The Girls On Poppy Drive: A Detective London McKenna Novel

by Alex Gates

  “What about your vision?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem until I start traveling.”

  Another perk of the job he’d declined to mention. “Traveling?”

  “It’s consulting on casework. I’d go…”

  “Where the serial killers are.”

  He picked a better phrase. “Where the work is.”

  It wasn’t work. It was blood. Misery. Terror. And he was too damn good at solving those cases. Not because he was a great investigator, but because he understood the men committing the murders. He knew what made them kill. Why they hunted. Who they tracked. How to stop them.

  The killers might have sliced through skin, but James slipped beneath theirs.

  “It’s a good opportunity, London,” he said. “More money. Job security. I won’t have to worry about my vision. And yes, it’s in DC, but I think, if you gave it a chance…”

  I interrupted him with a wave of my hand. “Are you asking me…or did you already say yes?”

  James hesitated.

  Unbelievable.

  “Are you serious? You said yes?”

  “This is a chance for a fresh start, London.”

  “You said yes!”

  “It’s good pay. Relatively stable hours. I’ll be able to do this job for years, not just until my vision is completely deteriorated.”

  “Well, by all means then. Make all of our life decisions with your ophthalmologist instead of me.”

  I considered pitching the wine. Instead, I guzzled it on the way to the kitchen. The lasagna didn’t fare as well. I threw it into the sink. Most landed on the counter. I didn’t care.

  “London—”

  He wasn’t Londoning me. “I can’t believe you, of all people, would be so inconsiderate. You didn’t even talk about it with me?”

  “And when would I have talked about it with you?” He crossed his arms, his forearms as tense as his jaw. “At midnight when you came home from work? In the middle of the night when you woke up with a nightmare?” He shrugged. “Yeah. I know about the nightmares. Hard to miss when I’m lying next to you…at least, when you decide to sleep in the bed.”

  How was that a crime? “I was being considerate. I didn’t think you’d want to be woken up in the middle of the night when I got home.” I pointed at him. “At least I’m just on the couch. You want to sleep in another state. What was your plan? Throw my ass in a box with some bubble wrap?”

  James rarely allowed himself to get frustrated. “Could do with a little packing tape now.”

  The joke was on him. Tape didn’t work. My captor had to keep me quiet with a ball gag. “I can’t believe you think I’ll agree to this.”

  “I can’t believe you won’t even consider it.”

  “Why would I?” I tackled the mess on the counter with a towel. It only smeared the sauce and cheese over my kitchen. “Our families are here—”

  “—You didn’t even spend Christmas with us.”

  I didn’t listen. “—Our home is here—”

  “—You’re never in it—”

  “—My job is here—”

  “Your job is killing you!” James ripped the towel from my hand and forced me to listen. “The department is corrupt. Chief Graziani might be gone, but Esposto is worse. Why do you even want to work for these people?”

  “It’s not about my coworkers,” I said.

  “Is it the cases? Poppy Drive? London, it’s given you insomnia. Nightmares. It’s pulling you away from everything you once loved. The case is toxic. Hell, it’s probably unsolvable—”

  “It’s not!” I rubbed my temples. “I’m close. Don’t you get that? I only need a little more time.”

  “For what? More crazed pedophiles to attack you? Me? Your family? More time to watch those damn videos for clues that aren’t visible and answers that won’t appear?”

  I shook my head. “I know the families are keeping secrets.”

  “And so are you.” James reached for me. It wasn’t happening. I escaped the room and attempted to end the conversation. No such luck. “London, you’re shutting me out. You have for months.”

  “It’s just stress.”

  “This isn’t work stress. There’s something wrong, and you won’t tell me what. I’m trying to fix whatever has happened, but you need to tell me what I have to do.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  He didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have either.

  With a sigh, he extended his arms. “I want a fresh start, London. Away from all this stress and darkness. I want us to start again.”

  “I’ve already restarted my life once.” I couldn’t look at him. “When I let you in.”

  “And I thought it was a good life.”

  “It is.”

  “Then trust me. I can make it even better. Together. Me and you.”

  And I wanted it too, but I couldn’t give it to him. It didn’t matter if we stayed in Pittsburgh or moved to DC. We were both living in denial.

  “I can’t just pick up and leave.”

  “Why?”

  I pointed to the stack of papers and folders on our table, half-hidden by his medications and eye drops. “I can’t leave this case—”

  “There will always be a case.” The finality in his voice was heart-breaking, but we’d both accepted that inevitability long ago. “I’m trying to fix this. Fix this. Fix us.”

  Was I that broken?

  James took my hand. I let him have that little part of me, but the rest tensed, suddenly drenched in a cold, sticky sweat.

  “I want you to keep working,” he said. “You’re talented, London, but you can’t do it all on your own. You need to get away from that department. That case. You can get a job in DC. Hell, you can probably get clearance and work for the agency—”

  “I don’t want to be FBI,” I said. “You’re not listening. You’re not even giving me a choice.”

