Crash Into Me

by Jill Sorenson

  Whoa. She put her can down and her palms up. “I admit I hit Arlen Matthews over the head with a lamp. I knew James had reported Lisette’s body, and that Arlen frequented prostitutes, so I went over there in disguise. Looking for clues.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “He made a move on you? You acted in self-defense?”

  “Not exactly. He got a little…fresh, and I overreacted.”

  He muttered an expletive. “So you bashed him over the head, and then what? Shoved his face into the pillows?”

  “No. James and I put him to bed. He was alive when I last saw him.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth,” she said, her stomach sinking.

  “What about the bracelet?” he asked. “How in the hell could evidence like that escape your attention?”

  “It wasn’t there,” she admitted. “I swear to God, it wasn’t there.”

  Grant studied her expression, his own revealing nothing. She wanted to tell him an even more disturbing truth, to confess that Arlen Matthews was her father. But the idea of saying those words aloud paralyzed her with fear. Grant would never believe she hadn’t set up Matthews, or killed him on purpose, if he knew the man had abused her mother.

  “DeGrassi doesn’t like Matthews as the SoCal Stranger,” he admitted. “MOs are different. Matthews killed his wife, no doubt about it, but the guy we’re looking for is highly intelligent and extremely organized.”

  Sonny took a moment to breathe. This was going better than she’d hoped.

  “I’d like to take another crack at Fortune,” Grant said.

  She gulped. Or not.

  “He’s smart enough to set up Matthews.”

  “No,” she protested. “I realize that you think my attraction to him is getting in the way of the investigation, but I know he’s not a killer.”

  “How? Because he has a cute smile and a hot bod?”

  Sonny flushed. “Mitchell has a cute smile and a hot bod.”

  “So it’s more than that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “But sexual chemistry doesn’t make him innocent. Guys like Fortune are experts at playing women.”

  She shook her head, wishing she could make him understand.

  “What about Lisette Bruebaker? You know he was messing around with her, Sonny. And she was just a kid.”

  “A kid with a crush who crawled into his bed while he was sleeping. Nothing happened between them.”

  The corner of Grant’s mouth tipped up, but the expression did not convey even an inkling of amusement. “Surely you must realize how deluded you sound.” His eyes roved over her face. “Was he that good?”

  Shame washed over her, and she looked away, her gaze landing on the narrow strip of wall between the couch and the entrance to the hallway. Her sweatpants and sweatshirt were still there, tangled in a pathetic little heap on the ground, because she’d never bothered to put them back on. Like a crazed sex fiend, savoring her sweet fix, she’d stayed naked in the dark for a long while after Ben left, her back against the wall and her hand between her legs, replaying the memory of their heated sexual encounter.

  As if the outline of their entwined bodies had been burned into the wall, Grant leapt to his feet, gesturing angrily at her discarded clothes. “You were with him again last night? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  She groaned, covering her face with her hands. This was so humiliating.

  Grant ranted and raved for a few minutes, which was so out of character for him that she couldn’t help but stare. “I have to go back to Quantico,” he said finally. “My daughter’s been getting into trouble at school, partying instead of going to her classes, and my wife keeps complaining about how I’m never home.” He turned and glared at her. “You’re lucky this shit is happening during the holidays. If I could spare another agent, your ass would be on administrative suspension so goddamned fast.”

  Sonny gaped at him in amazement. He was actually going to let her stay on the case. “You won’t regret this, Grant,” she promised, giving him an impulsive hug.

  His body stiffened in her arms. She didn’t think he was uncomfortable with physical contact, or that he considered the display of affection inappropriate. He was merely surprised, because in the years they’d known each other, she’d always avoided his touch. She’d confided in him about her past and he’d been very conscientious about giving her the space she needed.

  Only, now she didn’t need it anymore.

