Painted Walls

by Megan Mitcham

  Well, that reaffirmed the steer-clear approach she’d plotted for the long weekend.

  “I’m proud of you.”

  “For showing a hint of negative cleavage?”

  Annelise chuckled. “Yes. Baby steps.”

  “Baby steps,” she agreed. “How’s Josie?”

  “She’s great. I’m keeping the baby this weekend so she and Trent can have some alone time. She swears they’ll sleep the entire weekend, but I know better. They’re gonna try to make Finn a sister.”

  “He’s only six months old. And, no offense—”

  “Don’t you know by now, you can’t offend me?”

  “True enough. You’re not exactly kid friendly. You sneer at them on the Metro.”

  “Kids are one step removed from bacteria, but babies are sunshine.” When Ava didn’t respond, she added, “My mom made me babysit for allowance. Josie got allowance for making her bed. I had to make my bed or get grounded.”

  Ava bracketed her face with her hands and gasped. “The horror.”

  “My point is, I know how to handle babies. Finny will be as happy as Kimmie K in an illicit video.”

  “Only you would compare the two.”

  “It’s a gift.” Annelise slipped the phone into her pocket and crossed the little room. She wrapped Ava in an impressive hug, considering her size. “Have fun and if you need anything tomorrow, call my cell. I’m taking off to stick it to Dickey and rest up before sunshine arrives.”

  AVA SHOULD’VE TAKEN Friday off too. Annie was doing it. It would’ve given her more time to pack, time to sleep, and anger wouldn’t be scorching the blood from her veins.

  Q & A at any event was sketchy. The host was at the mercy of the crowd. Law enforcement conferences were especially hard for the FBI. Locals saw them as glory hogs, Big Brother, or worse, meaningless bureaucrats. The seminars were harder still for female experts, and only a small percentage of women ranked high enough to attend or sprinkle the crowds with estrogen.

  Luckily the week had gone smoothly with her groups. The only minor dust-up she’d heard about involved an agent seated on a panel with two police chiefs discussing—of all things—teamwork at state borders.

  “Please, if you have any questions, stand and make your way to the microphones at the bottom of either aisle.”

  The surly man who’d sneered at her every talking point and coughed up a lung at her heartfelt conclusion shot to his feet—as she knew he would. At one out of five events, there was someone who’d hated her from conception. Some blurted their ugly questions in the midst of her talk. Others tossed in a back-handed comment in transitions. The really callous ones used the microphones during Q & A to air their grievances for ultimate shock effect.

  It no longer shocked her. It made her want to shove the mic up their asses and send them waddling back to their precincts. Ava placed her hands behind her back and clenched them. The handsome man—save for his scowl—inched his way down the row. His athletic build drew and held the gaze of the two women in the audience. One other member stood and hurried to the mic first.

  Ava released her grip and smiled. “Yes, sir. Your name and question please.”

  “Um, my name is Leon. This is a silly question, but in light of the heaviness of our topic I figured why not?” He adjusted the belt below his paunch. “Has Hollywood ever contacted you to advise on a set, you know, on a movie about a serial killer?”

  “No, not me personally, but the Bureau is contacted quite often with those type of requests. Most often they are referred to a retired expert on their particular topic of interest.”

  “Thank you.” Leon nodded and scuttled to his seat. The guys around him snickered.

  People were so cruel. No, the question wasn’t relevant to the topic, but it was one he wanted answered and he had the guts to ask. What was wrong with that?

  “Thank you, Leon.” She gave him an exceptionally wide grin, and then turned to meet her fate.

  Handsome, with jet black hair and eyes to match, stood in front of the microphone on the opposite aisle. His chest inflated with each breath.

  Ava swallowed her rage. “Yes, sir. Your name and question please.”

  “Who the hell let you into the FBI?”

  The room of full-grown men who’d seen mothers beat their children, husbands kill their wives, and the youth of America snort away their futures gasped like ladies gossiping on the back pew after church. They looked to the man. Then their heads snapped toward Ava. With wide eyes and gaping mouths they awaited her reaction.