  His frustration darkened his eyes, his voice. “I don’t have a choice either. I can’t do my job anymore. I’m pulling favor after favor to have people type my documents and read things for me. I can’t work effectively anymore.”

  So why did he keep denying the inevitable?

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t be working at all.”

  Someone had to say it. That didn’t mean he wanted to hear it.

  Or that he’d forgive me for thinking it.

  He frowned. “I can still work.”

  “For how long?” I pointed to the three different prescriptions of eyedrops on the table. “How much longer will you have your sight? How many more surgeries will you postpone? How much stress can you handle before it completely destroys your eyes?”

  “Long enough.”

  “And then what? What are you trying to prove? You can take the job and feel good about yourself for two years, or you could step back and savor what little sight you have left for the next ten.”

  “This isn’t a choice, London.”

  Of course, it wasn’t a choice for him. Apparently, it was all on me. I gritted my teeth. “So, I’m supposed to just leave. Drop the case. Abandon those girls again. You realize I’ve made more progress on that case in seven weeks than Simms did in seven years?”

  “And don’t you see the danger…or is that what you like?”

  I stared at him, a dozen curse words floating through my mind that I never once considered hurling at him. “And now I’m suicidal?”

  “I’d think it was a death wish if I didn’t know you so well. And, believe me, London. It wasn’t easy to get this close to you.”

  And here it came. Couldn’t even do the dishes without him trying to get inside my head. “I’m not listening to this.”

  “Why are you carrying this guilt?”

  He didn’t deserve an answer.

  Or maybe he did.

  “What are you trying to prove?” he asked. “Your life was spared ten years ago, and now you owe something to the universe, to show that you were worth saving?”

 
“You’re wrong.”

  He wasn’t.

  And he knew it.

  He just didn’t know why.

  “Well, you’re worth everything to me,” he said. “Does that matter at all?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Then let me prove it. Let me give you a new life. A chance to be married, be happy, have our family.”

  My stomach weakened. I shook my head, backing away from the kitchen, from him, from the truth.

  “I can’t talk about this now,” I said. “I’m done.”

  “We have to talk about this.” He followed me. He’d follow me anywhere, and I hated that. “They’re going to want me in DC in a month. Maybe two. So we need to talk now. About everything. The job. The wedding—”

  I’d make it easy. “I can’t do the wedding now.”

  “Why not?”

  “You want to transfer to a new position, sell the house, move to another state, hope that I can find a job down there, and plan a wedding?” The list exhausted me. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

  “Your leg has healed,” he said. “My job is secure. We’ll have more money coming in. Now is the perfect time.”

  “You don’t understand how much work goes into a wedding.”

  “But I know how great a marriage can be.” James took my hand again, kissed my fingers, drew me to his chest. My feet stumbled too close. “And I know I can make you happy. Happier than we’ve been. I can take you away from all the memories and darkness. I promise.”

  I tugged my arm. He didn’t let me go.

  “London, give me this chance.”

  “But…”

  “You love me. You trust me. So, listen to me now. We’ll get a nice house, a beautiful house. Something untouched by the past.” He kissed my hand again. “Just imagine it for me. A lovely garden. Two cars in the driveway. A little nursery upstairs—”

  The panic tightened in my throat. “I’m not the two-and-a-half kids, white-picket fence type.”

  “Why not?” His voice strengthened, like he thought he could read me. Get through to me. Change me. “There’s nothing stopping us from having it all. You have nothing to fear.”

  I had everything to fear. Everything about me. What I was. Things I didn’t want to know.

  Things I prayed James would never find out.

  “Please…” I accidentally whispered. It was better than weeping. “I can’t give you that life, James. I can only be me, and if that’s not enough…”

  “Is it enough for you?”

  “It has to be.”

  “What happened, London?” His voice softened. “I don’t know why you’ve dropped into this depression.”

  “It’s not depression. I’m finally seeing myself clearly.”

  “I’m not. You’re more lost than ever. And I’ve tried to reach you. But you aren’t talking. You aren’t letting me near. It’s been five months since you even let me touch you.”

  Had it really been that long?

  The pain still felt so close.

  “You don’t understand,” I said.

  “Then make me understand.” He wouldn’t let me turn or give me space or let me bear the grief and isolation by myself. “Just tell me. Why are you so afraid to talk to me? What happened that terrified you so much you can’t even confide in me?”

  “Don’t you get it?” I finally pushed him away, outside of his arms and his embrace. “I’m trying to spare you! I’m protecting you.”

  “From what?”

  “From me.”

  He went still. “The only thing that scares me is the thought of losing you.”

  And wasting his life with me? Waiting for a change that’d never come?

  Sacrificing his future to someone who couldn’t give him the happiness he deserved?

  “Maybe you should let me go.” I tried to push away.

  He grabbed me. “Never.”

  I struggled. “I can’t give you what you want.”

  “All I want is you.”

  “That’s not true! You want so much more than just me.”

  Another jerk of my arm. James held me tighter, breathing hard, forcing me to look at him.

  “You are the one thing I need most, London. I want you. I want a life with you. I want to build a future with you.”

