Chapter 20
Wren lay among the pillows snuggled in her yoga pants and Tucker’s huge gray sweatshirt, trying to stay warm. A cold slap of realization struck her as she’d read the ugly message scrawled along the hallway wall a couple hours ago; she’d been freezing ever since. Another wave of goose bumps puckered her skin as she thought of the bold red letters and the gravity of their meaning. She grabbed the soft navy fleece from the foot of the bed, covering her legs as Greta chattered away, struggling to pay attention.
“They wanted tonight to think on it, but I’m confident we’ll have an offer tomorrow.”
She closed her eyes, swallowing another blow. “That’s great, really great.”
The front door shut, and Wren opened her eyes as Tucker stepped in the bedroom. He’d been in and out of their suite, bringing the detectives with him. They’d hovered over his laptop or flipped through his notebook on the table, discussing Tucker’s theories at length. He’d glanced her way numerous times from his seat in the tiny kitchenette, but they hadn’t spoken since she’d locked him out to deal with the injured officer.
“I overheard them talking,” Greta continued. “It sounds like they’re going to want to move on this fairly quickly.”
She plucked at the blanket, her movements jerky as she felt Tucker’s gaze boring into the top of her head. “Do you have an idea of what they’re thinking of for a closing date?”
“I’m not sure, honey, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
She darted a glance at Tucker, and her heart rate kicked up several notches as it ached. “Agree to whatever they want,” she said in a rush. “The sooner the better. I can be out in a week—two at the latest.” She didn’t want to leave her home, but as she peeked at Tucker from under her lashes, she knew she couldn’t stay in Los Angeles any longer. The faster she got out and moved on with her life, the more likely she was to forget him.
“Honey, I don’t know if we can move that quickly.”
“Regardless, the house will be vacant as of December first, if not before. I’ll be heading to Santa Barbara as soon as possible.”
“All right. We’ll get everything worked out.”
She needed something to work out—desperately. “Thank you, Greta. Thanks for the call.”
“You’re welcome.”
Wren hung up and fiddled with her phone, borrowing time to gather herself. Tears floated too close to the surface, as they had since the cryptic message on the wall changed everything. She’d had plenty of time to piece the instances of the last few weeks together while the police dusted for fingerprints and murmured back and forth. Staci’s murder, Alyssa and Chloe’s, her stalking, all of it circled back to Tucker. And he’d known.
“Wren.”
She looked up, meeting his gaze as he leaned against the doorframe. He’d long since ditched the sport coat and now had his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, his holster and weapon still in place.
“We need to talk.”
What could they possibly say? Tucker had made a fool of her. She’d trusted him, and he’d lied. “I don’t think there’s much to say.” She picked up the remote at her side and turned on the television, flipping from station to station, attempting to relieve her nervous energy, waiting for him to go away.
He walked over and snatched the remote from her hand, pressing the power button.
Swallowing, she sat up as the room fell silent and he settled himself on the corner of the bed.
“We need to talk,” he repeated.
Wafts of his cologne tickled her nose as she played trembling fingers through the fringes of the soft blanket. “It’s been a long day. Let’s just call it a night so we can pack up and get out of here tomorrow.” She’d never been so ready to leave.
“Cooke—” He grasped her ankle, tracing his thumb along her skin.
A rush of betrayal consumed her as he held her gaze and touched her as if he still had the right. She pulled free of his grip. “When were you going to tell me? When were you going to share that this whole thing was never about me?”
Clenching his jaw, he sighed. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t put it together, Detective?” She looked down, swallowing over the tight ball of emotion in her throat. “What happened to ‘full disclosure?’”
“I didn’t—”
“What happened to ‘There’s no one I want more, no one I trust more, Cooke,” she scoffed, attempting to disguise the tremor in her voice.
“There is no one I want or trust more.”
“How can you look me in the eye and say that?” More than finished, she pulled the fleece back and crawled across the mattress on her way to the bathroom—the only place she could escape.
“Wait.” He reached over, snagging her elbow.
“Let me go.” She tugged against his grip.
He did, but then hurried around to her side of the bed, standing in her way before she took two steps. “Not until we figure this out.”
“There’s not much to figure out.” She breathed him in as she attempted to skirt around him. “We’re going home tomorrow. I’m heading to Santa Barbara as planned, and you’re not. Story over. The end.”
“Just listen for a minute.”
“I’m all listened out.”
He stepped to the left as she did, blocking her way.
She huffed out a frustrated breath as they both moved to the right. “Damn it, Tucker.”
“Wren—”
“We’re finished here.” She tried shoving past him, afraid she was going to burst into tears.
“Like hell.” He grabbed her wrists, locking them behind her back, pressing their bodies together. “We’re far from it.”
She instantly stilled as he held her close.
“Please hear me out.”
