This Love Hurts, Book 1

by W Winters

  Let the jury think I’m inadequate by not pushing for more. After all, my gender and race already do that for some of these men and women. Let them be angry that I didn’t interrogate her. That I didn’t ask the obvious question. Because the implication is already there. The defendant’s girlfriend knows he’s guilty.

  I know it. They know it. And that’s what I needed from her.

  Glancing at the defendant, I catch sight of his anger and more importantly the betrayal in his eyes as he stares at her, his ill-fitting black suit sagging on his slight frame. Now he’ll talk. I’m not the only one who knows she drove. Nothing in this world is more spiteful than a scorned lover.

  I make a mental note, as the nineteen-year-old holds his girlfriend’s gaze for as long as he can while she exits the stand, to offer him the deal again. To give up the getaway driver in exchange for a lighter sentence.

  Tapping my pen to the untouched legal pad on the table in front of me, I think, I’m damn good at my job. If nothing else, at least I’m damn good at this.

  A familiar prick at the back of my neck follows me all the way back to my office. I offer tight smiles to everyone I pass as I make my way to the elevator, both hands on the handle of my twill briefcase. Chills flow down my shoulders, the kind that make your insides churn. Glancing over my shoulder when I feel eyes on me again, I know there’s no one there, but I can’t help it. I half expected to see Missy. Maybe to give me damning evidence, maybe to tell me the truth and offer to make a deal since she has to know he’s going to throw her under the bus now that she’s given up defending him. Goosebumps run down my arms when there isn’t a soul in sight. I stare a moment longer, looking past the empty hall and toward the large bay windows.

  People pass quickly, walking on their own or in pairs beyond the glass. Not a soul sits still. There’s no one.

  Ding. The elevator arrives, snapping me back to the here and now.

  Shaking off the nerves, I keep my head in the game. Sometimes this happens. The brutality of what I deal with gets to me sometimes. The doors shut and in privacy I snag a mint from the pocket of my tailored jacket. Sucking on candy or mints helps at times. I read an article about how breathing affects the nervous system and sucking on candy is one of the ways to control breathing. I chose mints after learning about that little trick.

  With the small mint on the center of my tongue, I suck, pressing it against the roof of my mouth as the doors open, once again announced with a ding. It’s all very mundane and repetitive. Day in and day out, I do the same thing. To the office, to the courtroom and then home; or to the bar first and then home. Day in and day out. It’s the way it goes and the sight before me is one I’ve seen time and time again. The emotions though, the charge of energy, the relief at times and the disappointment at others… there’s nothing mundane about that.

  Alone in my office, I quickly busy myself with writing up the proposal to present to the higher-ups regarding Winston’s case. Missy’s boyfriend has to know by now that the writing is on the wall. When the phone rings, I’ve nearly finished, but it doesn’t matter.

  It’s Carl, Winston’s lawyer. He already handed over his girlfriend and confessed everything. “Get the testimony and I’ll sign off on everything then present it to the judge tomorrow.”

  The asymmetric smile on my lips grows to a full-on grin. I’ll take my win however I can get it.

  Hanging up the phone and relaxing into my chair, I check my cell phone. I’ve never wanted to share my victories before. Not even with my sister. She doesn’t like to hear the details and it’s impossible for me not to give them. But right now, I want to tell Cody. I know he’d get it. He’d understand the high of nailing both of them—that’s real justice. But he’d also get the draining feeling after the adrenaline dissipates. When it all comes down and the next case hits my desk.

  Dropping the phone to my desk on a stack of folders, I opt for a glass of wine from the mini fridge of my office. The small door opens and reveals there’s not a damn thing in it but a half-eaten sandwich that I should probably throw out and a nearly empty bottle. I can’t believe I left that small of an amount in it. It’s maybe a quarter of a glass, if that.

  Well damn, I think with pursed lips and kick the door to the fridge shut with a gentle nudge, the bottle in hand.