  Sonny smiled against his shoulder when he gave her back a few awkward pats. Although the embrace warmed a cold, lost place inside her, she took pity on him and let him go. The way he studied her, bewildered and concerned and stern all at once, reminded her of the way Ben looked at Carly.

  Her eyes moistened with tears, and she had to laugh at her sudden sentimentality.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately,” he said, shaking his head. “And don’t think I’m giving you a free pass to play house with Ben Fortune. When this case wraps, you’ll be up for review, and you’ll be damned lucky if the board lets you keep your badge.”

  After driving him to get stitched up in the ER, and paying cash for the visit, despite James’ protests, Ben took James to the medical examiner’s office downtown.

  James signed for the release of his parents’ bodies, under Paula DeGrassi’s express consent, and they referred him to a local funeral home that did low-cost cremations for the families of victims of violent crimes.

  Arlen Matthews’ remains would be “respectfully disposed of.” James wasn’t sure what that meant, and he didn’t really care. Just as long as no iota of his father lingered behind on this planet, he was satisfied.

  His mother’s ashes would be ready for pickup tomorrow. He and Stephen planned to take out the boat and spread her remains at sea.

  That chore completed, James was left with another, more daunting task: cleaning up the home his dad had mistreated for decades. He and Stephen were going to go cut a swath through the place with bleach and heavy-duty trash bags, throwing away anything that couldn’t be sanitized. Despite the bad memories the house imbued, James decided he would sleep there tonight, away from Stephen and Rhoda and Carly and Ben, avoiding everyone who felt sorry for him or wanted to smother him or get rid of him or take a piece of him.

  When Ben dropped him at Stephen’s duplex, he jumped out of the SUV with a terse thanks, intent on a quick and painless escape.

  Carly wouldn’t let him off so easy. “Hang on a minute, James,” she said, getting out and following him.

  Summoning an insolent stance, he stopped at the front step to wait for her, noting that Ben had turned off the engine and covered his eyes with one hand, as if unable to watch his daughter’s eminent destruction.

  “What do you want?” James asked, annoyed with Ben for making him feel predictable, and with himself for needing Carly so badly it terrified him.

  She crossed her arms under her breasts, a gesture that was both tentative and irresistible. “Just to say good-bye, I guess.”

  Her face was pinched with sadness. For the first time ever, she didn’t look beautiful. And he loved her so much he was drowning in it.

  “Do you mean good-bye for now, or good-bye forever?” he asked.

  “Is that what you want?” she said, studying him from beneath sooty lashes. “Good-bye forever?”

  Because he couldn’t speak, he nodded, despair closing around him like commercial-grade netting.

  “My mom’s name was Olivia,” she whispered. “I never got a chance to say good-bye.”

  Inside the Navigator, Ben rested his forehead against the steering wheel. James focused on that image, instead of her words.

  “What was your mom’s name?”

  He dragged his gaze back to Carly. “Gabrielle,” he said, feeling the sudden rush of tears, hot and inevitable. His eyes filled and overflowed, but he was too proud to blink or brush the wetness away from his face.

  She lifted a hand, as
if to touch his cheek, but when he turned his head to the side, she let her arm drop, thinking better of it.

  He didn’t say anything else, just stared at her through burning, watery eyes, trying to memorize every detail of her appearance.

  She’d thrown a hooded sweatshirt on before leaving the house. Unzipped, it hung open, revealing the edge of one red handprint, a visual representation of their ill-fated relationship. Born in blood. Doomed to fail.

  Carly slipped the ring he’d given her off her finger, pressed it into his left palm, and closed his fist around it. Torturing him further, she lifted his knuckles to her lips and kissed them gently, her touch as innocent and sexual and exquisite as ever.

  “I don’t want this,” he managed.

  “Then throw it away,” she said. “Like everything else.”

  Ben knew it was her before he opened the door. Before he disengaged the lock and turned off the security system. Before he looked through the peephole.

  His body told him she was near.

