Portrait of Death: Uncovered

by Isabel Wroth

  Katya was only fourteen years old when she was smuggled from Russia to the states with the promise of a better life.

  She had her first child at fifteen in that dirty warehouse. A baby girl. My Jo.

  After giving birth four more times to three girls and a boy, Katya found a way to escape the facility in December of 1994.

  On the streets—dehydrated, starving, nearly dead from hypothermia, and still bleeding from the birth of her son—a good Samaritan had taken Katya to the nearest hospital.

  Recognizing the signs of long-term rape and abuse, the doctor on-call got in touch with a friend—one Agent Timothy Sanders from the FBI.

  Katya went into witness protection for just over six years, waiting for someone to tell her it was time to testify.

  Then, one day, she'd seen an interview on television about a child prodigy who painted with skills beyond her years.

  A little girl with black hair and bright, cobalt blue eyes.

  That day, Katya called up the US Marshal in charge of her protection and demanded to be allowed to travel back to New York.

  At twenty-four years old, nine years after having her newborn baby torn out of her arms, Katya finally got to meet her firstborn daughter.

  What a fucked-up coincidence, that the reason Katya had been able to get so close to Jo, was because the Beauchenes bought another baby from the human trafficking ring and needed a nanny.

  Katya kept the interaction between her and Jo a secret from everyone, except the now-retired Marshal, Andrew Sykes.

  Pop found Sykes in Phoenicia, one town over from Pine Hill, and sat down with the guy to ask him why he hadn't moved heaven and earth to find Katya after her disappearance.

  Sykes brought out all his old case files for my old man, showing him reports, dates, and photos he'd taken of Jo and Katya roaming around in Pine Hill together, pushing a stroller around.

  Sykes said he went around to the Beauchene mansion when Katya missed their scheduled check-in, but the place had been completely abandoned.

  Jo had been at the asylum, Aaron and Janet Beauchene traveling Europe, and the housekeeper was no longer in residence.

  Sykes hadn't known where to look nor if Priogov's men had finally tracked Katya down.

  By the time the Beauchene’s came back from their European vacation, the FBI had busted the doors to the East River warehouse wide open, and with so many women willing to speak up, Katya's testimony wasn't required.

  Pop said after ten minutes with the guy, it became clear that the FBI might have stopped looking for Katya, but Andrew Sykes hadn't.

  He'd been in love with Katya.

  The crazy bitch who'd killed Elliot confessed to having kept all of Katya's things, despite Janet and Aaron's orders to get rid of it all.

  Mrs. Decker said she might have needed it as blackmail or leverage if the Beauchene's ever came around again to cause her trouble.

  She'd stored it all in plastic boxes in her garage, making sure to keep it all clean and in pristine condition.

  The woman really had a thing about cleanliness, which made it that much easier to question her.

  All Davidson and his people had to do was go in there with wrinkled shirts, stains on their trousers, and dirty hands.

  Mrs. Decker unloaded all her secrets in order to get the filthy sheriff and his deputies out of her sight.

  Tomorrow, a deputy was bringing all the stuff Mrs. Decker had kept in her garage so Jo could have it, and Pop was bringing the photos Sykes had taken.

  Jo would have everything of Katya's I could get my hands on. She would have all the details she needed to know beyond all shadow of a doubt, her mother had fought for her—fought to be with her.

  I stared at the portrait over the fireplace and felt my heart turn over for the red-haired woman. I saw the resemblance between Katya and Jo, and I knew, despite where Katya had come from and the things she'd had to do to survive, Jo would be proud of her mother.

  I’m still trying to work through the odds of my sister being killed by the son of the man who’d held Jo’s birth-mother hostage in such terrible conditions, and who was indirectly responsible for Jo’s conception.

  It doesn’t seem like mere coincidence, but that whole Six Degrees of Separation thing aside, I can’t prove there’s more to it.

  Katya's smile in the painting seemed to be ... knowing. Like, she was staring into my soul and liked what she saw.

