by Mia Sheridan
She forced out a short laugh. “Well, there you go. That’s my big secret. I’m afraid of the dark. What a brilliant detective you are.” There was a waver in her voice and she hated him for it. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him to see this part of her. It was intensely private. Her hands fluttered to her throat again and then away.
He scrutinized her for a moment and she was tempted to break eye contact. “Is that what you were doing with me?” he asked quietly. “Some form of therapy?”
She felt ashamed. She shrugged. “Yes. I was using you.” She lashed out because she felt hurt by him. Embarrassed. Small.
A fraud.
She saw hurt flash in his expression and it brought her no joy. None at all. “Why? Explain to me why.”
She shook her head. “Don’t.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you. I just want—”
“What? What do you want?”
“To know you. I still want to know you.” He stood up and moved around the coffee table separating them and sat in the chair directly next to her, angling his body toward hers.
She shook her head, forced another small laugh. “I think you have bigger things to focus on right now.”
“That’s my work. I’m good at my job and give it my all, but I’m allowed to have a life too. You’re not my work, Liza.”
“I am. That’s all I am. A witness in your investigation, Detective.”
“For God’s sake, Liza, I’ve been inside you.”
A ripple went through her, of what she wasn’t entirely sure. Shock at his frankness, excitement at the memory, both of those maybe. Her body turned toward his, as if of its own accord. She had this sense that there were magnets inside them, pulling, forcing them together. Part of her wanted to deny the sensation, but part of her wanted to give in to it the way she had that night.
She felt vulnerable, off balance, and she’d fought so long and hard not to feel that way. She’d become a different version of that scared, helpless girl and she didn’t ever want to be her again. “Talk to me,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, his face so close she could see the velvety fringe of his lashes, the smooth texture of his lips, and the tiny dots of dark stubble on his jaw. She remembered the way it felt against her nipples—
She leaned in even closer, that unseen force pulling, insisting. Wanting. He smelled good, not like any particular product, just like cleanliness and male skin and maybe a hint of some oil he used on the gun holstered at his waist. God, she liked it. She liked it far too much.
Someone cleared his throat behind her and Liza sprang away. Reed moved back as well, and Liza turned to see Chad standing in her doorway. His eyes were narrowed. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.” My God, he heard us.
“We don’t,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirt. Reed stood too, but he wasn’t looking at Chad, he was still looking at her, his expression full of so much disappointment, she had to look away.
Reed turned toward Chad. “Hello, Dr. Headley. I actually stopped by your office first but you were with a patient. Do you have time to answer a few questions now?”
Chad gave Reed a smile, one of those disdainful ones that Liza hated. She cringed inside, hating that he’d walked in and ascertained that she knew Reed. Intimately. For God’s sake, Liza, I’ve been inside you.
“Of course, Detective. Please follow me.”
Reed began to follow him. He looked at Liza and she could tell he wanted to say something, but in the end, he simply left the room, closing the door behind him.
She sank back down into her chair, trying desperately to slow the speeding of her heart. She didn’t know if Reed’s departure made her feel relieved or disappointed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Reed turned up the speed on the treadmill, increasing the incline as well, his feet pounding rapidly on the black rubber belt.
He pushed his body, running uphill at maximum speed for fifteen long minutes. When the belt slowed, coming to a halt, Reed brushed his drenched hair back, breathing harshly under the bright LED lights of the gym.
He used a towel to wipe away the perspiration, taking a long drink from his water bottle as he stepped off the machine and walked toward the locker room.
“Good workout?” a brunette in a tight sports bra and running shorts asked, smiling as he approached.
He smiled back. She was pretty and was looking at him with clear interest in her eyes. He should stop, chat for a minute, see where it led . . . “Yeah, thanks. You have a good workout too,” he said as he moved past.
He should, but he didn’t want to.
Because, fuck it all, he couldn’t get another woman off his mind. And not even pushing his body to the damn near breaking point had helped.
Yes. I was using you.
He hated that her words had hurt him. A stranger he’d spent one night with. And then he’d asked her to tell him why, as if it was really any of his business. If she’d used him, he’d basically let her do it. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t gotten anything out of it.
They’d made no promises to each other.
He heard his phone ringing from inside his locker and hurriedly dialed the lock code, swinging the door open and fishing for his phone inside his gym bag.
“Ransom.”
“Morning. Hey, listen, we might have a case from a few months ago that’s similar to our two vics.”
Reed threw his towel over his shoulder as he sat on the bench. Similar? “Well, I know it’s not a pair of missing eyes. We would have heard about that.” The Cincinnati detectives all had their own cases and they didn’t always share specifics. But something unusual and grisly like an enucleation? Yeah, that would get around.
“No, it’s the brand.”
“The leaf?”
“Yup. Get in here and I’ll fill you in.”
Forty-five minutes later, Reed found Ransom in Sergeant Valenti’s office, along with Trent Duffy, an older detective who’d worked with Zach before he’d left. Sergeant Valenti wasn’t there and Ransom had his feet up on the desk, eating a bagel slathered in cream cheese. He nodded at Reed as Reed took a seat in a chair next to them.
