“I repeat, what are you doing out here?”
“I’m searching.”
“For what?”
“Fiona Monreau. My co-worker.”
“Is that her truck at the library?”
She nodded.
“What makes you think she’s out here?”
“And not burning to death in the library, you mean?”
He stiffened at her sarcastic tone. This guy didn’t like her as much as she didn’t like him.
She raised the shoe. “I just found this.”
“When?”
“Not five minutes ago.”
“You’re sure it’s hers?”
“One-hundred percent.” Impatient, she looked past him into the woods as the chaos in the distance filled her ears.
“Did she come here alone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you tried to call her?”
“Yes.”
“No answer?”
“No. Her cell’s in her truck.” She shifted her weight, a nonverbal message that she was ready to go.
Luke obviously caught the body language, so he did some of his own. He slid his gun into its holster and crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Care to give me more than one or two-word answers, Miss Knight? We’re trying to figure out what the hell happened over there.”
“Look…” Her tone sharper than intended. “I hadn’t heard from Fiona in a while, and she said she was swinging by here on her way home, to return some books, so I came to check on her. The library was up in flames when I pulled up.”
“How long since you’ve heard from her?”
“My sister spoke with her not long ago. I know she got here just before closing, that’s it. That’s all I know.”
“Do you know if anyone else was in the building?”
“No…” She looked down for a moment, not sure if she wanted to tell him about the chase she’d just had.
“What?”
She innocently cocked her head. “What?”
“You’re leaving something out.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I can tell.”
“Quite the detective.”
Even in the darkness, she saw him tense with frustration. She blew out a breath. “Yes, someone else was here.”
“Where?”
“Outside the building, on the far side. He ran into the woods.”
“He ran into the woods?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure there were no other cars when you pulled up?”
“I’m positive.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No.”
“How do you know it was a male?”
“My initial impression is that it was a man, because of the height, gait, and just movement in general.”
“Did you get a clear view of him? Hair color, clothes…”
She nodded. “Tall. Black hoodie, dark jeans, and a camouflage baseball cap. Dark hair. I’d put him at six-two. Ran like a damn gazelle.”
“You chased him?”
“Yes.”
“That's why you're in the woods, then.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head, and annoyance washed over her. She knew what was coming next…
“You shouldn’t have chased a man running away from a burning building into the woods, at night, Miss Knight. Especially by yourself. You could’ve gotten yourself killed. And you shouldn’t be out here alone, now. Especially with everything that’s gone on over the last few weeks.”
She snorted. “With all due respect, Officer West, I’ve been making these kinds of judgement calls for decades and am still in one piece. And if one of my family, whether blood or not, has gone missing, chasing a mysterious man into the woods is the least I’ll do.”
“That’s the problem with you and your Black Rose sisters, Scarlett. Always overstepping your bounds.”
Her eyes rounded at his audacity. Her blood started to simmer.
And then, as if to piss her off even more, he said, “Looks like he got away from you, anyway.”
She opened her mouth to hurl every curse word in the book at him, when—
“West? You out there?”
They both looked toward the voice coming from the tree line.
He looked back at her. “That’s Lieutenant Stone.” Pause. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. I’ll—
She cut him off and cocked her eyebrow in defiance. “Who’s going to stop me?”
In the same authoritative voice as when he'd told her to get her hands up, he said, “I’m the one with a badge between us both, Miss Knight—a fact you, and your Black Rose team seem to forget a lot. This is a job for the police. Now, if you think Miss Monreau is really missing, and not just out back-roading with some guy, I’d be happy to organize a search party… while your time might be better spent interviewing people who might know something.” He paused. “You’re good at that, right?”
She clenched her jaw, seething. Asshole.
She took a quick inhale to cool the heat rising up her neck. In a calm, rational voice—that no doubt pissed him off more than if she argued back with him—she said, “Actually, you might be right, Officer West.” She pushed past him. “Because we all know that’s not your specialty…”
CHAPTER 4
Scar gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white as she barreled down the dirt road.
Asshole, asshole, asshole.
Her cheeks were still flushed from her run-in with Officer West, but whether she wanted to admit it or not, he’d given her an idea when he’d made the snide remark that she should be doing interviews instead of searching the woods.
He was right.
She set the phone on speaker and dialed the office.
Not even a full ring passed. “Scar…”
“Hey, Ace.”
“Any sign of her?” Ace’s voice was firm and all-business. Nothing like his usual smartass, jovial self.
“No, but I know she isn’t in the building.” Just saying the words out loud calmed her. “I found one of her shoes in the woods.”
Ace released a loud exhale. “Thank God.”
“But we don’t know where she is.”
“Is everyone there? They should be by now.”
“Yeah; Roxy is staying with Weston while they put out the fire, and everyone else was headed into the woods to search for Fi when I left. All night, if we have to.”
“Fucking dammit, I wish I were there.”