She stared into his eyes, desperately wanting him to tell her this was all some big mistake and that he hadn’t purposely been keeping her in the dark. “How long have you known Staci’s killer and my stalker are one in the same?”
“Since yesterday morning. Or I was running with the idea, anyway.”
“Since yesterday morning,” she repeated as the sinking in her stomach worsened. “So when I asked you what you were thinking about at lunch today, and you told me you wanted Staci’s case solved and for all of this to be over, you kind of skimmed over a major point. I guess Staci’s killer and my stalker being the same person wasn’t important enough to share, even though it was clearly weighing heavy on your mind and very much affects my life.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is. It’s exactly that simple. You lied, Tucker, right to my face. And worse, you followed up your evasions with your whole ‘trust’ spiel.”
“Wren, I—”
“I let myself believe there was something real here.” She pulled out of his grip and took a step back. “For one stupid second I thought there might be something to this whole relationship thing, but then I saw the writing on the wall—literally—and understood you’re no different than anybody else. A few pretty words here, a deep, meaningful look there. Those damn slow smiles of yours. You wanted what you wanted, and you got it.” She laughed humorlessly, shaking her head as she stared down, chastising herself for her utter foolishness. “I sure as hell didn’t put up much of a fight in the bedroom.”
He gripped her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “Don’t go there. Don’t pull that bullshit card on me.”
“Bullshit card? No, I don’t think so.”
“There’s more here than sex, and you know it.”
“I wanted what… Ethan and Sarah…” she stopped before she humiliated herself any further.
“You want what Ethan and Sarah have, it’s
yours, but the thing is, I don’t. I want what we have. We’re pretty damn good together, Cooke.”
“I thought so too, but then tonight happened, and I realized there’s nothing here at all.” Her heart crumbled in a way she never knew it could.
“Everything’s here.” He held her tighter. “You and me. This is everything.”
“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “You’re making this worse. Just leave it where it is.”
“I don’t want to leave it where it is. I love you, Cooke.”
Her eyes grew wide as the breath backed up in her throat. “Don’t say that.” She took a step back as jitters of panic set in. “Don’t you say that.”
“I do, Wren. I’m so far passed in love with you.”
“Stop.” She turned away, pressing unsteady fingers to her trembling lips, utterly devastated, steeping in confusion.
He turned her to face him, gently this time, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “I love you.”
She closed her eyes, hating herself for wanting to throw her arms around him and tell him she loved him too. “I can’t do this.” A tear fell, despite her efforts to keep them at bay. “I don’t want to do this. You can’t lie and break promises, then expect me to rush into your arms. I’m not that person. I won’t be that person. Not for you or anyone else.”
“I didn’t lie—or not intentionally. I wanted the facts before I had to tell you that the man who killed my sister and ruined your life did so because of me. I was afraid you would walk away when you understood that your business, your house, Patrick’s injuries are all my fault.”
“Nothing that man has done is your fault. I could never be upset with you for some twisted person’s crazy actions, but yours have hurt me, Tucker. You didn’t respect me enough to confide in me your ideas, no matter how absurd you thought they were. You didn’t have faith that even if the worst were true, I would stand by you. Those things—confidence, respect, faith, and trust—that’s what a relationship is built on. That’s all I’ve ever wanted; that’s what I thought we had.”
“I’m sorry, Wren.” He took her hand, pressing her palm to his heart. “I didn’t see it that way. I should have, but I didn’t. I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s not okay. I gave you everything, Tucker, everything I was never able to give anyone else, and you’ve thrown it in my face. I won’t do it again. I can’t.” She took her hand from his and stepped away as another tear fell. “For the remainder of tonight and tomorrow, I want you to stay away from me. When we get back to Los Angeles, I want you to bring me to Patrick and wait for Hunter or Austin or whoever Ethan can get to cover me, then I want you to go away.”
“Wren, please.”
Shaking her head, she took another step back. “I believed in you, Tucker. I wanted it all. You made me want everything. Damn you for that.” She shut herself in the bathroom, locking herself in the only place she could go to get away from his devastated eyes. She sat down on the toilet lid and let the tears pour down her cheeks.
Tucker sat on the bench in the kitchenette, twisting his half-empty beer bottle round and round on the table. It was tempting to tip the winter lager back, drain it, then grab the assortment of hard liquors from the minibar and drink until he couldn’t feel the pain anymore, but he stayed where he was, staring at the wet imprints the glass made on the dark, smooth wood.
I believed in you, Tucker. You made me want everything. Damn you for that. He dropped his forehead in his hands, smothering in the heavy weight of regret as Wren’s words echoed in his head over and over. He couldn’t stop thinking of her wrecked gray eyes or the tears dripping down her cheeks as she backed her way to the bathroom.
He clenched his jaw, remembering the deafening silence after the door snapped closed, the blast of water in the tub, drowning out the worst of her sobs. It had taken every ounce of willpower not to barge in and make her listen to him, but she’d made it clear she was finished with the conversation—and with him.