Ransom handed a file to Reed and he opened it. “I came in early this morning and started looking through the database for any similar crimes in surrounding areas.” Reed nodded. It was protocol for any murder, but especially one where the suspect had left a calling card. “There have been enucleations in other cases, but none recently, and none close by. And the black paint? That’s new. I didn’t find anything similar to that in any case, recent or otherwise.” Reed flipped through the file as Ransom spoke. He stopped on a photograph of a small red brand. “But the leaf brand? That got a hit.”
“Margo Whiting,” Reed read, looking at the photo of the deceased woman. “It was your case, Duffy?”
“Yup. Pretty recent too. Forty-six-year-old hooker took a tumble off a fifth-floor balcony. There were rumors that she’d had a public altercation with her pimp and that he might have pushed her.” He pointed to the file. “Name’s in there. There was no evidence he was at her place that day, but we questioned him. Real asshole. Unfortunately, I couldn’t arrest him on that alone.”
“Forty-six? Christ,” Reed muttered. He’d seen some twenty-year-old sex workers who looked twice their age. That sort of work, mixed with the inevitable drug use, aged the body in drastic and cringe-worthy ways. He didn’t even want to think about what it did to a soul. “What made you think she hadn’t jumped of her own accord? Was it the brand?”
“No, actually, I didn’t think much of that. It was fresh, we knew that from her autopsy, but she also had a couple of tattoos that were done somewhat recently. Her whole body was a canvas of ink and piercings. It was very possible she’d had that put there herself.” He looked at Ransom. “Do you know there’s this kid who works the window at the coffee joint up the street who has his whole neck laced up with some kind of leather string?” He tipped his head back, using his finger to zi
gzag across his throat from base to chin. “It threads from one hole to another all the way to the top. If my kid did that, I’d break my foot off in his ass.”
“You’re a dad for the ages, Duff. When does your parenting book release?”
“Yeah, you’re funny. Wait until you have a few little Ransoms of your own. Then you can critique my parenting. Kids need discipline, you ignorant motherfucker.”
Ransom looked up, stroking his chin. “Little Ransoms populating the earth. Beautiful thought, isn’t it?”
Duffy made a snorting sound. “It’s a thought, all right. How’d you get the name Ransom anyway?”
“My mom found it in a book titled, Dope-Ass Names for Your Badass Baby.”
Reed chuckled. “All right, focus, dipshits.” He leaned forward. “Who did Margo Whiting’s autopsy?”
“Dr. Egan.”
That’s why Dr. Westbrook hadn’t recognized the brand on Steven Sadowski, Reed thought. It was one of the reasons the database was so useful. No one person had to be responsible for all the case information, but they all could access it, and cross-reference when necessary.
Ransom handed Reed the printouts of the brand on the back of Steven Sadowski’s neck and the man found in the alleyway. “They’re definitely the same,” Ransom noted.
Reed looked between the three of them before nodding. “I agree.” He looked up at his two co-workers. “So why the different MO? Something connects these three victims, and yet this one”—he tapped on the photo of Margo Whiting—“died in a completely different manner. She either jumped or was pushed. We don’t even know if it was a murder, just that she was branded the same as these two eyeless murder victims.”
They looked between each other. “Yeah, I got nothing,” Ransom said.
“Margo was killed in a different part of town than our second murder victim, but they both led street lives. Any chance there’s a connection there?”
“We can show her picture around to people who knew him and vice versa,” Ransom said.
Reed nodded. “It’s something.” He looked back at the three pictures side by side. What did this leaf brand mean? What connected these three dead people, two murdered in violent, heinous ways, the third a potential suicide victim? Or was it that the killer had meant to take her eyes as well but either hadn’t had the time, or been thwarted in some way?
Reed looked at the date she’d been murdered. Three months ago. “If this was his first victim, and the two men were his second and third, it’s possible he’s advancing, that his fantasy is developing.”
“If that’s the case,” Duffy said, “he’s only just getting started.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Liza couldn’t sleep. She huffed out a breath, turning over and trying to make herself more comfortable. But after a minute, her eyes opened and she looked around her room, softly lit by a small lamp on her bedside table.
It had begun to rain about thirty minutes before and the soft pitter-patter sounded on her windows. Usually the rain lulled Liza, comforted her.
She turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, watching the shifting shapes of reflected rain patterns.
It was only a little past nine thirty, but she’d felt so incredibly exhausted, she’d gone to bed, and despite how tired she was, sleep eluded her.
She felt restless, confused.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Reed Davies.
With a grunt of frustration that emanated from the back of her throat, she threw her covers aside, and swung her legs out of bed.
Liza padded to the kitchen, filling a glass of water and standing at the counter as she drank it. She went back over the conversation she’d had with Reed the day before. He’d figured her out, figured out exactly what she’d been doing in that stairwell, and it’d shamed her to her core. It felt deeply personal, like he’d seen her naked. Which was hilarious considering he had literally seen her naked and bent over his bed. But, she’d felt ten times more exposed the day before in her office as he spoke one of her secret shames aloud.