  Though she knew exactly where this venture led, she followed along. To do anything else would only fuel the fire. She gripped her smile with both hands and maintained the man’s gaze.

  “No one let me in. I graduated from Cornell with a bachelor's degree in biology and society with a minor in psychology. I received a master’s degree in forensic science from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, while also garnering three years of professional experience as a researcher for the National Institute of Justice. I applied, like the other thousands of applicants, the month I turned twenty-three. Because of my test scores, I was given a provisional letter of appointment. After that I was further tested both mentally and physically. The Bureau ran a full background check. I passed the physical fitness requirements and medical examination.”

  Ava drew a breath. The first, it seemed, since he’d asked the question. “No one let me in. I made it impossible for them to keep me out. Now, I didn’t catch your name.”

  Handsome’s upper lip curled. The sides of his mouth arched toward the floor, distorting his pleasing features. “My name. How about your name?”

  “You may call me Supervisory Special Agent Shepherd.”

  “Your real name.” He snarled the words.

  The audience’s gazes flip-flopped between them.

  “You mean the name I was given at birth?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Because you’re a real cop—a man’s man—you feel you’ve been duped. You feel you’ve uncovered a conspiracy too maniacal for words. Well, sir, how do you think a three-year-old would feel watching their father taken away in handcuffs? How do you think a six-year-old would feel learning—before they fully understood the concept of alive and dead—that their father was responsible for killing what is expected to be more than a hundred women?”

  She clapped her hands in front of her. “The truth is, you have no idea. You’ve never taken a minute to put yourself in another’s shoes, and until you do, you won’t make chief.”

  “You don't know anything about me, Satan’s Spawn.”

  The old nickname lanced her heart. After hearing it every day for the last twenty-nine years it still made her breath catch, her lungs burn, her heart ache.

  A man from his row barked, “Sit down, Lieutenant Boston.”

  The no-longer-remotely handsome man’s face reddened. His fists clenched. “We shouldn’t take pointers from a mass murderer’s kid.” He stomped toward the door.

  “He wasn’t a mass murderer. He killed masses, but he was a signature…no, he was the signature serial killer. More notorious than Bundy or Cotton, Dammer, or Jack the Ripper.”

  The man stilled just before the door, listening.

  “He killed young women, often mothers, in their homes. He drained their blood. He smeared it on a small portion of the wall above the victims’ beds.” Ava swung her gaze around the silent room, meeting as many gazes as would meet hers in return. “He gave me half of my genes, but he is not my father. And he is the reason I have sworn to stop as many killers as I possibly can.” Again her gaze traveled the room. More looked back.

  “Because of my work, forty-three repeat killers have been captured and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, stopping them from killing before they reach serial status. Hopefully you can look past the origins of the blood coursing through my veins and use the tools I’ve given you today to help me stop serial killers before they get their start. Thank you.”
>
  Ava gathered her notes from the podium and placed them inside her tote. She exited the stage and headed straight for Mr. Mouth for no other reason than to prove to everyone, especially herself, that his words wouldn’t stall her quest to right her father’s wrongs.

  No applause broke out. The quiet of the dead followed her out the amphitheater, down the hallway, out a side door, and to her car. She should’ve checked out at the conferences’ registration desk, but she couldn’t stomach seeing the conspiratorial looks as news spread. Spread it would, just like a fire bomb on a hillside in the California summer.

  When she reached her car, familiar cream paper with bold black letters lay sandwiched between her windshield and the driver’s side wiper blade. She had a mind to go back in and track down the son of a bitch, Mr. Mouth. Maybe he was her home heckler too. But dammit, she had to get to the airport. The lines at Dulles usually doubled with weekend travelers.

  2

  Thank goodness she’d decided to wear her hair in a low bun. With all the humidity, if she’d worn it down, she could’ve camouflaged herself as one of the red, pink, and orange tulle pompoms secured to the backs of the white wooden chairs that lined the aisle.

