Stranger Series Box Set

by Heather C. Myers

  "And how do you know Michael isn't guilty?" Kessler asked, still skeptical. "You're gut?"

  "Something like that," Sophie said flatly. "Jane read his mind."

  "He was telling the truth," Jane confirmed. "In fact, Michael didn't even know Cillian was dead. Sophie's gut is right; the guy isn't violent unless he feels he or a loved one is threatened. Cillian had no ties to Sophie, and as far as I know, never threatened her. There was no reason for Michael to kill him."

  "He does not love Sophie," Will said through gritted teeth. "There's no way—"

  "Will," Ethan said, and though his tone was light, it was sharp. "You cannot blame Sophie for Michael’s feelings, and you certainly cannot tell someone how they should and should not feel. Regardless how we feel about the three young women going off on their own in the middle of the night without telling anyone, they are all legal adults. They have the right to choose what to do with their time. The only infraction they made was being out after curfew; however, classes aren't in session. They obtained useful information in regards to Cillian. They did a brilliant job, and they are safe. They returned. What is it you're upset about, my friend?"

  "I—" Will looked away. "Nothing. Never mind."

  But Sophie knew. Will was terrible at expressing himself, and even though Sophie was frustrated with how he was handling it, she knew he was hurt. Betrayed. And it was her fault.

  She wasn’t wrong in her feelings. She knew that. But it was important to her that she could express herself without him taking it personally. When it came to Michael, she didn’t want to have to hide her feelings, afraid she might hurt the man she loved. She didn’t know how else to show him she loved him and only him.

  Without caring about what anyone would say, not even Ethan, Sophie reached out and took Will’s hand in hers. She squeezed it, almost as though she was emphasizing her silent point that she loved him, that he had nothing to worry about when it came to Michael, that even though she doubted that Michael was violent enough to kill Cillian didn’t mean she had any amorous feelings for him.

  To be honest, she expected him to drop her hand, to simply let her hold his, at the very least. But he surprised her. His fingers laced through hers and he held on to her for dear life, like he was going to drown and she was the only thing keeping him above water.

  It made her heart bleed out even more.

  “I think it’s the perfect time retire once again for the night,” Ethan said, cutting through Sophie’s thoughts yet saying the exact thing she needed to hear.

  “Wait,” Kessler said. “If Michael didn’t do it, then who could?”

  “Arbuckle?” Daryl asked.

  Ethan shook his head. “How could Arbuckle know about Cillian?” he asked. “Why would he leave Cillian’s body like that? It has to be someone who knows us, knows the players, and knows how to play the game.”

  “Besides Michael, I can’t think of anyone who knows us and has a motive to kill Cillian,” Sophie said.

  “Wait,” Jane said. “We don’t have to know motive just yet. The important thing is to figure out who knows everyone involved. We can think about the why and the how later. Who would have a good reason to kill Cillian besides Michael? And me? And Brielle? Who is violent enough to do it? Who knows us? Who knows Cillian?”

  Everyone was silent for a long moment, waiting. Thinking.

  Finally, Brielle spoke. “I don’t know about motive,” she said, her eyes going to everyone one at a time, “and I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s violent. But I do know someone who knows all of us and Cillian.”

  Kessler furrowed his brow. “Who?” he asked.

  “Marvin.”

  26

  The minute Jane and Daryl returned to Daryl's flat, she all but collapsed on the couch. Reading minds, even if they were receptive to her mental invasion, was exhausting. She had been hiding it for the duration of the conversation—onslaught seemed to be a more accurate word—but she couldn't hide it any longer. Her eyes closed on their own accord and her head tilted back, shifting to get more comfortable.

  "Why did you leave?" Daryl asked, causing any stirrings of slumber to vanish. "Without telling me? I thought you were in the library."

  "I was," Jane told him, her eyes still shut. "When I was heading back, I ran into Sophie and she kind of told us what she was doing." Her green eyes snapped into Daryl's. "Once she told me she was going to Michael's, there was no way I was going to let her go by herself."