“No, you’re doing exactly what you need to be doing—hanging close to the house to be available to track down, hack into, or do whatever the hell we need to do to find her. Which brings me to why I called.”
“What do you need?”
“Two things. First, I need you to run a logo for me.”
“A logo?”
“Yeah. There was a man at the library when I pulled up. Tall, six-two maybe, wearing a black hoodie, dark jeans and a camo baseball cap with a red bullseye symbol with two words scribbled underneath it. In cursive, I think. Possibly started with the letter O.”
A moment passed while he jotted down notes. “That’s pretty vague, Scar.”
“Yeah, it was dark and I was kind of running.”
“After him?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, let me see what I can do, but I got to tell ya, that description could be anything—a brand of gun, a retailer, hell, the symbol of some hillbilly fraternity, who knows. But it’s something at least. I’ll get on it. What else do you need?”
“You know the librarian? Ms. Thorne?”
“Don’t tell me… was she in the building when it caught fire? Was she there?”
“Her car wasn’t there, which makes me think the fire happened after she closed up. I need you to get me her home address, right now.”
She heard the click, click, click of Ace's computer as he started working on the task at hand. “Let me guess, you’re already on
your way.”
“Yep.”
“Good. That old battle-axe is always there. If anyone saw Fi, she did.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay… got it…”
Ace rattled off the address as Scar plugged it into her GPS.
“Not far from here. Good.”
“Sooooo… you’re just going to stop in?”
“That's the plan.”
“Scar, she’s probably not going to be happy to see you, you know.”
She chewed on her lower lip. Ace was right—Ms. Thorne wouldn’t be happy to see her and might not even open the door. “How good are you at creating fake pictures?”
A snort. “Please.”
“Okay, here’s what I need you to do…”
After laying out her plan with Ace, she clicked off the phone, her stomach twisting in knots. No, the librarian would definitely not be happy when Scar showed up on her doorstep.
She blew out a breath, recalling her last interaction with Ms. Thorne, five years earlier. It was a case that stuck with her, to this day.
The vision of the stark white walls of interview room two in the police station, and the eleven-year-old girl sitting in the cold, metal chair flashed in her head. She’d never forget the fear in the girl's eyes when Scar looked at her from behind the two-way mirror, while an officer tried, for the umpteenth time to get Ms. Thorne’s daughter, Athena, to confess that she’d seen her father beat her mother within an inch of her life. They’d needed Athena's confession, her eye-witness account, to put the son of a bitch behind bars, because, as true with most domestic abuse cases, Ms. Thorne claimed it was an accident. According to her statement, she’d fallen down the stairs, and there was no reason to press charges against her good-for-nothing husband.
Hell of a staircase.
The girl was scared out of her mind, and Scar knew it was because the abuse hadn’t only touched her mother. The threats of what would happen if anyone found out about the multiple “incidents” hadn’t been whispered only in her mother’s ears.
Scar saw it in Athena’s face. In her eyes.
Athena wouldn’t speak—hadn’t so much as uttered a word since the police brought her in. So after many failed attempts to pull a single vowel from the girl’s mouth, they’d called in Scar, a master interviewer and interrogator, as a last resort, to give it a shot.
Although all of the sisters of Black Rose Investigations were highly sought-after private investigators, each had their own special skill set. Their own "gifts." Scar’s, without question, was in the interview room.
Scar had an uncanny way of pulling information from the tightest-lipped suspects, which more often than not, involved a full confession. She was able to twist the conversation to her benefit, opening the door for the interviewee to provide valuable information that would help move the case forward, without even realizing it was happening. No one knew how she did it. The men, of course, attributed it to her stunning beauty, joking that she hypnotized the suspects—like a siren, luring them to their deaths. The women would say it was her soothing nature that made people instantly comfortable and relax just enough to let secrets slip between their lips.
Bottom line, Scar was untouchable when it came to sweating out a suspect.
But sweating out the poor, young girl was not what Scar planned to do that day, five years ago.
That day, her plan was to make sure nothing bad ever happened to that little girl again.
It only took seven minutes—seven minutes to pull the confession from Athena that she’d seen her daddy beat the living breath out of her mommy, then turn his fist to her.
Seven minutes for her to admit that she’d secretly set up her phone and videoed the entire incident.
Case closed—thanks to Scar, who single-handedly gave the Devil’s Den police department everything they needed to put the woman-beater behind bars.
In seven minutes.
Everyone was happy—slapping her on the back, thanking her, and telling her what a great job she’d done. Except for one person—the brand-new officer who'd been given lead on the case. It was his first case at the department. His first case to prove himself to his comrades.
That officer was Luke West.
Rumor had it that his buddies gave him a hell of a hard time about it—need a woman to come in and do his job, they’d cackle. Rumor had it, he still caught flak for it—having some trouble? Need me to call Black Rose for you? Rumor had it that Officer West still harbored ill-feelings to the group of women who crossed the line, more times than anyone could count, to help solve local crimes.