He rubbed his eyes with the edges of his palms, still trying to figure out how everything had gone so damn wrong. He’d never meant for things to end this way. Hell, they were never supposed to have ended at all. They were supposed to go back to California, figure out who was destroying their lives, get married, and eventually do the whole kid thing. He wanted that more than anything, for Wren to be his wife and the mother of his children, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen.
Tucker sank further on the seat and rested his head against the wall. He never meant to lie, not even by omission. He’d wanted the facts straight before he told her. That’s how he worked—gather information, make it all make sense, and move forward. If Wren only understood that his approach had nothing to do with secrets or a lack of trust and everything to do with habits long engrained. But she would never see it that way. As far as she was concerned, he’d been caught in a lie and his procedures were an excuse to deceive.
Wren had no tolerance for such misunderstandings, and he couldn’t necessarily blame her. She’d grown up watching two masters play with marriage and deception. He never wanted to pummel Grant and Rene Cooke more than he did right now. Their lifetime of selfish, pathetic behaviors had destroyed a piece of their daughter, making a foundation of trust nearly impossible to build. He glanced at the door, understanding that any gains he and Wren had made were gone—more than likely for good. He’d had her. Wren had been his, completely, and he’d done a fine job of forgetting he still needed to take care. Despite her strength, there was a vulnerable woman beneath, waiting to be hurt.
The bedroom door opened, and his gaze flew to Wren’s tear-swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks as she tossed his pillow and a blanket to the floor and closed herself back in the room without looking at him. His heart physically ached as he stood and walked to the door, placing his hand on the knob. All he had to do is twist, step in, and alienate her further by bugging her when she’d had enough.
Sighing, he grabbed the bedding and chucked it into one of the chairs, instead of punching the wall like he craved. The small jolt sent the silver disk Detective Rogers had slipped him to the floor. Reaching down, he picked it up, glanced at the bedroom door again, then plunked his ass back on the bench. If groveling wasn’t an option, he might as well work and figure out who the fuck was destroying his life.
He pulled the CD from the clear sleeve and slid it home. Seconds later, the fifth-floor hallway popped up. He fast-forwarded through the first twenty minutes, watching the fifty-something cop sleep in the chair next to their door. “Didn’t exactly make it hard for him now did you?” he muttered and pulled another sip from his bottle. The camera suddenly tipped up, showcasing a view of the coffered ceiling. One hundred and twenty seconds ticked by in the right hand corner of the screen, then the camera flipped down and refocused on the officer appearing to nap as he had two minutes ago. Tucker froze the shot, scrutinizing the wall to the right of the cop. It was impossible to see the message from the angle the camera faced.
Jotting down a note, he paused as the footage abruptly cut to the stairwell. A hunched man in a black winter hat and baggy jacket hustled down five flights of stairs and out a side entrance. His face was completely concealed and his build hard to estimate due to the bulk of his outfit. The cameras caught sight of him in the parking lot before he simply vanished into the dark.
Tucker studied the footage more than a dozen times, trying to find anything they could use, but the bastard didn’t make one fucking mistake. He looked at the times he’d written down and where their mystery man had been in regards to him and Wren. They had exited the elevator mere moments after the camera had been flipped back into place. What if he hadn’t been compelled to stop the elevator car? What if he and Wren hadn’t shared a kiss? A chill shot down his spine as he thought of what could have happened had fate finally brought them all face to face.
The bed cr
eaked, and Tucker looked to the door, watching the blue flickers of the television reflecting in the dim light beneath the crack, listening to the sitcom’s canned laughter. Wren was probably snuggled under the sheets, dozing as she usually did this time of night. He gritted his teeth, physically craving to be with her. The idea of never holding her close again while he fell asleep stole his breath. The wave of mourning was no different than what he felt when he thought of Staci.
His phone rang, and he snapped up the merciful distraction. “Campbell.”
“I ran Nick Pellerin. He’s clean,” Ethan said.
“Yeah, I know. We had a little action here tonight. Cops left about an hour ago.”
“What happened?”
“Our guy made it to the fifth floor, knocked out the sleeping cop at our door, and left me a message—SC+AB+CW+WC=THE SINS OF TUCKER CAMPBELL.” He gripped his phone tighter. “I knew this was about me.”
“I have to admit, I thought it was a stretch. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“I doubted myself.”
“Is Wren okay?”
“Yeah, he was gone by the time we got up here.”
“What about you? How’re you handling this?”
“Some fucker tortured my sister and now he’s after Wren. I’ll let you decide.” He huffed out a breath and closed his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. This is a lot of shit to be dealing with. What can I do to help?”
“I have no idea.” He rubbed at the back of his neck as the television was powered off and Wren’s room grew dark. “Ethan, I need to request a change of assignment. There should probably be someone waiting to take over when we land tomorrow.”
Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series) Page 31
