She stood, bracing a hand on the arm of the couch as she waited to make sure her head wasn’t going to start spinning around. It wasn’t going to help either of them if she ended up flat on her face, she didn’t think. Once she was pretty sure she was steady, she started toward him.
She hadn’t taken more than two steps when he stopped.
He took a deep breath, shoved his hands through his hair. “You need to be off your feet, Hope. Shit, I’m sorry. You don’t need this.”
“I don’t think either of us need this—hell, what person needs this kind of crazy going on?” she asked softly and she kept going, right until she was close enough to slip her arms around his waist. She rested her head against his chest. “You can’t blame yourself, Remy. Hell, if anybody should have known better, it would be me, and I never thought he was so far gone that he’d run me off the road in broad daylight. Or grab me in broad daylight. Never thought he was that far gone.”
Remy sighed. “It’s worse than you realize, I think.” He paused and then added, “Nielson’s dead, Hope. Joe killed him.”
Shock reached up and wrapped an icy, brutal fist around her throat, even as grief punched her in her battered heart. “What …? No.” She shook her head, pushing away from him as she lifted her hands, pressing them to her face. The pain in her head became a raging, tormenting beast as she tried to think through the fog of memories.
Nielson—yeah. She remembered him showing up. Remembered Joe pointing his gun at her … firing. But he hadn’t hit her.
A moan rattled out of her chest and she whispered,
“Oh, no.”
He’d killed him. Joe had killed Nielson. Guilt reached up and grabbed her. “Shit. This is my fault …”
Remy sighed and came up behind her, wrapping her in his arms. “No. No, it’s not. If you don’t want me blaming myself for what happened to you, you can’t go blaming yourself for what happened to Nielson. He knew what he was doing, what the risks were—and he chose to go there without backup. For whatever reasons.”
“But if I’d stayed home—if I had—”
Pressing a kiss to her temple, Remy stared out the window. “He was crazy enough to kill a fellow cop, Hope. It was just a matter of time.” Then he sighed. “Just a matter of time before he would have tried something else. But it’s over now. You’re safe. He’s gone.”
Over, he thought. In a lot of ways. Ezra had called while Hope was having a CT done, told him what they’d found in the cabin. He wasn’t entirely sure he was buying it … but if Joe had thought planting a dead woman’s body on Reilly’s property would scare Hope into running, making her that much easier to grab …
It made sense. Made a lot of sense.
Of course, Carson hadn’t taken into account that Hope was a lot stronger than he’d ever realized. Hadn’t taken into account how much she’d trusted Law.
The forensics team was already turning up his prints all over the place.
Maybe it was over. Maybe.
What mattered to him, though, was that Hope was safe.
The only person who would have wanted to torment her was her fucking ex. And he was on a slab, next to the cop who had died protecting her. Irony there—Remy hated one of them with a passion, and the other, he owed a debt he could never repay.
Blowing out a breath, he tightened his arms around Hope and buried his face in her neck. “Man, I was so scared I was going to lose you. I just found you. Can’t handle losing you,” he whispered.
She sniffled. “Me, too.” She tipped her head back, peering up at him. “I was thinking about you. When … well …” She swallowed. “I was thinking about you. And I was thinking about us. And I wasn’t sorry. You made me happy … and I wanted to tell you that.”
“Hope …” He reached up, laid his hand on her cheek.
A wobbly smile curled her lips and she shrugged. “I can’t rush into anything. I just can’t. But you matter to me. So much. And … well … um. I think, no. Shit. I love you, Remy. Maybe that’s one thing I would have been sorry about—if he had killed me and I died before I had the chance to tell you.”
For the second time that day, the strength just drained out of him. Sagging to his knees in front of her, he pressed his face to her belly and wrapped his arms around her. “Hope …”
Her hand combed through his hair. “Remy?”
“Just gimme a minute,” he muttered and to his utter disgust, he realized he had tears stinging his eyes. Almost lost her. “Can’t think about that—you dying. Then you go and throw both of them in there together. Damn it, Hope. I love you. You … I can’t lose you. You mean too much. You’re everything.”
She sank down to her knees in front of him, curled her arms around his neck. “You didn’t lose me. I’m right here. Right here.” She rubbed her lips over his. “I love you.”
Stroking a hand up her back, he tried to convince himself of that. She was here. Right here. Need tore through him, but he throttled it down. Beat it back. Not right now. She was battered, suffering from a concussion, shaken, in shock.
Not right now.
Slowly, he came to his feet and pulled her into his arms, cradling her slight weight against his chest.
“We’re not doing this ever again,” he muttered. “Nothing like this. Ever.”
“That sounds like a good plan.” She turned her face against his neck. “I’m tired, Remy.”
“Then get some sleep.” He sank down on the couch, cradling her. “I’m right here. I’ll wake you in a few hours, baby.”
It didn’t take her long to drift to sleep, evidence of the wear and strain the day had put on her.
He continued to hold her, though. Needed that connection, desperately.
As the night wore on, he stared out the window.
Joe was dead. So was his friend, Nielson. Hope was here with him … safe.
She was safe … and that was what mattered the most. The rest of it, he’d come to grips with. For now, he had what he needed.