  She’d hadn’t expected such a turn out—the chairs were tucked together eight columns across and eight rows deep. Eager bottoms filled the majority. Given a choice Ava would’ve picked the aisle seat on the last row, not because she didn’t want to see her cousin and his bride exchange vows, but because she wanted to see him coming.

  Her mom and dad held each of her hands and towed her down the outside edge of the groom’s side toward her aunt April in the front row, forcing her to switch tactics. She trained her gaze on her mother. “Where’s Ford?”

  Sarah Shepherd’s mouth pressed into a line. Her eyes squinted, and she turned her gaze to the setting sun.

  Ava tried her dad. Preston Shepherd grimaced. His deeply tanned cheeks wrinkled at the corners of his mouth. His free hand mussed neatly combed salt and pepper hair. “He needed a minute.”

  “The hostages died?” she whispered.

  “No,” he answered quietly. “They’ll all make it, but one of the three who were shot in the rescue is paralyzed.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” she said.

  “No, but your brother listens about as well as you do when you don’t get your man in the first forty-eight hours.” They reached the aisle and her dad flourished his hand, ushering her mom in first.

  Sarah Shepherd’s fingers grazed her husband’s clean-shaven cheek before she sauntered past. When April, her dad’s sister, saw them coming she hurried to her feet and tossed her arms wide. The collective mood rose as the two women hugged and exchanged squeals, which were apparently a pre-wedding ritual. She’d heard more than three groups of women do it and she’d only arrived at the spectacular mansion situated on the strip of beach ten minutes ago.

  “Aunt April, you look stunning.” Ava leaned in and kissed her aunt’s rosy cheek.

  “It’s this place,” she explained. “Howard and I came down last Saturday and I swear these are rejuvenating waters.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. So sorry Ford and I were late getting in last night. This morning really,” she amended. “I blame my brother.”

  “Brothers are good for blaming.” She kissed Ava’s cheek again, and then reached for her brother. While the siblings greeted each other with a bear hug, Ava surreptitiously glanced at her aunt’s boyfriend of six months. She’d yet to meet the man, but she’d heard plenty about him. Well, not him exactly. More accurately, his age. Boy Toy, as Nathan called him, was precisely seven years to the day older than April’s son.

  Howard’s athletic frame filled out a pale blue linen shirt that matched his date’s thin strapped dress. The water? Nope. The man had done something to her aunt. It looked good on a woman who had seen the worst the world had to offer. Despite the age difference and probability that the romance wouldn’t last longer than the green peas in her freezer, Ava caught her aunt’s eye and nodded her approval.

  They sat, her mother and father next to the mother of the groom, then Ava, with a seat saved for Ford. Ava had crowd watched before her training with the Bureau, but after, her gaze scanned a room like an old lady spying on her neighbors. To keep from accidentally spotting him, she pulled her phone from her white clutch. In seconds the crowd and gentle sway of the ocean faded into the background. The bloated inbox of her work email curbed the rising tempo of her heartbeats.

  Time passed. Her list of emails pertaining to the strangler case shrank.

  “Always working.” An amused whisper fluttered over the shell of her ear and slipped down her neck.

  She hadn’t heard the voice in a decade. In that time it had grown more potent. Deeper. Sexier. Whiskey and syrup tones melded in just two words. Her heart leapt and then settled in her stomach, while her traitorous nipples lunged toward the seductive sound.

  Ava’s suddenly unsteady fingers volleyed her phone. The thin case slipped through her hands and bounced on the fitted coral skirt of her sleeveless dress.

  Kenneth Hunt’s large hand bolted toward her. Strong fingers pinned the phone to her outer thigh. “Whoa there. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  His touch burned through the material and seared her skin. Ava clamped her lips together to keep from crying out in ecstasy or misery. Her gaze jumped to his face. That damn smile she'd relied upon to brighten her world grinned, friendly and open, as though the past didn’t sit in the inches between them, sucking the oxygen from his lungs like it did hers. Of course, he’d probably moved on years ago. A man with his looks and charm wouldn’t last long in the store front of the singles boutique. There’d probably been a riot for his attention.

