by Mia Sheridan
You’ve suffered enough now. “You’re going to be free, Julian,” she whispered. Free. Free. Something that her brother had never experienced, not a day in his life. “Be at peace,” she said, her voice gritty. She laid his hand back down on the white sheet, and then Liza stood, and with Reed beside her she left the room.
**********
“Here you go,” Reed said, and Liza turned her head as he entered the room carrying a glass of wine. She took the glass from him and brought it to her nose, inhaling the smooth red with a warm hint of cherry.
“Thanks,” she said. He joined her on the couch in his living room, having met him at his apartment after leaving the hospital.
He’d picked up sushi on the way and they’d sat at his kitchen table eating. They hadn’t talked a lot, but Liza had appreciated that as she’d needed the time to both decompress, and put her thoughts and some of her emotions in order.
“That sushi was not what I meant by dinner, by the way,” he said. “I’m still going to take you somewhere where we don’t have to eat out of plastic containers, but I thought you could use something less public tonight.”
She smiled at him. “Yes, I appreciate it. And the sushi was great. Thanks.”
He studied her as she took another sip of wine, enjoying the richness as it slid down her throat and warmed her belly. “Are you really okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. I am.” She paused for a moment. “I don’t feel a loss. I . . . never really knew my brother, and I never had a relationship with him. For all my adult life, I was afraid of him. That . . . changed the other day. But I still wouldn’t have had a relationship with Julian.” She sighed. “I guess I’m just . . . sad about who he might have been if he hadn’t been born in that house.” A small shiver went through her as the vision of the place of her nightmares rose before her. “He never stood a chance,” she murmured. “What he did, that night, was horrible and violent, but . . . he was a victim too, Reed.” She set her wine on the table, turning more fully to him. “Mostly though, I want to know why. Why was he targeted? Why him?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Reed said with a frustrated huff of breath. “The only thing I can come up with is that by finding this killer’s first victim, you somehow . . . God, I don’t know, caught his attention? Maybe he looked into you, or . . .” He shook his head, his jaw tight. “I don’t know, Liza. But the two things have got to be connected. I just can’t figure out why or how.” He paused for a moment. “We have a few witnesses who saw your brother being led up the stairwell by a tall man they described as brawny. None of them got a glimpse of his face, just his size, but in retrospect, they think he might have been holding a weapon on your brother.”
“Oh God.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head.
He watched her. “This is the first crime by this suspect where we have witness testimony. It makes this particular crime feel more . . . unplanned than the others.”
Liza chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment. “It would’ve had to have been, right? Julian was only recently released from prison.”
“Yes, exactly. But we’ll have to look into him further—who his friends were on the inside, whether he made any enemies.” He rubbed at his eye. He looked angry, and frustrated, and bone-tired, and a burst of tenderness lit inside Liza.
She nodded, stifling a yawn of her own. God, it’d been a long day. A long, emotional, confusing, tiring day and she was exhausted too. “I should go.”
Reed pulled himself straight. “Stay here.”
Liza’s heart picked up speed and her lips parted to say . . . what, she wasn’t sure. But he beat her to it. “Arryn’s back home with Josie and Zach.” He rolled his eyes, but smiled indulgently. “Stay in the guest room. I’ve got an extra toothbrush. You don’t need to be alone, not after today. Pack a bag tomorrow and stay here for a couple of days until I have a chance to follow some leads that might shed light on your brother’s connection to this case. For safety’s sake.”
She felt a strange thump in her stomach as though a small bubble had burst. That was ridiculous. Anything else her mind had immediately conjured at the idea of staying the night at Reed’s would be a very bad idea, especially in the present moment. And she could admit that it also scared her senseless, but in a way that felt . . . new. A different kind of fear that she couldn’t sort through at the moment, not when she was so incredibly tired. And not with him staring at her with those beautifully sensitive eyes.
There was also something in his gaze that made her think he was worried for her, that her brother’s—what did she call it at this point?—attempted murder not only meant a connection to the killer, but that it likely meant the killer was connected to her as well. Stay here. For safety’s sake. Was she in danger? She had found the first victim. What did it all mean? Anxiety trembled through her and she realized that, though she felt relaxed at the moment, she didn’t relish the idea of getting in her car and driving home to her empty apartment.
She gave him a wry tilt of her lips. “I’ll be putting your sister out of a vacation hotspot.”
Reed rolled his eyes. “Good.”
