This Love Hurts, Book 1

by W Winters

  So when I heard Herman was dead, naturally my mind put two and two together and I stared at the bottle of wine, willing it to spill more secrets like Marcus had.

  I should be grateful that the man who worked to help threaten me is dead. A piece of me is. A small, ragged piece that broke off right about where I’m standing now while my fingers grazed over the threat that was embedded in that note.

  But another piece of me feels… sick. And responsible. I can’t help but to feel complicit in his murder. Not just because I wanted him to pay for what he did to me, but because I know things that no one else does.

  No one but Cody… and Marcus.

  The soft knock on my door is welcome, stealing me away from these thoughts and the trails my mind is leading me down. At first I think it’s the security detail, wanting to know if I have an ETA for when we’ll be home. Evan’s already asked twice. It’s not, though. It’s Claire.

  “What’s going on with you?” Claire asks as she shuts the door, her black silk blouse reflecting the yellow light as she does. “Still shaken about the threat?” she asks with the soft click of the door shutting. A friend is what I need now. Thank God for Claire checking in on me before I lose it all.

  Shaking my head no, which oddly enough is true, I answer, “Just focusing on Brass.”

  “The four murders?” she questions, touching on the cases he walked on.

  “And the note. The threat I got.”

  “You really think Herman and Brass are connected? That Brass was behind it all?”

  Yes. I do. Only because of Marcus. If I tell her I do… well, a good lawyer wouldn’t jump to conclusions. “It’s a hunch. I just want it solved.”

  “Understandable. Threats shouldn’t be taken lightly,” Claire answers easily as she gracefully takes the seat across from me. She adds, “A man like him doesn’t stay out of trouble… so we’ll nail him one day. Speaking of, did you hear Herman was found dead this morning?”

  “Yeah, Walsh told me.”

  I don’t miss the way her head tilts slightly and her arms cross against her chest when I admit that Walsh told me. It strikes me as odd. Why wouldn’t he tell me?

  She questions, “You think Brass did it?”

  No. I think Marcus did. I think he did it for me. It’s only a hunch, but I feel it deep in the marrow of my bones. Every time his name comes up, Marcus, a deep need runs over me to close my eyes. To remember the way his scent and his heat wrapped around me. If I’m not thinking about the details of the case… I’m thinking about him or pleading with Cody to keep me occupied.

  I’m desperate to know how Marcus became the man he is. Did he really do everything everyone claimed he did? The questions bombard me once again and with them screaming in my head, I look back up at Claire and try to remember her question.

  I’m fairly certain Marcus killed Herman. That’s not what I answer, of course, and another lie slips out. “I think so. I think Brass knew the kid would ID him and he wanted to make sure Herman couldn’t rat.”

  Claire nods. Her eyes are discerning though when she says, “It’s a decent theory.”

  I can hear the questions she’d typically rattle off. Questions to get me thinking. They all start with the other man from that night. The man with the blue eyes who called himself Marcus. Ross Brass doesn’t have blue eyes or fit the physical description.

  She doesn’t ask a single question, though. Not one and that knowledge makes my skin heat with the sense that she knows I’m hiding something.

  Or maybe that’s just guilt.

  I pause, leaning back in my chair, wishing I could tie Brass to Herman’s death. It would be so easy. It would be justified. “The only thing we have is the ID of a kid,” I tell her, breathing in deep and racking my brain for some evidence from the secretary’s murder that would tie Herman and Brass together more closely. That’s all I need and we can bring Brass in.

  “And the dead body,” Claire comments.

  “Right, and a dead body.”

  “What about the note at the scene? Did Walsh tell you about that?” Her questions come back-to-back, berating me. I understand she’s a bit overbearing given everything that happened. But she can back off of whatever trail she’s on. She’s dead wrong.

  “No. He didn’t. What note?” She doesn’t answer me; instead she searches my eyes for something and whatever it is she’s looking for, I don’t think she finds it.