  I pour it all out into a clean mug from my desk that’s supposed to be used for coffee and boasts some company’s logo on it. The sip is sweet and I savor it. Letting my eyes close for a minute, the moment they open I stare at my phone.

  I can put away murderers and pit lovers against each other… but I can’t text a man I’m sleeping with. A ridiculous huff forces me to shake my head and I down the last bit of wine; it’s practically a shot.

  I check our messages.

  There are no new texts from him. We last spoke when he called two days ago and it was a quick conversation, but still, he called. He made that move. He showed he was interested. My inner voice tsks that I’m trying to make a pros and cons list in my head rather than having the balls to just message the man.

  I could text him. I could tell him how proud I am that I got a conviction without having to rely on a fickle jury for a guilty verdict.

  Still, I hesitate for one reason. I’ve never leaned on anyone before, simply because I don’t want to. I don’t want to get in the habit of having someone there, only for them to leave one day.

  I’m already a little too close. A little too eager.

  A knock at my door shuts down my thoughts and I set my phone aside once and for all, facedown before slipping my heels back on and answering it.

  It’s late now; most of the people in the office should be gone. Nearly everyone left at 6:00 for a celebratory drink I turned down to work on this plea deal. The door opens with a click as I ask, “yes?”

  To no one.

  No one is there and as I lean out of my office, checking left and then right down the empty hall, the chill comes back, that prickling along my neck which then flows down my arms.

  It’s as I’m closing the door that I see the note.

  At least I think it’s a note. I’m quick to pick it up and even quicker to close the door and then lock it. The freezing cold runs through me and it’s followed by confusion as I turn over the thick rectangular white paper, finding it to be blank.

  What?

  Swallowing thickly, my throat dry and a nervous heat coursing through me, I stare at the closed door, wondering what the hell is going on and finding myself more anxious or nervous or possibly even scared than I’d like to be.

  “It’s only a piece of paper,” I chide myself out loud and move to toss it in the trash can along with the empty bottle of wine, but as I slip my fingers down it to throw it away, I feel a groove in the paper, an etching along the crisp page.

  It takes me a moment of standing there alone in my office as the sun sets deep and low, stealing the lighter colors of the evening sunset with it, before I reach into my desk for the only pencil I have. I’m careful as I angle the tip along the one groove I feel. I follow it along the paper, listening to the ticking clock seemingly slowing down as my heartbeat picks up and I read what it says.

  Breathe. I force myself to steady my breathing and double-check that the door is locked.

  It wasn’t a random piece of paper that was dropped, and I didn’t imagine the knock I heard. I don’t hesitate to call security, slamming down the buttons as I stare at the door and then below it, to the strip of light that shines through unobstructed, letting me know there’s no one there. I’m still not moving from this office without security.

  They answer on the first ring. “Security.”

  “I need an escort.”

  “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  “No. Someone is on floor three or was a moment ago. They left a threat at my door and I need an escort as soon as possible, please.” I’m vaguely aware of how calm my voice is even though inside chaos ensues.

  I’m not crazy. Someone was watching m
e today. Someone wants me dead and I think I know who.

  The man on the line tells me to stay with him and asks what the threat was. I read the note aloud. “If they rot, you rot with them.”

  “We have the footage from the security cameras,” the detail informs me. “We’ll find whoever it was.” He doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know, but still I nod in understanding and thank him.

  The man’s voice is deep but professional. It’s soothing too. When he rapped his knuckles on my door and called out my name… I’m ashamed at the immediate relief I felt. I have a gun I carry too. Still, there’s a lot to be said about having a trained professional by your side.

  “We’ll know who did this within the hour.”

  “I know,” I say again. I’ve hardly spoken and I know I’m poor company at the moment. “I just want to go home right now.” And get the hell out of here.

  With his black hat on and heavy beard, I barely get a good look at Steve. He has broad shoulders though and his uniform doesn’t hide that. The other one, who’s waiting outside the garage, is less impressive in size. I’m far more familiar with him, though. His name’s Taylor and he’s been here for years.