  "I don't think she should have gone alone," he agreed, his voice curt. Sharp, with an edge. "You should have told me. You could have gotten hurt. You're lucky to have made it out with nothing done to you."

  Jane was about to retort something stupid, something along the lines of how he sounded like her father and her grandfather, and those were the last people he should sound like. But his eyes stopped her. They were swirling blackness, like a vortex in the middle of a furious storm. His voice was level, steady, but his eyes were vivid. So much so that Jane had to look away. It was hard for her not to simply react. It was her nature, fiery and passionate, with little thought to the consequences of her actions. However, she wanted to be better. She wanted to be more sympathetic. More patient. He was making her change her innate nature, and she wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

  As such, she tried to put herself in his place. She tried to feel what he was feeling. If she found he had left in the middle of the night to visit some random person who might or might not be dangerous without even telling her caused her stomach to collapse into itself. Okay, so maybe she could understand where he was coming from, to a point.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured, closing her eyes once again.

  She felt him sit next to her on the couch, and without opening her eyes, her head rolled in his direction and rested on his shoulder. It was only then did she crack her eyes open to find him looking down at her with such an interesting look in his eyes—it was both hungry and affectionate at the same time. Like he was going to ravage her while whispering sweet nothings in her ear at the same time. The look caused her to clench her jaw and swallow, even though her mouth was already dry.

  "That's surprising." His southern accent was always enhanced when he mumbled. Her ears picked up what he was saying, and she heard him clear like a ringing bell. "No sassy remark? Must be tired."

  "I am tired," she agreed, snuggling deeper into the crook of his shoulder, "but I'm also trying to be a bigger person."

  "Speaking of which," he said, "you need to eat more, Jane. You are a beautiful girl, and I am incredibly attracted to you, but I miss the healthy glow you used to have. I know you've been through a lot, but I want you to know that I'm here to protect you, to ease your pain."

  Jane felt herself flush. Her body squirmed with obvious discomfort. She hadn't realized he'd been scrutinizing her eating habits so thoroughly, and not only that, but those eating habits were affecting her looks. She had never had a problem with food before; she loved to eat and never worried about gaining weight because with soccer, all those excess calories were gone. Those that remained went straight to either her boobs or her butt, where excess fat was welcomed with open arms. However, with everything she went through, she hadn't noticed that she lost fat. A lot of it. She knew she hadn't eaten in a week, she just didn't realize it, if that made any sense. In a sense, her ordeal hadn't really hit her until someone pointed something out. She just didn't know Daryl kept that close a watch on her. Which was just silly, because of course he kept a watchful eye on her.

  She shook her head. She was being forgetful, illogical, confusing. Completely unlike her usual self.

  "You're right," she agreed.

  "There must be some fight left in you," Daryl teased, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and leaning his head against hers. "It's one of the reasons why I fell for you in the first place."

  That caused her to laugh. "I thought you found my stubbornness—what was the word you used?—unappealing," she said.

  "I have com
e to find that even I can be wrong," he said.

  "So you were wrong about me, then?" Jane asked. "Because, for the life of me, I was completely wrong about you."

  "What changed your mind?"

  Jane opened her eyes once more and positioned herself so she could look at him clearly. Without waiting for an invitation, she crawled onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. He seemed surprised, startled even, but he shifted his weight so that he was comfortable underneath her weight.

  "There's something about you I can't explain," she told him honestly. "I can't put my finger on it. There's something about you that draws me to you, like a moth to a flame."

  "I’m the flame?" he asked, surprised.

  "I'm as shocked as you are." Daryl hooked his arms around her waist and placed his hands flat on her back, pressing her even closer to him. "You're nothing what I ever imagined. You're brooding and mysterious and kind of a dick. But not as big a dick as your brother."