  “To be frank, the only thing keeping you from being a suspect in his murder is your alibi with Taylor.”

  What? My eyes widen with both contempt and disbelief. “I know you wouldn’t do something like that. But the fact that it came up at all as a theory… That’s a little too close for my liking. Especially given it was only a month ago that the article came out and the animosity there. We don’t need any more heat. You,” she says while she points directly at me and I want to snap her finger off, “you don’t need any more heat.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to that.” It’s all I can respond, ignoring her and the pissed-off feelings seeping through me.

  “You’re too close to this case.” Claire’s voice is gentle and I understand why, but it doesn’t matter. She can’t take me off this one. I know it better than anyone else here.

  A huff of a laugh leaves me as I close my laptop, rubbing my eyes and knowing that’s far too true. This case is everything.

  “You need to take time off, see your sister or your mother.” Claire’s advice strikes a nerve with me for a number of reasons, but more than that, more guilt. Guilt on top of guilt.

  Shit. Shit shit shit. That’s exactly what I feel like right now. I never texted her back. In all the hours I stayed awake last night, refusing to close my eyes because every time I did, I could feel Marcus’s hand pressed against them, I didn’t once think about my sister.

  I bet she hates me right now. I haven’t even spoken to my mom. My heart swells with a pain I know too well.

  “You can’t focus.” Claire interrupts my train of thought. “You aren’t going to be productive here.” Numbness crawls across my skin. I have to be here. I have access to everything here.

  “All I have is my work.” I tell her a single truth that she knows just as much as I do.

  “Well, right now, you don’t have that.”

  “What?” My blink is slow as my brow creases.

  “I told you to go in for evaluation,” she says and Claire’s tone is accusatory.

  “And I did,” I answer pointedly. Where the hell is she going with this?

  “And he said you aren’t ready.” Claire’s arms cross, wrinkling her black blouse as it shifts from where it’s tucked into her gray pencil skirt. “In his particular phrasing, ‘her grip on reality is loose.’”

  What does that mean? What the hell? That’s not at all what he told me. “He signed off on me returning to work,” I say and disbelief coats my response.

  “Are you depressed? Anx—” Anger waging against any sense of reason, this time I cut her off.

  “Depressed? Do I look depressed to you?” I question, truly taken aback. There’s not an ounce of me that’s depressed. I know I’m not with it, but depressed? Fuck that.

  “Well, what is it then? You aren’t yourself.” The statement Claire gives comes complete with a flash of a man, only his shadow. My heartbeat slows and chills flow down my shoulders, but every other piece of me is hot as I attempt to breathe.

  “I’m shaken up is all,” I confess to Claire, to give her something that would change her mind. “Don’t take this from me, please.”

  “How many times have you asked me that in the past few months?” Claire responds and it stings. “This Brass case has worked its way into your head, and I can’t have it here. You need to go home.”

  “I was cleared—”

  “You didn’t tell him everything,” Claire cuts me off, stern and to the point. Silence fills the space and my gaze drops to the bottle of wine. “So you aren’t cleared.”

  My voi
ce would shake if I were to speak right now, so I don’t.

  “It’s just temporary. Go home, see your family.” Claire’s gaze burns into me but I don’t return it. Not even when her tone morphs to something more consoling as she adds, “Just take care of yourself.”

  Cody wants me at his place, which is cold and the only heat I feel there when Cody’s absent is from the memory of a man I should be terrified of.

  How am I supposed to get better? How do I get through this if I’m not allowed to work on the case that’s fucked me over?

  The one-word answer is all I give her in response. “Fine.” My tone denotes everything I’m feeling. Finality, betrayal. That fucking shrink cleared me.

  I don’t hesitate to put on my coat. There’s no use in fighting and I’m not at all in the right mindset to argue. The last thing I want is to lose my job. That’s something I would never recover from. With a tight throat and tension throughout my entire body, I ask, “How long?” My fingers are numb as I button my jacket. I can barely focus enough to do it although my back is turned to Claire, so the silver lining is that she can’t see how unnerved I am. Even as I grab the bottle of wine, intent on drinking every last drop of it tonight, I hide everything I’m feeling.