  I couldn't help but smirk and shake my head, understanding where all of Jo's strength had come from.

  Despite Aaron and Janet Beauchene's terrible influences and all the things she'd endured at the asylum, a miracle had occurred. Jo still turned out alright.

  A sliver of light caught my eye. It came from the closed door of one of the spare rooms.

  Nigel isn't staying over, so there shouldn't be a light on.

  I went to investigate, my hand instinctively going to my gun. My body went still, silence filling me as I focused on creeping forward toward the potential threat.

  The knob was cold to the touch, the hinges making not a sound as I shoved the door open and ... was blown away.

  The battle-ready tension drained out of me, my hand fell away from my gun, and I stood there with my mouth open in shock.

  Last time I'd poked my head in here, the entire room had been full, bursting with art supplies, drop cloths, and furniture Jo sometimes used to have clients sit on as they posed for portraits.

  Now, the hardwood floors were covered in mats, the far wall gleamed with mirrors, it was furnished with a rack of brand new weights, a bench, a rack of medicine balls, a multi-function cross trainer to work the upper and lower body, a top of the line treadmill, a stair mill that was basically a rotating staircase, a zero-grav elliptical ... there had to be well over fifty thousand dollars’ worth of gym equipment in here.

  Looking at it all, I knew Jo did this for me because she didn't like it that I had to leave two hours earlier than normal to get to the gym and make the drive in to get to the precinct on time.

  “You little brat.” I huffed, rubbing the heel of my hand against my sternum as my heart threatened to fly right out of my chest and zoom across the apartment to land in her hands.

  I told her she couldn't buy me shit, that I was a man who worked for a living and didn't need a sugar mama, but she still went out and did this for me, just so I could stay in bed with her a little while longer.

  I flipped the light off and closed the door, pausing in the complete darkness, suspicion and curiosity had me staring at the closed door next to the new home gym.

  Wondering if the entirety of her art explosion was now crammed into one room, I looked inside, my hand immediately going to my face as I rubbed the tension out of my jaw.

  Nope. No way. She didn't.

  Oh, but she had.

  Instead of the room that should have been stuffed to the ceiling with art supplies, there was a brand-new office with a manly desk and bookshelves to be filled with my antique baseball collection and whatever else I wanted to put up there.

  A huge, comfortable leather couch dominated one wall, and a TV big enough to watch whatever sports I wanted, sat across from it.

  She made me a fucking man cave and a home gym. Damn it. I'm so fucking in love with her.

  She murmured this sweet, sexy sound that never failed to make my dick hard when I climbed in bed with her and slid my arm around her waist.

  “Mm, you're home. You get your guy?”

  Without any urging, Jo rolled over and tangled her legs with mine, snuggling right up against my chest to rub a sleepy, clumsy kiss to my throat.

  The silk panties she had on and the way she wiggled her hips to get as close to me as possible, only served to make my hard-on that much harder.

  I told myself it was almost five in the morning and she needed to sleep—to rest because my old man would be showing up soon to drop a bomb on Jo—but me, myself, and I, all knew my excuses were bullshit.

  I filled my hands with her
gorgeous ass, squeezing and rocking her up higher on my cock, grimacing because the pleasure was borderline painful.

  “Yeah, baby. We got him, but I stumbled across something I was hoping you could help me out with.”

  Her lips spread into a smile ... I could feel it on my neck ... and the sleepy purr to her voice turned into a husky murmur that made what blood I had left in my brain all rush south.

  “You did? Is it a big mystery? Because you know I'm pretty good at handling the big stuff.”

  Her silly innuendo made me snort, but she hitched her thigh, allowing my painfully hard cock to slip right between her legs and snuggle right up against the hot, damp silk covering her pussy.

  Jo touched a string of kisses up my throat and over to my ear, licking delicately in just the right spot to send a rush of chills throughout my body.

  That was one spot guaranteed to get some noise from me, and the groan I gave only served to make her smile wider.

