by Gemma James
“What if he didn’t relocate here? What if he’s been here all along?”
Aidan stilled. “You mean like a copycat?”
“I guess.”
“Impossible. He left a picture of Deb in your apartment.”
He had a point. But what if… “What if the Hangman didn’t kill your wife?”
“What? How did you come up with that theory?”
“I don’t know, but maybe you can’t find anyone with a connection to Boise because there isn’t one.”
“No.” His mouth flattened into a stubborn line. “It was him. Classic Hangman M.O.”
“Except your wife was a teacher.” I averted my eyes, uncomfortable with discussing her murder. “All of the other victims worked in bars or clubs.”
“Did your dreams tell you that?”
The grandfather clock announced the hour, unleashing its haunting melodic strains. I jumped every time the darn thing went off. Twelve chimes completed the ritual. We’d been going over the case since breakfast.
“No, the Internet did.”
Aidan’s curious gaze followed me around the table. I lingered at the window and pressed close, my breath fogging the glass as I peered down at the rhythmic tide. Waves frothed over the rocks, reaching a furious crescendo as seawater spouted through the cracks.
“After Six went missing, I googled the Hangman. The name A.J. Payne popped up, and the sheriff said you were a reporter, so I wanted to know if you were him.”
“All you had to do was ask.”
“Right,” I said, arching a brow as I faced him, “because you’ve been a fountain of information since I met you?”
He folded his arms defensively. “I didn’t want to involve you.”
“Well, now I’m involved, and I’m asking. Is it possible a copycat was responsible?”
“Anything’s possible. The police looked into it because of Deb’s profession and the set-up in our bedroom.” He refocused on the disorganized mess that separated us. “But they didn’t find anything. They thought it was a personal attack aimed at me.”
I leaned against the windowsill and recalled what I’d read about the Hangman. “He disappeared a few months later, right? Only resurfacing in Watcher’s Point a couple of weeks ago?”
“Yeah, there was another victim after Deb, and then poof—he was gone. I don’t know what brought him here, but he made sure I had a front row seat.” Aidan rubbed the bridge of his nose, and I was struck with how exhausted he looked. My nightmares had woken him the past two nights, even though we slept in separate bedrooms.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“I received a letter three weeks ago. Whoever sent it claimed that Chloe Sanders had information about Deb’s murder. If I hadn’t been so desperate for a lead, I would’ve written it off as a prank.”
But then Chloe turned up dead, and that had pretty much ensured he was on the right path. The night of Halloween, when I’d followed Aidan, came to mind. “So it was Chloe’s boyfriend who attacked you, wasn’t it? He must have assumed you had something to do with her death.”
“That’s my guess. Can’t prove it, though. My memory of that night is sketchy.”
“Okay, let’s forget about the copycat angle for now. What about a connection? There’s gotta be a reason he’s targeting you.”
“Trust me, I’ve wondered the same thing. I checked out every person I could think of—people I’ve pissed off, people I’ve sent to jail. Digging into my past didn’t turn up anything.” He reached for a thin newspaper clipping, ragged around the edges from too much handling. Ragged, just like Aidan. He stared down at the smiling face of his wife. “Whatever the reason, it got Deb killed.”
“How is blaming yourself gonna help?”
He set aside the clipping. “Let’s go over your dream again. Tell me about this van you saw last night.”
“Aidan,” I began, unable to mask my frustration. He wore his guilt like armor. Evidently, he had no intention of letting me talk him out of it. “I already told you. It was a white utility van.” I moved around the table and sifted through my sketches until I found the one I’d drawn this morning.
He frowned. “What about lettering on the sides? Dents, or cracks in the windshield?”
I screwed my eyes shut and visualized what I’d seen in my dream. He remained quiet, and the silence buzzed in my ears, morphed into the roar of the ocean. A wave of dizziness threatened to pull me under. Blindly, I reached for the edge of the table. Memories stuttered like movie clips behind my eyelids. Foamy waves and jagged rocks, milky sprays of seawater, and the moon—a perfect circle to illuminate the night. The last thing I saw was a white van speeding toward a tunnel.