It was over. Over, he told himself. Joe was gone and it was over.
But part of him didn’t believe that.
Author’s Note
Some creative license was taken with this trilogy. Carrington County is a fictional county set in Kentucky, roughly an hour away from Lexington.
While I spoke with several lawyers and law-enforcement professionals while writing the stories, I realize certain aspects are still not going to be completely true to life. I hope it doesn’t take away from your enjoyment of them.
As always … to my family. I thank God for you all every day of my life, and it’s still not enough. I’ve made this dedication probably close to sixty times now. Another thing that’s still not enough. You’re everything to me. Love you all!
Acknowledgments
This is yet another book that couldn’t have been written without a lot of help.
This time, the help came from a few particular people …
Thank God for letting me live this dream …
Namely, a crazy chick by the name of Lime who likes shoes and wine.
As well as my friends Beth Kery and Julie James, who helped me more than they’ll probably know while we sat in the restaurant one night in Columbus, Ohio.
Hammering out the details for this story proved to be a lot more complicated than I thought.
Read on for an exciting preview
of Shiloh Walker’s next thrilling romantic
suspense novel
IF YOU KNOW HER
JOLENE HAD BEEN DEAD FOR SIX MONTHS.
Six long months.
Nia Hollister lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to will herself to sleep, but sleep wasn’t coming. It wasn’t getting any easier. Nothing was easier. Sleeping. Living. Moving on with her life.
But how was she supposed to get on with her life, when her cousin, her best friend, her only family was gone? Murdered … dead and buried, brutalized by some monster for reasons that Nia couldn’t even fathom.
> Even after six long months, she still felt like she had a hole in her chest the size of the entire state of Virginia.
The fact that the man who’d killed Joely was dead made no difference, not to her. It changed nothing. It helped nothing, eased none of her pain. Not even watching as they’d lowered his worthless corpse into the ground had helped.
That should help, right?
He was dead—the man who had killed her cousin was dead. That should give her closure, right?
Closure—
Shit.
Did people really think having closure helped?
It sure as hell wasn’t helping her. Knowing who did it … how did that help?
Exhausted, sick at heart, and still as miserable now as she had been the day she’d found out the truth, Nia sat up in her bed and rummaged around on her bedside table until she found a mangled pack of cigarettes.
She’d stopped smoking three years ago. She’d started again five and a half months ago. She kept telling herself she’d stop, and she knew she needed to, but she just couldn’t work up the energy to care.
Right now, she couldn’t quite give a fuck if she was polluting her lungs—what did it matter? Right now, she was having a hard time finding anything that mattered.
Sighing, she lit a cigarette and climbed out of bed, moved to stare out the window. It was dark and quiet. She was far enough outside the city that the lights from town were muted and she could see the stars.
There had been a time when she had loved nights like this.
Now she hated them, hated the quiet, hated the peace. It seemed like that was when she heard it the loudest. Heard her. It was just her imagination, but it seemed so real.
Joely’s screaming … God, how she must have screamed. Had she begged? Had she pleaded?
“Shit.”
Heedless of the smoking cigarette in her hands, she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, as though that might keep her from hearing the screams, might keep her from thinking about her cousin.
Her best friend.
The woman who’d been murdered by some sick-ass bastard who was now rotting away under six feet of dirt. She should take comfort in that, Nia reckoned.
But she couldn’t. Didn’t. It just felt too … unfinished.
Blowing out a breath, she lowered her hands and eyed the cigarette. “Going to catch my damn hair on fire,” she muttered. Putting it between her lips, she inhaled. As the smoke filled her lungs, she tipped her head back and stared up at the darkened ceiling.
Yeah, it felt damned unfinished.
But Joe Carson had been found with Joely’s watch on him, and her clothing and other evidence had been found at the cabin where he’d been squatting.
What were they supposed to do?
In some sick, convoluted way, it even made sense, once somebody had explained things to her.
Hope Carson had left her abusive ex-husband and spent two years on the move, because she feared he might come after her. Finally, she’d decided she was going to settle in with her friend Law Reilly. The ex must have been watching her pretty damn close. Timing-wise … no. Nia didn’t quite buy the timing bit, because her cousin had been grabbed before Hope had arrived in Ash, Kentucky, but the cops had shrugged it off.
There wasn’t any secret that she was friends with Reilly. Reilly had confirmed she had been making plans to come stay with him. They’d speculated that Carson had just made a lucky guess, or suggested maybe he’d had some inside knowledge—their suggestions hadn’t meant shit to her.
So, Hope arrives in Ash and her ex-husband waits until she sort of settles in, and then he kills Nia’s cousin. Leaves her body right where Hope can all but trip over it. Trying to scare Hope into running … just trying to scare her? Warn her? This will be you if you don’t toe the line?
“It’s all so fucked up,” she whispered. “Damn it, Joely, what am I supposed to do? Why can’t I let go?”
But there wasn’t any answer.
Leaning her brow against the chilled glass, Nia smoked her cigarette and suffered the miserable silence alone.
Her name had been Mara Burns.
She’d been his first—a man didn’t forget his first. His first fuck. His first love. His first wife.