She went serious, her nerves tingling. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Reed smiled. “No, I wouldn’t mind. I’d like it.” He reached out and took her hand. “Stay, please, Liza.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Reed pulled out Liza’s chair and she slid in, smiling at him over her shoulder and making his knees feel weak. He took the seat across from her and the waiter put two menus in front of them. “You look beautiful,” he told her, gazing across the table. Liza was wearing a black long-sleeved dress that dipped between her breasts and her blonde hair was down, swept away from her face on one side in a sparkly clip. She reminded him of the way she’d looked the night he’d met her, the dark colors of her clothing highlighting her pale hair and creamy skin—making her glow. You took my breath away, Liza, the first time I saw your face. Only tonight her eyes looked different to him—not wary and closed off as they’d looked that night, but shining with something that looked damn near like happiness. And, he noticed, she wasn’t wearing anything to cover her scar.
“Thank you,” she said. “You look great too.” She took a sip of her water. “This is the first time I’ve seen you out of work clothes.” Her eyes widened and a blush colored her cheeks. “I mean except . . .” She took another sip of her water, cringing slightly and looking around as if hoping the waiter would choose that moment to take their drink order.
Except the night I saw you naked.
Reed suppressed a smile, his own body flushing with heat from the images that filled his head. “Except the night we met. In the bar. When I was wearing . . . let’s see . . . jeans from what I remember.”
Liza laughed, giving a nod and placing her water down. “Right. That’s what I was about to say.”
Reed chuckled, picking up his menu as the waiter approached their table.
They ordered a bottle of wine, and then their entrées, making small talk. When their food had been delivered to the table, and they’d both dug in, Reed asked Liza if she’d heard from the hospital. Liza nodded, putting her fork down. “Yes. They called to let me know it was time. I . . . drove over and sat with him as they turned off the machines. It was very quick.”
Shit. “I’m so sorry, Liza.” He hadn’t realized she’d been there. He’d been so buried under the case earlier that day, he hadn’t even called her. He watched her expression, trying to gauge how watching her brother die had affected her. “Are you all right?” He reached across the table and laid his hand on hers.
Her gaze went to their hands and she turned hers over, squeezing him. Her hand was warm and slender and Jesus, he loved touching her. You flatten me, Liza. That’s all it takes. She sighed as she pulled her hand back. “Yes. I’m fine. They were able to donate his heart and his eyes. I guess it’s sort of . . . oh, I don’t know. I almost hate to think about it. But then again”—she met Reed’s gaze—“that heart of h
is never beat with happiness and now maybe it will. Maybe his eyes will see love in someone else’s.” Her expression was so sad suddenly and it killed Reed to see it. But he also saw a note of conflict drift over her face.
“I know he was murdered, and justice has to be served. But other than that, you don’t have to feel sorry for him.”
“I don’t . . . exactly. It’s so hard, Reed. Confusing.” She gave him a wobbly smile and picked up her fork, turning her attention back to her food. He stared at her for a moment. She thought she was damaged, weak. She had no idea how strong she truly was. How unbelievably loving. She’d walked out of hell with love still in her heart. How miraculous was that?
After a few minutes, she asked, “Any new leads or ideas today about how me finding Sadowski might possibly be linked to my brother’s murder? Or if it is at all?”
He shook his head. No new leads, but it’d needled at him all day. Still needled him. “No,” he sighed, taking a drink of his wine. “Nothing yet, but we have made several connections in the case. It’s like I feel it”—he brought his hand up and rubbed his fingers together—“like it’s right there, but just out of reach.” He let out a frustrated puff of breath, dropping his hand.
Liza was quiet for a moment, staring through him. “My brother said he did it to set me free,” she murmured.
“What?”
Her eyes refocused. “He tried to kill me to set me free. It seems demented because his mind was already warped. Those monsters in the dark . . . he let them in. In part, he became them. The person committing these murders, their mind is warped too. It has to be.”
“Agreed. There’s no doubt about that.”
She sat up straight, seeming suddenly buoyed. He smiled. This was her passion. It lit her up. “He’s different, so you have to look at it a different way. Don’t use your rationale or your empathy. He doesn’t think like you. He’s twisted. You have to try to think like him.”
He rubbed at his eye. “I don’t know if I can do that.” How did you twist your brain up into a ball of knotted string, where anything was possible and even the demented made sense?
She eyed him. “I think you can.”
His body stilled as her implication became clear. “My biological father was a psychopath, Liza. I’m not.”