  Steve must be new; I haven’t met him before. “I prefer the stairwell if—”

  “I do too,” I say, cutting off the newcomer, already knowing protocol. This isn’t the first time I’ve been threatened. Although this feels different. If someone’s waiting for me, the last thing I need is to have a set of doors open and reveal a gun pointed at me. Stairs all the way, my thighs be damned.

  Pressing the side button, I check my phone again to see if Cody’s called back as we walk up the flight of concrete stairs to the second floor where my car is parked. The sounds of the city traffic behind us reverberates in the lot as I see I have no missed calls or messages.

  My throat is dry and tight with that new information. I called him the second the two men in uniform came to my door to escort me to my car, relieving the security guard who was on the phone with me.

  With a deep breath in and an even deeper one out, I tell myself he must not have his phone on him. That’s more comforting than the more likely scenario: he saw and judged my call to be less important than what he was already doing.

  “You all right?” the man to my right asks me as I pull out my keys. There’s a note of something in his voice that throws me off. It’s probably only concern, but it sounds more intimate with his voice low the way it is.

  A breeze whips around me and I hold my purse closer to my side, my keys in my hand. I hit the button to unlock my car, noting that it’s just the two of us now; the man I trust is a floor below. The beep resonates in the garage, bouncing off the concrete walls.

  “Just shaken up,” I admit and try to get another look at his face, but he lowers his head as I do, so it’s only his sharp blue eyes that I get a glimpse of. Only a glimpse.

  For a second, I think it’s Cody. A split second, but I know that’s only because I want it to be him. That disappointment only adds to my discomfort.

  Slipping his hands into his pockets and nodding at the ground, he answers, “Yeah, I can imagine.” There’s an air about him that I’m drawn to. He’s intentionally keeping his distance, but there’s something else. I can’t put my finger on it.

  Before unease can come over me fully, he turns his shoulder to me, effectively dismissing the moment, and tells me to drive safe. Taking it as my cue, I ready myself to get the hell out of here and go home. I miss my bed and the safety of those four walls.

  The click to my door opening is met with the screech of wheels from someone on the street below and I glance up to see the security guard has already walked away and is standing at attention in front of the elevator. He stands with his back to it and I know that means he’s waiting until I drive down to leave.

  My engine turns over and I put the car into drive before I can secure my seatbelt. I want to get the hell out of here.

  I don’t expect Steve to step forward as my car rolls by him. With a racing heart, I slow and again I’m surprised when he offers me a folded piece of lined paper on my way down. My window’s rolled up and he didn’t block my way.

  A part of me knows I don’t have to stop. I could keep going. If I wasn’t curious or I didn’t want to get a better look at the man, I would have done just that. I would have kept going and gone on my way guilt free.

  I don’t put the car in park, but I do stop and roll down my window. I’m very much aware of the gun in my glove compartment.

  “Delilah.” He calls me by my first name and a pang in my chest alerts me to it. “If you need me,” he says, slipping the paper through my window. With my fingers wrapped around it, he doesn’t let go. His eyes are sharp with slight wrinkles around them, showing his age. Mid-forties maybe. There’s a darkness that lies in the depths of his irises, and a severity in the way he looks at me. That’s not what has me sucking in a sharp breath; it’s the heat of his fingers as they press against mine until he lets go of the paper.

  The contact is so hot, so unexpected, that I rip my gaze away from his to glance at the note in my hand. By the time I look back up, his back is to me and he takes his spot again at the elevator, not giving me a chance to respond.

  Lifting my foot off the brake, I continue down to the ground floor of the garage and I don’t stop until I get to the exit. My head is a whirlwind and I’m so messed up right now, that by the time I reach for my pass to slip into the meter, I’ve convinced myself I’m making things up in my head. The note scared me more than I’d ever admit to anyone and I just wish the man were Cody. I miss him… worse… I feel like I need him.