His first kill.
He’d had different firsts … Mara had been his first kill, and she’d been … sweet.
It hadn’t been planned.
At all. It had been back in college and she had been a hot, sweet little bitch, but the first few times he’d tried to ask her out, she hadn’t given him the time of day.
That changed his senior year—and she’d been the one to ask him out. As a ploy to make a boyfriend jealous, mostly, and he had known. They’d gone out, fucked in his car … and she whispered for him to hit her. To choke her.
He hadn’t. But he’d imagined it.
When he took her home, she’d mocked him, but he’d been so caught up in those images, he had barely noticed. That night, he’d dreamed about it. Choking her. Hitting her.
Thoughts of it consumed him.
Weeks passed, turned into months, they rarely spoke, but he saw her, and each time, it made those fantasies burn hotter. Brighter.
One night she’d been walking home from her job. He’d seen her … because he’d been watching. Watching … and dreaming. He had offered her a ride. Because it was starting to rain, or maybe because she wanted to taunt him some more, she’d accepted. But then he hadn’t taken her home and she had put her bitch-face on. He’d backhanded her.
Instead of getting pissed, or scared … she’d been turned on.
They went back to the quiet, secluded little area outside of Lexington where they’d fucked that first night, and they went at each other like animals. They started out in the back of the car, moved to the trunk, and eventually ended up on the ground.
He’d hit her, and she would come. He’d squeeze her neck until she almost blacked out, and she’d come harder. For hours.
But then, toward the end of the night, as he was driving into her, chasing another climax, his fingers digging into her silken neck, he’d squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed … he’d let go, watched as she sucked in a ragged breath of air right as he climaxed so hard it had almost hurt, and he’d thought about how he hadn’t wanted to let go.
Then, when she was smiling at him, he’d closed his hands around her neck.
For reasons he couldn’t understand then, he’d started choking her again. And that time, he hadn’t stopped. Not when her heels beat on the ground, not when she had torn at his hands with her nails, real fear beginning to flicker in her eyes. Not even when her bowels and bladder had released.
His mind had remained cool, detached throughout all of it, even as his heart had raced at the thrill.
His first kill.
Yes … Mara had been one of the most beautiful firsts of his life. A man didn’t forget his first. He’d worried for years somebody would discover her, discover what happened to Mara, and somehow link her back to him.
But in the end, she wasn’t the one who was coming to haunt him.
Hers wasn’t the face he dreamed of at night now.
And she wasn’t the reason he had been forced to put a stop to his games for a while.
Because he couldn’t indulge in those games, he was all but burning, all but dying to feel that thrill again, the pleasure he found only when he took a life. She wasn’t the reason he felt like a ticking time bomb, one that burned hotter, brighter, every damn day.
No, that honor belonged to one Jolene Hollister and one Lena Riddle. Jolene had almost gotten away from him, had screamed bloody murder … and Lena had heard her screaming, had called the cops, had stirred up too much attention.
Six months. It had been six months.
He knew how to wait.
Sometimes he felt like a lump of coal under extreme pressure, like he’d emerge a diamond—after a bit of polishing and cutting down.
Other times, he just felt lik
e he was going to explode and right now was one of those times. Six fucking months.
It was worse being in here in this crush of people.
A wedding was a big deal in a small town like Ash, though, and Lena and Ezra hadn’t spared any expense. The Inn was full to bursting. The reception had been going strong for more than an hour and he had no doubt it would keep going for another hour at least.
He couldn’t even make a quiet escape, though. It would be too easily noticed.
So he waited, chatted, and danced.
He danced with the bride, he danced with the bridesmaids, he danced with the flower girl, he danced with the married women whose husbands wouldn’t dance, and he danced with the tittering, blushing girls who were still learning how to flirt.
He danced with so many women … so many.
Tall, short, lean, lush.
Short hair that barely brushed their jawline, long hair that fell to their hips. Hair upswept to leave their shoulders bare. Jewelry sparkled and glowed against toned and tanned flesh.
Over by the bar, he spotted Roslyn Jennings talking with the bride, her curves poured into a dark green dress that clung so lovingly. Gold glinted at her neck, ears, and wrists.
On the dance floor, he saw Hope Carson, dancing with her beau Remy Jennings, wearing a dress just like Roslyn’s, the same deep, deep green. But where Roslyn looked like a witch, Hope looked like some fey, woodland nymph. Sweet and innocent and lovely. She wore little jewelry, but there were flowers in her short, shiny hair.
Then there was the bride, her deep red locks glowing against the white of her dress, pearls at her neck, gold on her fingers.
All the women …
Hunger pulsed inside him, driving him mad, making him greedy and desperate.
Desperate—but not too desperate.
Not so desperate he’d get foolish again. Not here. Not now.
At present, he had a girl—just barely out of college—wrapped around him, and it pissed him off. Perhaps it turned him on a little as she pressed her breasts against his arm, smiling up at him and trying to act like she was so much older than she really was. But she was just a child. Besides, he also had a lady nearby who would notice before much longer and although she would understand, he didn’t want her upset.
If You See Her Page 33