  “Come in next week for another psych evaluation.”

  Evaluation, my ass. If they really knew what was going on in my head…

  I can only nod and as I go to leave, Claire calls out my name. “Delilah.” My feet stay planted as I stop where I am but I don’t turn back around when she tells me, “I’m doing this for your own good. You’ll see that.”

  The words I want to reply tumble over each other at the back of my throat. Suffocating me as I leave the building, Evan following in tow, asking questions that I don’t answer.

  Delilah

  To love is never wrong.

  That’s a phrase my mother told my grandmother years ago after an angry conversation that was taken to the kitchen.

  I was only a little girl, but I remember it well. It’s one of my first memories in fact.

  Her voice shook when I peeked in the doorway to find her face-to-face with my grandmother whom I loved so much. I could tell she’d been crying and she told my grandmother, “To love is never wrong.”

  After recent events, I have some thoughts on that memory. But still, the words ring clear in my head. To love is never wrong.

  Yet here I am, with feelings stirring for one man, one I should certainly not be attracted to, let alone love… while sitting in the living room of another man.

  It’s not love. Not for either of them. I know it’s not, but the longer I stay here, the more I can feel myself slipping.

  Every sip of wine, in this empty place, only leads me to think of Marcus. And oh my Lord, my mother would eat her words if she knew what I was thinking. It would be sickening if I really did feel anything toward him. But I can’t stop thinking about that searing kiss. I can’t stop questioning, why me? And remembering all the notes from years ago. The closed cases that all led to one elusive man.

  I don’t know if it’s shock or if it’s PTSD but I’ve been in a daze since Marcus showed up and approached me.

  Maybe even before then. When his fingers brushed against mine in the parking garage, when he left me flowers and then the kiss.

  With a whirl of my wrist, the pale yellow wine swirls in the glass. It’s my third and the bottle will be empty by the fourth.

  I’d be ashamed if I gave a fuck. I can’t go to work, so I’ve chosen not to go home and to stay at Cody’s place instead. I’m out of my element, losing all control and therefore my mind.

  There’s a constant security detail present and every time I go outside they stand at attention, not speaking, just waiting. I feel like a prisoner more than anything.

  Evan is nice enough, but he’s gone, and I can’t even remember the names of the two men out front. I decided tomorrow would be a better time to get acquainted more thoroughly. Tonight, the only interest I have is finding sleep at the bottom of this bottle.

  So, sitting on my ass in the middle of the rug in Cody’s living room and staring at the large modern art piece on the stark white wall is what I settled on when 10:00 p.m. rolled around and Cody said he had a lead and would be out later than he said he would. The black splotches that fade to gray don’t say a damn thing. It’s pretty. That’s all it is. Monochrome and pretty to look at.

  I down another sip, letting the sweet liquid pool on my tongue before slowly sucking it down. Another large gulp empties the glass and I stand up, stretching out my back and listening to the background noise of some cooking competition show that’s on the large flat-screen TV behind me.

  My head feels lighter, the tension in my shoulders nearly gone.

  Nothing matters as I stare at the corner of the room where I first saw Marcus. Willing him back so I can question him the way they all question me.

  So I can ask him why… why kiss me? Why help me?

  More than that, what does he know about Cody Walsh? There’s something there. I know there is. I can feel it. Like a gut instinct.

  Of course, he would deny it. But didn’t I deny it too? The dim light from the fridge gives a bit of warmth to the spartan kitchen as I grab the now nearly empty bottle and set it down on the marble counter with a loud clink. A softer clink follows with my wineglass.

  I pour the last bit of wine and stare back up at the corner, trying to remember the silhouette of his body. With the memory, my eyes close and he touches me again. His hand wraps around my waist and—Stop!