  He let the door fall open and leaned his shoulder against the jamb, having no intention of allowing her entrance. “I guess I should have been more direct last night. When I said ‘Give Grant my best,’ I actually meant, ‘Tell Grant to fuck off.’”

  Her pretty mouth twisted with annoyance. He still thought of her as Summer, but she didn’t look the same to him anymore. Gone were the youthful attitude and softer, less severe expressions. Summer Moore had a certain vulnerability that the woman before him lacked. Special Agent Vasquez was like a block of ice.

  Some of the black dye had washed out of her hair, leaving an odd mix of colors that resembled the remnants of a campfire.

  Cold ashes and charred wood.

  He still wanted to have sex with her. More than ever, strangely enough. He wanted to have her melting against him again, her eyes smoky and her mouth hot. He wouldn’t mind playing out a few fantasies with the hard-as-nails secret agent side of her, either. Yeah, she could handcuff him to her headboard. Anytime.

  “Is Carly here?”

  Ben snapped out of his S &M daydream. “She’s upstairs,” he said, listening to a few dark chords of the gloomy Goth music that was emanating from her room. She’d been holed up in there for the past hour, playing the same breakup song over and over.

  It was driving him insane.

  “I’d like to talk to you about Olivia.”

  His blood chilled. “Then get a warrant for my arrest.”

  Something like hurt, or maybe even sympathy, darkened her beautiful eyes. “I don’t think you killed her, Ben. I never did.”

  He thought he’d assuaged his anger, as well as his desire for her, last night. He was wrong on both counts. “Then what were you investigating?” he asked, giving her body an insultingly thorough perusal. “My stamina, or my technique?”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts and looked away, her jaw tense with annoyance. Ben got the impression she was holding back a scathing retort, and he liked that. Her cheekbones were flushed and her eyes were flashing blue fire, and he liked that, too.

  In jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, she didn’t look like an FBI agent. It was her face that was different. She was closer to his own age than he had originally estimated, and about ten times more jaded.

  It infuriated him that she’d deceived him so completely, and so easily.

  “I think the killer is someone close to you,” she said. “Someone who knew both Olivia and Lisette.”

  Ben felt some of the fight leave him, taking his indignation along with it. He didn’t want to be a part of this. Any of this. For months after Olivia’s death, he’d been plagued by nightmares. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face.

  Now all he wanted was peace.

  “What do I have to do?” he asked.

  Hope leapt in her eyes, and he felt a matching twinge in his chest, an ache he was afraid to analyze. “Take me to Lisette’s wake tomorrow morning. As your date.”

  “Your cover is blown,” he argued.

  “Who’ve you told?”

  “No one,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But we’re”-he gestured to the space between them, which all but crackled with animosity-“broken up.”

  She arched a fine brow. “So now we’re back together.”

  Heat flared, low in his belly, as he was assaulted by images of how well they’d gotten back together against the wall in her apartment last night.

  “Fine,” he muttered, telling himself he was doing it for Olivia, for Carly, and even for Lisette. Not because he had any interest in spending time with Special Agent Sonora Vasquez, or getting wrapped up in her strong, slender arms again.

  CHAPTER 20

  By dark, Stephen and James had cleared out most of the trash filling every square inch of the house that had been in the Matthews family for generations. Beneath the relentless squalor, buried under piles of filthy magazines, liquor bottles, and empty cigarette cartons, hidden below dirty dishes and dirtier clothes, there was a home.

  A home their mother had kept tidy when she was alive. The linoleum floors were scuffed and scratched, but they both remembered when Gabrielle Matthews had mopped them with pine-scented disinfectant every Saturday afternoon. The drywall was damaged with holes and water stains, but still bore a few faded rectangular shapes, reminders of the framed photos and seascapes she used to have hanging there.

  The furniture had never been expensive. Now most of the chairs and couch cushions were riddled with cigarette burns and stank of Arlen’s fetid breath. The stuff wasn’t worth the hauling fee, let alone reupholstering, so they broke it into pieces with a sledgehammer, tearing fabric at the seams, ripping arms and legs, splintering wood.