  "Was that a compliment?" Daryl asked, cocking his head to the side.

  Jane shook her head. "I take it back," she said. "I don't want your name located in the same sentence as his. You're too good for that."

  Daryl chuckled. "Marvin is a piece of work," he agreed, and his body tensed, his eyes blackened even further. This was dangerous Daryl. Another side of him she never expected to see. “I’m sorry you ever had to know him.”

  Jane felt her lips curl up into a gentle smirk. “I’m not,” she told him. “It’s good insight into who you are. It makes me appreciate you even more. What was it like growing up with him?”

  The question made Daryl uncomfortable. She could tell by the way his black eyes shifted away from her and how his lips pressed into a thin white line. Under normal circumstances, she expected him to clamor up, with no intention of answering her question, but apparently, she was rubbing off on him as well. He looked back at her and said, “I wouldn’t consider it growing up together since he was never around,” he replied.

  Jane released her hands from behind Daryl’s neck to give his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. She knew Daryl hated anyone feeling sorry for him, but she also wanted to let him know she was here for him and she appreciated the fact that he was sharing an intimate detail of his life with her.

  “I know he must have been good early on,” Daryl continued. “I remember we would both play in the yard together when we were boys. The toys were much different back then, and only those who could afford toys had ‘em. Mom made toys for us, but Marvin was ashamed of that. Didn’t want toys that didn’t have a price tag. When our father died from the Plague, times grew even worse. I think that was when Marvin changed. Something in him, that feeling part in his brain that houses sympathy, empathy, kindness, and affection, shut off. Suddenly, he was all about himself. He would leave for days on end and show up when he needed money. He would steal from me, from Mother. It was at that time I realized there was something different about me: I was able to read my mother’s thoughts, about how she truly felt about Marvin. And I needed guidance. The voices got too loud and I couldn’t shut them off. Marvin found me one day throwing a fit. I was rolling on the ground, covering my ears. He knew exactly what I was going through. Told me so. Didn’t do a damn thing to help me. Just left me there. I still remember what he said: Looks like baby brother has the gift, too. Those were his exact words.”

  “If you hated him so much, why visit him at all?” Jane asked.

  “Hate is a strong word for family,” Daryl told her. “When my mother died, Marvin looked after me in his own way. We were from a small village in Russia, but with Marvin’s ability, we were able to move into the palace. Marvin aided the Czars who lived there with important decisions and made extraordinary amounts of money. He gained a reputation. He was training me, so I could go to England, Spain, France—whichever country would pay me the most to assist a monarchy. It was around that time that Ethan found me and explained the purpose of his school.”

  “You gave up fame and riches to teach at an academy on an island in the Colonies?” Jane murmured, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I felt uncomfortable, taking advantage of people the way Marvin did, though some did deserve it,” Daryl explained.

  "To be honest, I wanted nothing to do with the life Marvin was leading. If Marvin's the product of what wealth and fame represents, I want nothing to do with it. Marvin took care of me in his own way. I check in on him once a year."

  "Wait." Jane furrowed her brow and, without realizing it, started to play with the lapel of Daryl collared shirt. "If you came to Catalina straight from Russia, how do you have a southern accent?"

  "What makes you think I took Ethan up on his offer right away?" Daryl asked. "I didn't know him. I'm not one to trust people I don't know."

  "But that would mean ..."

  "I stayed with him, Jane. My past is filled with skeletons I want no one to know about, especially you. The way you look at me ... I've never had anyone look at me the way you do, with affection, love, and faith. I could not bear it if anything were to threaten that." His dark eyes burned so bright Jane could feel heat. "I stayed with Marvin, jumping from monarchy to monarchy until monarchies became almost obsolete. The Americas looked like a promising venture, and Marvin already secured us passage on a ship. We traveled along the east coast for a few years, then finally settled in Atlanta, a small town where it rains in the summer, even at a hundred degrees."