  Hot fingertips brushed up her thigh. The heat they created collected on her cheeks. Thank goodness a ginger could blame the redness on the distant sun and warm temperatures. But her mouth refused to move.

  He must have taken her silence as acquiescence. He plucked the clutch from her lap, slipped her phone inside, snapped the clasp, and then replaced it. “You don’t want to drop that in the sand. You’d never get all the grains out.” His index finger indicated the crowd behind them. “Besides, I think this thing is about to get underway. I saw a little girl in a pink dress psyching herself up to bomb the aisle with rose petals.”

  In spite of the tingle in Ava’s unmentionables and the hundreds of questions pinging around her brain, a giggle rumbled in the back of her throat. She swallowed and found her voice. “Bomb the isle?”

  Keen’s sky-blue eyes sparkled. His full mouth pursed and his head bobbed. “Oh yeah. The girl could pitch for the Marlins, judging by her practice petal-toss.”

  “The Marlins suck,” Ford’s burly voice intruded. Her brother sat on the other side of Keen, leaned forward, and tweaked his wrist. “She puts the perfect amount of twist on her release. That little girl could start for the Braves.”

  Both men wore tan suits with blue ties. Keen had also donned a blue button-down that complimented his eyes. They were both in the neighborhood of six foot two with solid frames. They both had blond hair, but the tones and lengths split the spectrum. Her brother’s dark shag hung near his dark brows. Since she’d last seen Keen he’d shorn his locks to a near buzz. Still, his close crop of hair matched the faint yellow rays of the sun. The cut sharpened his bad-boy image, which hadn’t needed a lick of help with his dimpled chin, chiseled cheekbones, and laser gaze.

  She waited for the men to change seats. Instead, they exchanged a handshake, and then turned toward the house. A string quartet situated on the far side of an elegant arbor, strung with ivory lace and a magnificent spray of red Gerber daisies, peach roses, and white and pink flowers she couldn’t name, struck the first few notes of La Rejouissance.

  Ava twisted toward her father—not Keen—to see this flower girl the boys talked about. Ava’s hands shook as though she’d come face to face with the Ghost of Christmas Past. And hadn’t she? She wrapped one ha
nd around the clutch in her lap and the other gripped the seat back as though the force of his presence would sweep her out to sea. The last thing Ava wanted was for the man who’d been nicknamed Keen, not just for its similarity to Ken, but because it perfectly described his shrewd acumen, to notice his effect on her.

  Though she kept her gaze on a petite girl with tight dark spirals of hair and a basket full of rose petals, Ava caught movement in her periphery. Ford leaned over and whispered something into Keen’s ear. The men chuckled under their breath. A wide smile spread across Keen’s mouth.

  Regret stung her reserve. Not so very long ago, but a lifetime ago in other respects, she’d been the one to make him smile, to make him laugh. And now it seemed anyone could accomplish the task.

  Keen’s elbow nudged her shoulder—like she was just one of the guys. His chin lifted toward the back of the aisle, from where her gaze had drifted with her thoughts. The flower girl wound up. She pelted a man in the front row with a handful of multicolored petals. The burst exploded against his chest, flying in every direction.

  The crowd’s laughter floated up on an earnest breeze. As though she were a veteran who suffered post-traumatic stress disorder, Ava saw blood where silken, harmless bits of flowers rained. She shut her eyes and honed in on Keen’s laugh. The sound hurt. It helped too. It helped erase the ugliness of her job, the ugliness of her world.

  When the music changed tempo Ava opened her eyes and found Nathan strolling between the clumps of petals just behind the minister toward the arbor. His pink tie would earn him a lifetime’s worth of ribbing from the two behind her. But combined with his tan suit and cream shirt it transformed the kid she’d picked on for years into a devilishly handsome man.

  The minister centered the spray of flowers and then faced the congregation. His gray hair contrasted with his milky black skin. He clutched a Bible to his white button down and nodded at Nathan. Her cousin reciprocated before stepping to the man’s left side and facing the music.