“No windows,” I said, pausing, “and no lettering either. I’m not sure about damage, but there’s a tunnel. Gotta be Highway 101.” Upon returning to the here and now, I found that he’d inched closer. “There was a full moon.”
Aidan moved over to his laptop. A calendar of November popped up, and I realized instantly what he was looking for. Lunar cycles.
“There’s a full moon this Sunday.”
I slumped into a chair as the magnitude of the situation hit me. “If I’m right…” Another woman is going to die… “then we don’t have much time.”
He pulled up a chair and sat facing me. “What about the victim? Can you remember anything? Hair or eye color? Height?”
“I’m not sure…brown hair? God, Aidan, I can’t see who she is. He’s gonna kill again, and I can’t do shit about it because I can’t see what I need to see.”
He leaned forward, sliding his hands into my hair, and I froze. His warm fingers held me steady, his gaze dipping to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. We’d been tiptoeing around each other ever since our heavy talk about sex, and how, apparently, we’d come to the conclusion it didn’t need to be rushed.
Now I waited, barely breathing. When he finally brought his lips to mine, the pent up sexual frustration of the last two days poured from him. He gripped my hair in a painful clutch, angled my head back, and forced my mouth open under his desperate need for connection. A moan escaped my throat, and reality faded for a few delirious moments as the world narrowed to only him.
We broke apart, breaths coming in heavy puffs, our eyes dazed. “What was that for?” I asked. “I mean, you barely touch me for two days, and now you’re kissing me?”
“You were having a meltdown.”
“Now I’m having a different kind of meltdown.”
He pressed his forehead against mine and groaned. “I know the feeling. I can’t keep my head on straight when I’m around you, which makes touching you a really bad idea.”
But then he was kissing me again.
I weaved my fingers through his silky strands. He needed a haircut, though the thought of shortening the length made my fingers ache. I loved his hair.
“We’d better stop,” he murmured, words ghosting across my mouth, “or we’re gonna end up in bed.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Mmm-hmm. When I think of a reason, I’ll let you know.”
His phone vibrated on the table, shattering the moment. He reached for it and stared at the display. “Finally.”
“Who is it?” I asked when what I really wanted to do was strangle whoever had interrupted us.
“My brother.” He answered the call with, “What did you find?” and got up to pace the floor. “You want me to come to Portland? Why?” A pause, and then, “No, that’s okay. I’m on my way.”
“Did you find out who was following us?” I asked after he’d slipped the phone into his pocket.
He nodded. “The plate traced back to a private investigator.”
“The car belonged to a PI?”
“So it seems, and for some reason Logan wants to talk to me in person.” He stopped pacing. “Feel like going to Portland?”
Didn’t he know I’d follow him to the gates of Hell by now?
Three and a half hours
later we arrived in the “City of Roses.” Portland was possibly the most gorgeous city in the US, even if a sheet of rain obscured the view. Several bridges connected eastern and western Portland over the Willamette River, and high-rise buildings towered amongst a thicket of greenery.
Aidan steered the car off I-5 and headed into the heart of the city.
“I’m surprised Mike gave us the night off, especially after what happened Saturday.” I strained to catch a glimpse of the skyscrapers through the passenger window.
“Maybe he’s taking bets on whether or not I’ll get arrested again.”
“Can I get in on this bet?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “When I told him how Brad accosted you on the dance floor, he said I should have knocked out a couple of teeth while I was at it.”
I smiled despite myself. “I can’t believe you got yourself arrested.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You’re kidding.” My attention shifted to him, tall buildings and riverfront scenery forgotten.
“When I was a reporter, I didn’t always play by the rules.”
“What did you get arrested for?”