  Jane smiled. "I can't imagine you being in anything else but your suits," she told him. "So how did you end up here?"

  "Ethan found me again," he explained. "By that time, I was ready for any reason to leave him. Ethan presented me with one and I took it. And I never looked back."

  "Would Marvin return to your old home?" Jane asked.

  "He's constantly upgrading his home," Daryl said. "Palace, I should say. The time and money he's put into it, there is no way he would abandon it." He paused. "Which means we know where he'll be. Eventually."

  27

  It was too quiet. Brielle hated it. She needed to say something. She needed him to say something. He always said something. Why wasn't he saying anything?

  "You're quiet."

  She had to say something. Her dorm room was too quiet, and though she had taken the next step and invited him in—something she had never done before—her dorm was still silent. They were sitting together on the edge of her bed, close enough to touch. Her brown eyes were fixed on her bedspread, underneath her hands. His were so much bigger than hers; they could probably crush her bones if he wanted to.

  "Are we stating facts in order to avoid talking about what happened tonight?" he asked, quirking a brow.

  Kessler wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves pushed to the elbows and a pair of blue jeans. His dusty brown hair was as unkempt as ever, but his eyes, the key to his soul, were as clear as Cillian’s blood, still staining the black metal gates. He wore a five o’clock shadow the same way she wore glasses—like he needed it. It was uncharacteristic for him to be so quiet, and Brielle couldn’t help but fidget under the weight of it.

  Brielle felt her face bloom. "Why aren't you yelling at me?" she asked him. "Or lecturing me. Or, I don't know, tell me I shouldn't have done what I did."

  "I trust that you know all that," he said. "I'm not your father. You're an adult. I can tell you what I know to be true, and I can tell you my opinion. But I can't tell you what to do. Only you can decide what you think is best for you. It's my job to trust your judgment."

  Brielle blinked. That was more poignant than she expected coming from him. However, the fact that his tone was genuine, his eyes clear, made her fall even more in love with him than she thought possible. She smiled to herself, and without hesitating, extended her pinky so it rested on the back of his hand. It jolted her and she wondered if he felt the same shock she did.

  "I love you."

  The words came out of her mouth without warning. A part of her wished she could grab onto them and swallow them up. Th
e other part of her was relieved it was another thing she didn't have to worry about withholding any longer. Either way, she couldn't take them back.

  He looked at her, turned his face so his eyes could really see her; and that was saying something since his eyes were always so good at seeing everything. Now, they were sculpting her face, trying to read any part of her she might otherwise be hiding from him. But there was no more to hide. She had told him everything.

  And then she saw it. That glimmer of worry, but it disappeared much too quickly for her to bottle it up and analyze at a different date. He was worried she didn’t mean it. As if she would reach out and pluck the words out of the air and put them in her mouth like they never existed in the first place. And it was only then that she realized just how sensitive Kessler was. His shell might be snarky and spiney, a warning to strangers to stay away. Inside, however, was warm and gooey, like a caramel center of dark chocolate. He would never admit it, but he desperately craved partnership, but only with someone who matched his exceedingly high expectations. Brielle had no idea how she was able to fit the bill, but she didn't want to do anything different. She didn't want to change his feelings in any way.

  Without realizing it, her grip on him loosened. Love, she supposed, was like holding onto a butterfly: hold it too loose, and the butterfly will escape; hold it too tight, and the butterfly will be crushed. The work in a relationship consisted of finding that delicate balance between too tight and too loose. That’s where people struggled. That's why divorce and breakups were prevalent. People weren't willing to put in the work. They had no problem with the good times, but during the bad times, they were ready to throw in the towel and start over with someone new.

  Brielle saw it with her parents. Even, to some degree, with her stepparents. She knew she was young and more than a little inexperienced, but she wanted to work hard in order to make this thing with Kessler—whatever this was—work. He wasn't the best looking guy, and he was prickly in personality, but he was a diamond in the rough. He was worth it.