  I fought again. His hands curled around my wrists, and, for the first time, I considered lashing out at him. Striking him.

  Running from him.

  “You won’t have that with me,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Let me go.”

  “Not until you tell me what happened—”

  “I had a miscarriage!”

  I should have punched him. Kicked him. Fought harder to get away.

  It would have hurt less than the secret that would kill us both.

  James released me. He stumbled backwards, gripping the counter until his knuckles turned white. His voice hollowed.

  “You…you were pregnant?”

  Were.

  The thought still drove the hot-iron through my gut. “I didn’t know I was pregnant until it happened.”

  “W—when?”

  “You know when.” Crossed arms couldn’t hide me. James saw everything I was.

  Finally.

  “Five months ago?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “God, London. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…”

  He stepped forward. My hands shook as I batted him away.

  “Do you get it now?” I asked.

  “Get what?”

  “Why I can’t give you the perfect life you deserve.”

  He exhaled, rubbing the shock from his face. “I don’t blame you for this. I don’t.”

  I frowned. “Why not?”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “But these things happen,” he said. “We can’t prevent them. You didn’t even…you didn’t know.” He couldn’t hide the hurt. “And you didn’t tell me.”

  “And have you hate me?”

  “I could never hate you. Not for anything. Certainly not for this.”

  I didn’t believe him. Didn’t believe myself. Didn’t want to believe that it had happened.

  What it meant about us. Me.

  Our future.

  I looked down. “I lost our baby.”

  “London—”

  Why deny it now? Why just whisper it? Why not scream? Yell.

  Reveal everything?

  “And the worst part?” I said. “It wasn’t while I was on the job. I wasn’t chasing after some pedophile. I wasn’t staring down the barrel of a gun. I wasn’t even in danger.” I pointed to the ground. “I was right here. Cast on my leg. Sitting on the couch. We were ordering Chinese. Watching a movie. Planning our wedding.” Was I crying? Was he? “We were being that family you always wanted. And the one time I thought I could be normal and healthy and happy…I lost our baby.”

  James went quiet.

  How hard it was to mourn something you never knew you had.

  “You’re not alone in this. It just happens. It’s not your fault. Nothing you could have done—”

  “I know that.” I wiped the tears from my cheeks and groaned, tapping my head. “I know that. I understand it in my head, but not…”

  I didn’t just tap my chest. I beat it until it hurt.

  “And I’m so…mad.” I gasped through heated breaths. “I’m ashamed of myself. I hate myself.”

  He reached for me. I wasn’t ready yet.

  “You could have come to me,” he said. “We could’ve worked through this. Talked about it.”

  “No. I couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  My words ached through me. “How could I live with myself knowing how much I disappointed you?”

  “You haven’t—”

  I didn’t let him try it. “You want a normal life, James. You want the family, the home, the future. But I can’t give it to you, and you know it. I
poison everything that’s normal. There’s something wrong with me.”

  “There’s not.”

  “The department knows it. My parents know it. I know it.” I stared at him, voice cracking. “The only one who won’t admit it is you.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “What everyone else already knows. I can’t have a normal life. Something is wrong with me—deep down. He’s corrupted me. The nightmares are back. The paranoia. And that darkness…” I couldn’t breathe. “All I feel is that same fear and hatred and helplessness that I did ten years ago. It’s festering in me. And now it’s taken something precious—something I didn’t even know I wanted until it was stolen.”

  He stepped closer. “No one is tormenting you now, London. Just yourself.”

  This wasn’t torment. It was the truth.

  “Say it,” I whispered. “Just say it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “But you believe it, don’t you? That there’s something wrong with me? That I’m never going to be rid of the past. He’s scarred me in every way, James. Admit it.”

  “No.” His was an uncompromising defiance. “You want an excuse. You’re looking for my permission to give up, to run away, to surrender everything you could be because you’re afraid of what you were. I won’t give you that satisfaction.”

  “You’re in denial.”

  “And you’re living ten years in the past.” He didn’t let me turn away. His arms wrapped over me, tightening as I struggled against the comfort and warmth he offered. “I won’t let you ruin yourself. This misery ends now, London. I promise.”

  He was right, and it broke my heart.

  James hugged me, holding me close, promising lovely futures without realizing the truth. He wasn’t yet blind, but he could no longer see me. He could pretend, but every fight, every admitted darkness, every secret would only drive him further away.

  Maybe that was for the best.

  Maybe it would finally save James from me.

  24

  Keep fighting.

  You might learn something.

  -Him

  Scouring the contents of a pedophile’s computer wasn’t a task for a Monday morning, but waiting for night to fall only made it worse.

  The FBI had found the laptop hidden in the basement of Eddie Kirwin’s mother’s house.

  The elderly woman suffered from dementia, diabetes, and denial. She had no idea her son had broken into her home and hidden in the storage room. At least, until the smell. But, by the time she discovered his hiding hole, Kirwin had bled out on the floor of the police station. She turned over his computer, but insisted Kirwin wouldn’t have used the internet for anything disgusting.