No, Officer West wasn’t thankful for her help. In fact, he’d been a total asshole to her afterward. Typical macho, alpha male.
And after the surprise meeting they’d just had in the woods, Scar’s suspicions about the hot-headed, six-foot-two, muscled-up military brat were confirmed—Luke West might not know how to interview—or talk to—a woman, but he sure as hell knew how to hold a grudge.
**
Luke turned off his headlights and pulled onto the dirt road just as Scar’s taillights faded into the distance.
He might not like her, but he liked her Jeep. Jacked-up, four-door, slate grey with all the bells and whistles, with the top off—the only way to drive one, in his opinion. Although she came off as a bit “earthy” to him, with the random braids and colorful threads in her long, black hair, for some odd reason, the meaty vehicle seemed to fit her. Scar was just like the rest of her sisters—one of those independent women with God-given brains, nerves of steel, and looks that could melt glaciers in Antarctica.
And spoiled, rich-kid, can’t-take-no-for-an-answer, stick-your-nose-in-everyone-else’s-business, women.
Luke wasn’t like every other man in town who drooled over the Knight sisters. In fact, he really didn’t care for them.
Especially Scar.
The Knight sisters’ upbringing couldn’t be more different than his. Born into a hard-working, blue-collar family, Luke was reminded every single day that nothing came for free. Even at a very young age, Luke had a firm grip on what it was like to need. He watched his father work his ass off, morning to night, at the chicken plant, while his mom waited tables at the local diner. More nights than not, if it weren’t for the leftovers his mom swiped from the kitchen, Luke would’ve gone to bed hungry.
When his dad died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-six, things got even worse. So Luke did what every man should do. He stepped up. He became the man of the house, and took it upon himself to take care of his mother. Just like his dad had done. A man should take care of a woman, he believed. At age fourteen, he got a job as a dishwasher and had officially worked every single day of his life since.
And that was okay. He liked the feeling of kicking his feet up after a long day’s work, knowing that he’d been productive every minute, taking care of business. He enjoyed hard work, but he loved his mama even more, which made the decision to skip college and join the military a tough one. His mom cried, begged, but for the first time he felt one-hundred percent certain that this was his path, so he gave his mother every penny he’d saved up and left home. To this day, he still deposited money into her checking account every month, just to make sure she had enough.
Luke was a born military man. A tough-as-nails, hard-working, no bitching, no bullshit type of guy. Not to mention he was built like an ox. As the years went on, he’d become untouchable. Respected. Even feared. His reputation grew along with his confidence, and after two back-to-back tours overseas, he decided to try his hand at joining the United States Army Special Forces, otherwise known as the Green Berets. He met and exceeded the basic physical fitness requirements, then moved onto phase 1 in the Special Forces Assessment and Selection, otherwise known as the Q Course, which he passed with flying colors.
Then came the next four courses—otherwise known as sixty weeks of hell.
Hell.
The stories were true. The physical and mental torture were true. I
t was the hardest, most trying time of his entire life, and he fucking loved it.
After what felt like a lifetime of training, Luke graduated at the top of his class, officially becoming one of the most badass members of the Green Berets.
He did it. He was exactly where he was supposed to be—he felt it in his bones.
His life was spent being called out at a moment’s notice, on top-secret missions involving counter-terrorism, reconnaissance, and foreign internal defense assignments. Conducting life-threatening stealth raids and ambushes became as normal to him as someone going to the local market to pick up dinner. He was on his fifteenth year of living life to the extreme—on the edge, never knowing if he was going to make it through another mission alive, when everything changed with one split-second decision.
It was supposed to be an advisory mission—he and his team were tasked to gather intel. Intel only. Do not engage were his CO’s last words.
As always, he’d followed the mission plan… until he watched the terrorist bastard begin to rape the young, American doctor who’d been kidnapped at gunpoint outside of her medical tent.
She’d reminded him of his mom.
He picked his shot, and he took it, killing the terrorist son of a bitch, and starting an intense firefight that resulted in a British comrade being critically injured.
The next day he was given the option to retire or be dishonorably discharged, and believe it or not, he had to think about it. The thought of retiring from the one thing he truly loved made him sick.
What the fuck would he do?
After a long talk with his CO, he took the retirement and accepted the first job he could find as soon as he returned to the States—a position with the Devil’s Den Police Department, sixty-five miles from his hometown, in a town rumored to be filled with ghosts.
That was five years ago, and here he was now, following taillights of a nosy private investigator's Jeep. Not exactly exciting.
He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. She’d probably walked right into the dealership and bought the thing on the spot. Cash probably. Cash coated in crushed diamonds and expensive perfume. She probably had three just like it sitting in her fifty-car garage in her castle on the hill.
Evil Eye Page 2