  Before I got ahead of myself, I rolled over her, letting her take my weight, crushing her to the mattress in the way I knew she loved.

  I caught myself on my elbows, looking down I could barely make out Jo's wicked little smile in the dark.

  “You're very good at handling big things, Jo. But I'm talking about the gym equipment that magically appeared in your art supply room and the presence of a second office.”

  “Oh. That. Um ... well...” As much as she could, Jo squirmed beneath me, deviously trying to distract me into moving it along.

  No doubt, there would be a whole hell of a lot of movement in a minute, but I wanted an answer first.

  “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  Her last word came out on a breathy gasp, her body quivering at the stroke of my hand across the front of her panties and lower to the strip of silk now completely saturated with her juices.

  I could feel the swollen little knot of her clit and gave the lightest of touches all around it, knowing from how she bit into her bottom lip and tensed up, it wasn't enough.

  “I'm surprised, baby. I'm very surprised. Didn't we discuss the part about me not needing you to buy me stuff?”

  I wasn't complaining, but fifty-plus grand for top-of-the-line gym equipment and an office was over the top.

  Jo had money to spare; I had no problem with that. But I never wanted her to feel a moment of doubt that her money was what I was after.

  “It's for me,” Jo hissed breathlessly, knowing better than to try and rush me, but the way she tucked her hips to rub her pussy against my hand was utterly delicious.

  “For you?” I answered doubtfully. “Unless you're going on some trip to hike Mt. Everest, you don't need fifty thousand dollars’ worth of gym equipment. Your body is perfect.”

  The strangled sound she made when I nudged her panties aside to push my fingers into wet, living silk was music to my ears.

  “It's for me because I don't want you to leave any earlier than you have—ohh... mm—have to. And ... and you need some guy sp-space when I'm working ... for your baseballs and stuff ... ohmigod, Callum! I'll take it all back if you hate it, I just—”

  Whatever she would have said next was lost on an exultant cry as I found her G-spot and rubbed hard.

  I felt her tense beneath me when the rush of her first orgasm of many I intended to give her, flooded her beautiful body.

  Needing to feel the convulsions with more than just my fingers, I kept her panties tucked to the side, lined up, and pushed deep.

  I went blind for a second as the powerful grip of her rippling pussy clenched around my cock, rendering me deaf, dumb, and blind to anything but the exquisite pleasure.

  It was always a fight to keep from exploding immediately at the way it felt to be inside of her.

  I found the strength to hold on, waiting for her to come down, savoring each hungry pull of her slick muscles until it became no more than a flutter.

  I slid my arms under her and spread my knees, needing to have every inch of her held as close as possible.

  For exactly the reasons I thought, Jo went above and beyond to make her home ours.

  I'd never lived with another woman, and I wouldn't have cared if Jo's place was half the size of mine, so long as she was here, just like this, waiting for me when I came home.

  The office and the home gym was unreal, but all I needed, all I wanted, was her.

  “I don't hate it,” I murmured across her trembling lips, then smiled as I teased her with barely-there kisses. “But it's over the top, baby. You didn't need to do any of that.”

  Jo locked her ankles around my waist, both of us making involuntary sounds of pleasure as the angle changed and my cock slid that much deeper inside her.

  She hugged her arms around me, touching a soft kiss to my cheek, that I swear, I felt in my soul.

  “I know that, but I wanted to. I love you,” she answered simply, rendering any argument I could have made completely invalid.

  This strange, kind, big-hearted woman had fast become my everything, and I got busy showing her just how much I valued every crazy second of being with her.

  I wrung every drop of ecstasy I could find out of both of us, extremely grateful to know from now on, I wouldn't have to leave this bed two hours early, ever again.

  I lay beside her, completely out of breath, sporadically twitching as my heart and lungs worked hard to bring me back down from the clouds, grinning like a fool to hear the soft, broken little sounds she made as she continued to quiver and jerk, her body so primed it gave up mini-orgasms almost on command.