  The arm to the gate lifts and my eyes shift from the gate to the lined paper hurriedly tossed in an empty cup holder.

  Taylor nods for me to leave but I don’t. I reach for the note and it crinkles as I unwrap it to read a phone number and then a name. A name that drains the blood from my face.

  The biting frost drenches me from head to toe as I read: Sincerely, Marcus.

  Slamming the car into park and listening to the ping, ping, ping as I grab my gun, leaving the glove compartment open, I then leave the driver door wide open too. I run to Taylor, screaming for him to call backup. At the sight of my gun, panic flashes in his eyes.

  “Backup,” he says into the radio on his chest as he reaches for his gun, turning in all directions, searching for whatever’s spooked me.

  With my breathing coming in hard, I position myself with my back to the wall and alternate looking between the elevator and the paved road that would lead Marcus down to us.

  I’m all too aware that he could escape down a stairwell on the other side of the garage. He could already be gone and more than likely is. Hiding, stalking… he’s probably watching me right at this very moment.

  My heart pounds as Taylor screams at me, his gun now pointed at the stairwell next to the elevator, very much catching on that someone’s here.

  Sirens wail in the background and I know we’ll be surrounded soon.

  And the man I’ve heard called a ghost, the grim reaper… the angel of death… he’ll be long gone but he’ll know my reaction.

  With my throat tightening and my lungs screeching to a halt like the tires outside, I can barely breathe.

  This is what true terror feels like.

  Marcus is here.

  He touched me.

  Taylor relays the events through his walkie-talkie and several cop cars make their way past us, not stopping and heading to the next floor, searching the darkened place with flashlights.

  “How well do you know that man?” I question.

  “Who? Steve?”

  “Yes!” I say, practically screaming like a crazy woman and feeling a burn at the back of my eyes. “Steve is a wanted suspect. He’s a murderer.”

  “You requested him.”

  “What?” Disbelief colors the single syllable.

  “He met me as I walked up. You requested him!”

&n
bsp; He’s the man who was never caught. The cold cases that are turning up again.

  We thought he died or moved on when the evidence ran dry and the murders stopped.

  Every crime scene I’ve been on flashes before my eyes. The blood, the faces. Vomit threatens to come up as I try to answer Taylor.

  “He’s a murder suspect.” I barely manage to say the words as three cop cars park just outside of the exit with their lights flashing blue and red in ominous patterns.

  My arms fall to my side and my knees feel like buckling as I brace myself against the wall, my defenses down.

  As the doors open and close and more men stream out, their guns drawn, Taylor continues to question me. His voice berates every sense I have.

  “He’s the one who left the note…. he’s—” Oh my God. I can barely breathe. He threatened me.

  * * *

  “No. No, they caught the kid who did it. There’s footage.” Blinking back the very real fears wrapping their arms around me, I take in what Taylor tells me. They found the kid, they have him in custody.

  “So there are two men out for me?”

  “Did Marcus threaten you? What did he do? Tell me everything.”

  Taylor’s gaze sinks deep into mine, pleading with me and the numbness inside takes over as I clear my throat and relay everything. The odd feeling between us, the note. The signature.

  “I’m going to need that, Miss Jones,” states an officer I hadn’t even realized was beside us, reaching for the note.

  “Of course,” I answer but don’t hand it over just yet. “Let me take a picture first,” I add. I don’t wait for his response and the objection is thwarted by Taylor; he knows me too well.

  With my back to the two of them and the building surrounded by men in uniform, I photograph the note and a chill comes over me. My fingers slip over the words and I note the lack of indentation, the smooth writing, the curves of each letter.

  “We found something,” a voice calls out from the stairwell, coming into view with the slapping of his shoes against the concrete. Staring at him, I wait with bated breath and note there’s something in his hand… he carries it over to where we’re standing, the red and blue lights still flashing across our faces and the stone wall behind us.