  When they were both hot and tired and dirty, and Stephen figured James’ hand was throbbing like a son of a bitch, they silently agreed it was quitting time.

  With a little work and a lot of money, the place could be fixed up to sell. They hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t discussed anything, really, as they dragged garbage bags into the backyard, studiously ignoring the gaping hole in the earth. They just made the various grunts and shrugs working men had been using to communicate since before the human race had evolved to standing fully upright.

  Being too worn-out to talk suited both of them just fine.

  Stephen hadn’t had any meth in days. His body was humming for it, taut as a wire, but he denied the constant, sticky urge clinging to him like a thorn-studded vine. Instead, he walked down the block to the convenience store to get some suds.

  He was tired of being ruled by dope, tired of wanting it, needing it, craving it. When he did get a fix, it was never enough. He couldn’t even get high anymore. The most he could achieve was a level at which he could function as a normal person rather than an asphalt scraping. Hell, he needed a little snort just to sleep nowadays; otherwise he stayed awake, sweating, aching, panicking.

  And since the whole point of speed was staying awake, using it to sleep totally defeated the purpose.

  Besides, now he had James to take care of. Stephen was his legal guardian until he came of age. He couldn’t stand the idea of his little brother getting caught up in his and Rhoda’s addiction and dysfunction, or being a party to her perverted bedroom games.

  For all his good intentions, Stephen was a drug addict, and it wasn’t just a major personality flaw, it was a debilitating weakness. He needed something to take the edge off, so he grabbed a six-pack of mediocre beer, something strong but smooth, just in case James needed a little liquid comfort, too.

  Stephen found his brother in the backyard, staring at the unearthed grave beside tree-trunk-sized chunks of concrete. He’d thrown most of the wood from the torn-up furniture into the hole, and they had the makings of a macabre campfire.

  Stephen lit some old newspapers to get it started, then hunkered down on a concrete seat, setting the brown bag beside him. The liquor bottles clinked cheerfully, music to his ears. He popped the cap off one using the base of his cigar
ette lighter. “Want one?”

  James glanced over at him absently, lost in thought. “Nah,” he said, and went back to staring at the fire.

  Stephen shrugged. “I know you don’t drink, but I just thought, with your hand and all…”

  James looked down at the bandage wrapped around his swollen knuckles.

  “How’d you do it? Planting one on Carly’s dad?”

  The corner of James’ mouth tilted up, just barely. “No. I demolished their cordless phone. One minute I was talking to you, the next I was bleeding all over their fancy carpet.”

  Stephen snorted, well able to imagine that scenario. His brother’s words rang out in his ears, Sober the fuck up for once and tell me the fucking truth! He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long pull, his eyes burning.

  “I broke up with her,” James announced.

  Stephen sputtered beer into the fire, where it made a loud hissing sound. “Are you out of your mind? Why?”

  James focused on the flickering flames. “She was getting too clingy. Hanging all over me and stuff. You know how it is.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he replied sarcastically. “It’s so annoying when an unbelievably hot girl gives you a happy ending at the movies.”

  James stood, swiping the bottle from Stephen’s hand. “I already told you she didn’t do that,” he said, taking a swig and making a grimace of distaste.

  Stephen smiled and popped the top off another bottle. “What did she do?”

  James sat down again. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, right. And Rhoda’s a virgin.”

  They fell into companionable silence, James drinking his beer like it was medicine. “I did it to her.”

  Stephen straightened. “You went down on her in the theater? No wonder you had her panties in your pocket.” He laughed, tipping his bottle up in salutation. “That’s classic, man. Totally classic.”

  “I didn’t go down on her,” James said. “I just, you know, used my hand.” He stared at his self-inflicted injury for a moment. “Fuck,” he groaned, as something else occurred to him.