  All I had to do was reach over and brush my fingers down her thigh, and she'd cascade into another round.

  Sometimes I spent hours tormenting her like that, seeing how long I could extend her pleasure, just to hear those sweet sounds and know I'd exceeded expectations. For now, I held her hand and let her come down easy.

  Mission accomplished for today, I sincerely thanked her for the surprise.

  “Entirely ... my pleasure,” she gasped out, still struggling for a full breath.

  The sun slowly came up on a new day, while I grinned like a fool at the ceiling, thinking to myself,

  I am one seriously lucky sonofabitch.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wild Jazz music echoed throughout the entire cemetery, not a single note lost despite the merciless whip of icy wind.

  Three weeks have passed since the day I got Helena’s letter, telling me she couldn’t stand the mystery of not knowing when her death was coming, and her funeral is turning out to be every bit as unique as the woman herself.

  There had been no droning, somber psalm read at the gravesite. Instead, Helena had written her own eulogy, and like the woman herself, it had been extremely colorful.

  She’d chosen to be buried in the same cemetery as Herman Melville, Elizabeth Stanton, Joseph Pulitzer, and Nellie Bly, who was counted to be one of America’s first female investigative journalists.

  Like Nellie, Helena’s first exposé had been an in-depth look into mental institutions. I imagined the two would be discussing their many adventures over cocktails wherever they were.

  “This is just unseemly. Completely inappropriate. That music is loud enough to wake the dead!” The scandalized mutter from some woman, struggling to walk across the pavement in her ice pick thin heels, had me turning my face into the faux-fur collar of my coat to hide my choked laughter.

  At his indelicate snort, I glanced up to see a smirk on my lover’s handsome face. He wore a thick black pea coat over his black suit, a slick pair of black leather gloves, and his mirrored aviators.

  Despite the fact we were part of a funeral procession, the kick of desire I felt was unavoidable.

  It wasn’t the first time today I’d heard someone express their displeasure at Helena’s choices when it came to the service.

  Callum caught me staring and gave me a gentle bump with his shoulder. I squeezed his bicep in answer, struggling and failing to keep my giggles to myself when, from behi
nd us, Callum’s father spoke loud enough to be heard above the music.

  “This is the best damn funeral I’ve ever been to. Put me down for the Coltrane package when I kick the bucket, honey.”

  Leave it to John to stick it to some fussy old lady so perfectly.

  Through his correspondence with John, Andrew Sykes is apparently willing to come and tell me all there is to know about my family, and part of me is eager to know. Maybe even desperate to know.

  Another part of me is disturbingly furious with the man who’d loved my mother from afar.

  I have so many conflicting emotions about the retired US Marshal, and only one or two of them are positive.

  He hasn’t reached out to me personally, either because he knows how hurt I am by his complete lack of previous contact, or because he feels guilty for not coming to me sooner and knows I’m in a volatile state when it comes to him.

  I told John and Callum both that I’m not ready to meet with Sykes. They think it’s because I’m dealing with Helena’s death and discovering the truth about my birth mother, but the truth is much simpler, if petty.

  What I said to Callum and his dad: “I’m not ready yet.”

  What I silently thought to myself: “If Andrew Sykes doesn’t have the balls to contact me directly after having twenty years to practice what he’s going to say, then I don’t want to meet with him.

  “He has something to tell me? He can damn well tell me himself without using John as a go-between.”

  Like I said, petty but honest.

  “Shit,” Callum muttered, pulling his cell from his pocket to check the display. I watched his lips flatten with unhappiness, and the sigh he heaved was one of frustration.

  “New case?” I guessed, offering him a smile when he huffed and shoved the phone back in his coat pocket.

  “Yeah, sorry, baby. I gotta go.”

  I was getting used to my man having to drop what he was doing and take off without warning, and he always apologized, like it was his fault someone had been murdered.

  I’m sure a day will come where he has to duck out of something important, and I’ll be upset, but today isn’t that day.