  Wrapping my fingers around the stem of the glass I hold it tightly as I sway where I stand.

  I wish Cody were here. I wish I’d let him touch me and kiss me rather than pushing him away, which is exactly what I did last night. I need to wash the memories of Marcus off of me.

  With a deep inhale, I take a look in the pantry, needing something of substance to help absorb the alcohol. Without something in my stomach, the thought of anything at all sounds scrumptious.

  Three bags of tortilla chips and a loaf of bread are all that’s there. Checking the fridge, I find similarly disappointing choices. And no salsa for the chips.

  His pantry is evidence of one thing: Cody’s never here, so it shouldn’t surprise me.

  Yet it does. I open a bag of chips and take it with me as I go, walking slowly and taking in every detail of Cody’s place. It’s sparsely furnished, one could argue it’s a deliberately minimalistic style choice, but it’s almost like the place is staged. Like no one really lives here.

  There’s a guest room with a bed and dresser. The bed is pristine, the sheets neatly tucked in as if housekeeping from a hotel had made it. I hesitate, eating a chip and staring at the black varnish before pulling out a drawer. Empty.

  I toss the bag of chips on the bed and pull out another drawer and then another until I’ve looked through all of them. They’re all empty.

  The closet drawers are the next to be opened. Again, there’s nothing but a folded spare blanket.

  It is the guest room, after all. I doubt Cody has many guests. His uncle isn’t well and doesn’t like to travel. I can’t even remember a single time Cody’s spoken about someone coming to visit or stay with him. It’s only ever him going back home.

  The closet doors shut easily enough and I continue my exploration. When I put the half-empty bag of chips back in the pantry and glance at the red digital clock on the oven to find it’s nearly 1:00 a.m., I’m empty-handed on any new information at all about Cody. There’s nothing personal. Not even in his bedroom.

  My tired eyes beg me to sleep. My mostly unsatisfied appetite begs me to eat. And my conscience begs for more wine.

  Shutting the still-barren pantry door again, with the same amount of disappointment as before, leaves me staring down the hall at the half bath and the small closet just beside it. It’s the last place to look and with nothing better to do and thoughts of Marcus still lingering and threatening to take over, I head to the narro
w door.

  The wooden shelves boast few toiletries and spare washcloths. His place is so bare, it’s… uncanny. I’ve nearly closed the door when I realize there’s a box on the very top shelf. It’s unlike anything else in this place because it’s a cardboard storage file box. Everything else seems luxurious, even if it’s bare and minimal. But the box on the top shelf is dusty from years of sitting still. I can’t reach it even though I try to and in my drunken state combined with boredom and… curiosity, I’m quick to grab the ottoman from the living room, drag it down the hall and get my hands on the box.

  It’s heavy, so heavy and the sharp edges force me to wince when they dig into my forearms. I nearly drop the thing and I’m glad I don’t, because it’s filled with papers but also a thin, hollow tin horse. It looks like it was once a piggy bank, but its detail makes it look like a trinket one would give to a newborn baby.

  It’s old and dingy, but I imagine once it was a beautiful gift at a baby shower. What the hell is it doing in a box that looks like crime scene evidence?

  With the box on the ottoman, I sit beside it, cross-legged in my sweats and lift one of the straps to my tank top back into place. Confusion etches a deep line into the center of my forehead when I read adoption papers from almost forty years ago. Until I read the last name—Walsh.

  First name: Christopher.

  It must be a box of his brother’s things. It looks like Cody’s aunt legally adopted his brother after their parents died. Quickly I go through paper after paper, finding legal records, the criminal reports of his brother’s abduction and an autopsy. My hands tremble and it’s hard to read when my eyes water at the description of what was done to him. I can’t imagine reading all of this and knowing your younger brother… Swallowing back the tears, I push through, needing to know more and understanding why Cody would hide this box away.

  It’s heartbreaking to the point that I almost miss the other names. The other boys who were abducted, including one named Marcus.