“Breaking and entering, mostly. I wasn’t about to let a little thing like a locked door keep me from landing a story.” He shot me a dimpled grin. “Though one time I got arrested for jaywalking.”
“Jaywalking?”
“The cop was an ass. He said I had an attitude.” He steered the car onto SW River Parkway. “I suppose ripping the ticket to shreds didn’t help my case.”
“Probably not.” I tried to hide a smile but failed as he pulled into the underground parking garage of one of downtown’s riverfront high-rise buildings. “This is it?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He armed the car alarm, and we headed toward the lobby where a doorman greeted us.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Payne.”
Aidan nodded his acknowledgement before escorting me into the swankiest elevator I’d ever seen. Dark wood and marble surrounded us, and a cushioned bench, tucked against a wall, invited people to relax and enjoy the ride. He pressed the button marked with “P.”
“Your brother lives in the penthouse?”
“Yeah.” As the mirrored doors closed, he averted his gaze.
The name of the building, carved into seashell marble, drew my notice. Payne-Davis Riverscape.
“Payne-Davis…as in the corporation?”
As in the largest conglomerate in the Pacific Northwest?
He must have been fascinated by the doors of the elevator; his attention never strayed from them as we continued to climb. With forty floors to travel, we still had a ways to go.
I stared at his reflection, slack-jawed. Payne-Davis did business in everything from weaponry to pharmaceuticals. “You’re one of those Paynes?”
“Hamilton Payne is my father,” he finally admitted as we passed the twenty-eighth floor.
The CEO was his father?
I realized then how little I knew about him. I knew what was in his heart, of this I was certain, but the rest of his life remained a blank canvas, smudged only with the horror of his wife’s murder. The elevator dinged and the heavy doors slid open. Rendered speechless, I followed him down the hallway, my feet gliding along polished tile. Two doors faced each other across the hall.
The one on the right swung open before Aidan had a chance to knock. “Long time, no see.” A guy, shorter and stockier than Aidan, pulled him into a bear hug. “How’ve you been? I heard you quit the paper.”
“I wouldn’t say I quit…exactly,” Aidan said. “More like forced into a leave of absence.”
“Come on in.” His brother ushered us into a living space that put the word “opulent” to shame. Immaculate hardwood floors, granite surfaces, and accents of chrome and crystal made my apartment ghetto-worthy. A wall of glass spanned one corner of the room, presenting a spectacular view. We were elevated high enough to see the treetops as the Willamette River journeyed through them.
“This is Mackenzie,” Aidan said.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Logan.” He took my hand. “My brother always did have excellent taste in women.”
Aidan rolled his eyes. “Cut it out, Logan. It’s not what you think.”
Logan’s grin disappeared. “Yeah, neither is this get-together, I’m afraid.” He gave his brother a wary look. “Don’t blow up, okay?”
Aidan stiffened. “I know that look. Dad’s here, isn’t he?”
“In the library. He wants to talk to you.”
A smile was the only feature Logan Payne shared with his brother. He flashed that familiar grin now and said, “I hope they don’t kill each other in there.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t be worried?” I couldn’t make out the muffled words filtering through the library door, but I doubted Aidan and his father were exchanging pleasantries.
“Nah. Their roars are bigger than their bites.” He pocketed his hands and stood in front of the fireplace. Artificial flames danced, casting him in a warm glow that brought out the highlights in his dirty blond hair. How odd that there were no pictures on the mantel. Like Aidan’s place on the beach¸ the penthouse had a shell-of-a-real-home feel to it.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“No, thanks.” Drifting to the windows, I tried to pinpoint why Logan Payne unsettled me so. The never-ending gray had deepened, and I craned my neck to glimpse a portion of the skyline. Skyscrapers twinkled in the emerging twilight north of Ross Island Bridge. “You’ve got an amazing view.”
“Thank you. I guess I’ve been here long enough to take it for granted.” He joined me at the windows. “So, how did you and my brother meet?”
