin ribbon of saliva trickled from the corner of his open mouth. She tiptoed over, wiped away the drool, and tucked a blanket around him and Brandy.
She had time to grab breakfast before meeting Hannah at the Coroner’s office. Despite the fact that Dr. Morgenstern was twenty years older, Sam had once considered her a good friend. But she hadn’t seen Hannah since Joyce’s murder. It was too hard. Sam couldn’t look at the forensic pathologist without imagining the horrific vision of her scalpel cutting into Joyce’s lifeless flesh.
In the tenant parking lot, she glared at her buried car. Her Grand Am resembled a giant, twinkling marshmallow. A thick blanket of shimmering white cotton obscured every inch of her black car. At least the snow removal service had dug out the car. The previous company would have plowed around, trapping the parked vehicle in an impregnable cage of rock-hard snowbanks.
After ten minutes of brushing, it depressed her to hit a rigid coat of ice glued to every window. Once she’d managed to scrape off the windshields, her gloves were sodden, her arms trembled with fatigue, and her nose was running. Breakfast was out of the question. If she stopped to stuff her face, she’d be late.
Hungry and annoyed, she drove northwest of the downtown core to the Forensic Services and Coroner’s Complex in North York. The modern compound was an unassuming, five-storey structure that resembled an average office building. It was anything but average. Housed inside, in excess of one billion dollars of futuristic equipment surpassed the FBI labs at Quantico in Virginia.
The FSCC replaced the thirty-five-year-old building downtown where Hannah had dissected Joyce. A few years ago, before the official opening, Sam had taken a tour of the new facility. The forensic technology in the massive laboratories had impressed her, but she hadn’t been able to breathe in any of the autopsy rooms. She had experienced a full-blown panic attack in the room filled with natural light that accommodated ten tables for simultaneous autopsies. Gazing at the building’s glass façade today still caused her stomach to cartwheel with dread.