And yet, Reed was right to question her. How must it have looked to them as they’d watched her enter the building and take so long to climb three short flights of stairs? She could only imagine how she’d looked when she’d emerged—shaky, terrified. Because she had been. But she’d been proud too, because despite the pitch-black, she’d made it up those three floors. She had hoped the police wouldn’t notice the lapse in time, but of course, they had. Reed had.
Yes, he saw things, Detective Davies. But then, she did too. She’d been forced to see, to be hypervigilant regarding every facial expression. To recognize which ones signaled coming danger, to notice the body language that meant shame and torture was inevitable. She might not be able to stop it every time, but at least she’d be prepared. Yes, Liza was a watcher.
And she was painfully aware that the reasons she was a watcher had changed her. Warped her.
But she’d hoped, God, she’d hoped, that seeing in such a way was also what made her a good doctor, a good listener, intuitive to the unspoken words of others.
Liza sighed, placing her glass in the sink. It was late, too late for this. Very quietly, she headed to her guest bedroom where she’d put a weighted blanket in the closet. It had been an impulse buy a year before that she hadn’t tried out, and it seemed like the perfect night to give it a go. She was desperate to shut her mind off.
She opened the closet, reached up and slid the blanket off the shelf, holding it against her chest as she turned.
Her father walked past the bedroom door.
Liza froze, her blood turning to ice in her veins.
Terror jackknifed, pounding so harshly that her vision went hazy.
No, no, God no.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
She listened for another frozen moment, her ears pricked for any tiny sound. She thought she heard his footsteps in her hallway, moving toward her bedroom. She backed up slowly, stiffly, her muscles coiled tight, until she was standing in the closet.
She was shaking like a leaf as she reached out her hand, barely daring to breathe as she pulled the door closed, an inch at a time. Please don’t squeak, please don’t squeak. Don’t alert him. The devil of her nightmares who she’d watched bleed out on a cold cellar floor.
Later—after the fire—they’d removed his charred remains.
Confusion drummed inside her. That had happened. Hadn’t it?
Hadn’t it?
She tried to hold her breath, but she couldn’t for long and it came gusting from her mouth, blood pounding in her skull. Please don’t hear me. Please don’t hear me. Liza sank to the floor where she pulled her knees to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.
This can’t be real. What’s happening to me?
The closet was dark, but there was a thin shaft of light coming in from the room beyond. Liza watched it, her body held tense, teeth chattering with fear. There’s light in here. You’re okay. You’re okay. After a few minutes, Liza heard her front door open, heard someone walk out, and close it behind him, his footsteps growing fainter as he moved away down the outside hallway, until they finally disappeared. She sat frozen, listening intently but there were no other sounds. Had he come in, gone to her room, seen she was gone and figured she wasn’t home? Liza waited, her ears pricked for what felt like an hour, but was more likely ten minutes.
“He can’t hurt you, you know,” Mady whispered from the other side of the closet. “You’re a grownup now.”
Liza’s shoulders dropped, a breath loosening in her chest and gusting softly from her lips. “He can try,” she murmured to her sister, hiding there with her in the shadows.
“How can he do anything? He’s dead. You need to think about this. But first, you need to see if he’s gone. Get your cell phone. It’s on your bedside table and call 911. Go now before he comes back. He’s unlocked the front door. Be brave. Go!”
Okay. Okay, Mady.
Liza stood, opening the closet door as slowly as she’d closed it. It didn’t make a sound. She stood in the open doorway for a minute, listening to her quiet apartment until she got up the nerve to tiptoe to the bedroom door. She took a shaky but silent breath and peeked around the frame. The hallway was empty, but she could see from where she stood that the door was unlocked.
Liza ran quickly to the door, turning the lock with one quick flick of her wrist. Even though she’d heard him exit, heard his footsteps fade away, Liza bent and grabbed the heavy doorstop from the floor to use as a weapon as she moved down the hall to her room—and her phone.
A single white rose lay on her pillow.
Fear trembled through her. Fear and confusion. Deep dread.
Liza held back a scream as she reached for the phone on her bedside table.
**********
“Liza?” His voice. She closed her eyes, took a steadying breath as she heard Reed talking to the officer who had been searching her apartment. A minute later, Reed was there, rushing into the kitchen where she sat at her table, one of the officers that had arrived only twenty minutes before sitting across from her.
“Hey, Garrity,” Reed said and the officer nodded.
“Davies.”
“Hi,” she said, and she was relieved that her voice had finally stopped shaking.
He looked from Officer Garrity and back to her, not seeming to know whom to address. “What happened?” he asked, his eyes coming to rest on her face. He came around the table, pulled out the chair next to her, and positioned it so it was directly facing her. He leaned forward, his gaze washing over her features as he seemed to assess her well-being.
He looked so worried, so stressed, and even though Liza felt somewhat numb, her heart constricted in her chest, a sudden tightening that made her feel almost breathless. He cared about her. He did. And she shouldn’t be happy about that, but she was, and at the moment she wasn’t able to talk herself out of letting him. The backs of her eyes burned. She looked over at Officer Garrity who was filling out some paperwork he’d brought from a notebook on the table in front of him.