Who knew such a simple question could be so loaded. I could tell him about the night of Halloween, or the night we found Six, or—
“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”
I tilted my head and peeked at him. “It’s complicated.”
“Usually is.”
I smiled at that because he was right. When was it not complicated? “We met in a bar,” I said, holding back a snicker at the cliché answer.
Logan failed to see the humor. “He’s been drinking again, hasn’t he?”
That got my attention, and I wondered what land mine I’d stumbled upon. “Not really.” Not if you didn’t count the anniversary of his wife’s murder, or the night we shared our first whiskey-induced kiss.
Logan sighed. “What you’re not saying is coming through loud and clear.” He leaned against the glass and leveled me with his scrutiny. I was wrong. A smile wasn’t the only trait they had in common. They also shared the same intensity. “Seriously…is he okay?” He punctuated the question with a note of hesitancy, as if he wasn’t sure he should be asking me about his brother’s well-being.
“I don’t know. We haven’t known each other long.”
“But you know about his wife.” It wasn’t a question. “He must have told you, or you wouldn’t be so worried about him.”
His insight gave me pause, and I had to dig deep to uncover the truth. I worried about Aidan more than I wanted to admit. I brought my fingers to the window and traced the raindrops as they squiggled down the glass, all the while remembering his bipolar behavior on Halloween. Consumed with guilt and grief, he hadn’t cared if he lived or died. I shivered, unable to conceive a world without him.
“You love him.”
My heart stuttered. The way Logan said it—with absolute certainty—stole my breath. How could he be so sure of something I wasn’t even sure of? Where was he coming up with this? He’d just met me.
The library door flung open, and Aidan stormed in. “You should’ve told me he was going to be here.” He shot his brother an accusing glare.
“Hey!” Logan threw his hands up and stepped back. “You know how he is. He insisted.”
“Oh, knock it off,” an older man snapped as he entered the room. “I’m still your father, whether you like it o
r not. If you’d answer your damn phone, I wouldn’t have to resort to such tactics.”
Aidan jerked around to face him. “I’ve been busy.”
“No, you’ve been foolish.” His steely gaze swooped over me before landing on his son again. “Is she the one who got you arrested?”
I gaped at him, my eyes ping-ponging between him and Aidan.
“Leave her out of this. And while you’re at it, stay out of my damn business.”
“You’re my son, a fact which makes this my business.” He stood a few inches shy of Aidan’s six feet, though his imposing presence made up for the deficit. His expensive charcoal suit didn’t hurt either.
Aidan folded his arms. “Sounds to me like you’re the one who hired the tail.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t employ incompetent fools.”
“Well you’ve obviously been talking to someone.”
“Damn right I did! I hear my son’s got a PI on his ass, you bet I checked into it. What are you hoping to accomplish in that wretched town?”
“You shouldn’t have a problem figuring it out.”
“Going after him won’t bring her back. Deb is dead.”
Aidan lurched forward. “Don’t you dare say her name,” he warned, hands balling at his sides.
“Dad!” Logan jumped between them. “A little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Stay out of this.” Aidan shoved his brother out of the way and stood face to face with his father. “You wanted this little get-together, well you’ve got it.” He jabbed a finger in his face. “You never liked her, a fact you made abundantly clear when you didn’t show at her memorial.”
I held my breath, certain he was about to pummel his father.
“Dad…” Logan shook his head, his face saturated with guilt. “You need to go.”
“I own this building,” their father snapped. “I’ll go when I’m good and ready.”
Logan wedged between them. “You might own the place, but it’s my apartment and I’m asking you to leave.”
Hamilton’s face turned to stone. “Fine,” he said through tight lips, “but don’t come running to me when your brother ends up in jail.” He threw one last hardened glance at Aidan before storming from the penthouse. The door slammed in his wake, his ire echoing off the walls. Now the three of us stood motionless, fearful of aftershocks.