“Of course you’re not. I wasn’t suggesting that. I wouldn’t be here having dinner with you if I thought so.”
His lip quirked. “Fair enough.”
She paused, eyeing him as she took a sip of wine, her gaze hinting at nervousness. “But I’m not convinced your father was a psychopath.”
His forehead bunched. “Why do you say that?” He wasn’t angry, merely dubious, and curious about how she’d come to that conclusion.
“I’ve worked with patients who have psychopathic minds. I don’t have nearly the same experience with the psychopathic as I do with the traumatized. But I fill in for doctors on the fifth floor sometimes. I prefer not to.” She moved her eyes away, considering. “There are physical differences in the structure and function of their brains. They don’t feel empathy, or fear, or anxiety like the rest of us do. As a homicide detective, you probably know all this.” She looked away momentarily as if in thought. “I’ve seen what’s under the mask, like the flash of a serpent revealing itself in their eyes. They’re good at hiding it. Some do it well, others even better. There’s no treating those people. The most you can do is try to understand them, study the things that make them tick.”
“Yes,” he said. “And there’s a hereditary component to psychopathy.”
Her eyes moved over his face. She knew exactly why he’d mentioned it, probably understood that he’d thought about it with regard to himself. But he’d let that go a long time ago. He knew his own mind. He knew what he was, and what he was not.
“Yes,” she agreed. “There . . . might be.” She took a sip of wine. “You said your father found a home for you, that he wanted you to be raised by good and loving people. Psychopaths don’t act out of empathy or goodwill.” She paused. “It can sometimes appear that way, but they’re really just doing something that benefits their ego, or makes them appear empathetic. They’re very manipulative.” She furrowed her brow. “But I can’t see how putting forth the effort to find you a good home would benefit him. I would expect someone with a psychopathic mind to rid himself of what would be more of a problem for him than anything.” She delivered the last sentence hesitantly, as though gauging his reaction.
“You’re not wrong,” he said. “My biological father suffered a traumatic background, not unlike what you experienced.” He held her gaze for a moment. “But does it matter? Is it some sort of solace to his victims’ families that he was really, really sad, and that’s why he took their daughter, or sister, or friend away from them as he went on a sadistic killing spree?”
“No, of course not. Just like what you said to me about my brother, I’m not saying you need to feel sympathy for him, or anyone who victimizes others. I’m just saying that in trying to solve a crime, it will be helpful to understand his motivation. And I imagine that you’ve spent some time studying your own father, trying to understand why he did what he did.”
“There’s no understanding what he did.”
“That’s what I’m saying though. Not to you. But to him, there was a very clear and logical reason. He was twisted, but what he did made perfect sense in his mind. It drove him. It gave him meaning and purpose. Control. Just like this killer.”
Reed ran his finger over his bottom lip as he studied her, his brow knitted. “Okay. You’re right. I don’t know this killer, but I do know my biological father. I’ve studied him, even tried to follow his sadistic reasoning. I have empathized with him, and I’ve never said that to another living soul.”
“Because you’re an empathetic person,” she said softly.
He considered how much he’d thought about Hartsman’s crimes, about who exactly the man who shared his DNA was, even who he might have been if not for his past, which frustrated Reed to no end because it was an exercise in futility. “All right,” he said. “Yes, I’ve waded into my father’s mind.”
“So, wade into this killer’s mind too. Use your father for reference. You’re not him, but you’ve already set foot into his psyche. You’ve examined the twists and turns his mind made, the choices that resulted.”
“Use my connection to Charles Hartsman for good,” he murmured.
“Yes. Just like you encouraged me to do with my patients. Use it for good.”
Reed sighed, letting his mind drift, trying to make connections that weren’t there logically. Attempting to reason this person out.
“Okay,” he said, relaxing back in his chair. “This killer. He’s telling a story. There’s a whole cast of characters and they’re all playing roles for him.” He paused, thinking, letting his gut lead him. “From the considerable effort he’s putting into removing the eyes of some victims, and using death by falling for others . . . the black paint, the brand . . . it all means something. It all makes perfect sense to him. It’s . . . justice. Depraved justice, but justice nonetheless.”
“Justice for whom?”
“For himself?” Reed wondered. “Or maybe for a collective group—the mentally ill who are so often taken advantage of.”
Liza shook her head. “It might be collective,” she said. “But I’d bet that it’s mostly specific. Personal.”
“Which means that one person could be at the center of all of this,” Reed said. “That’s what we have to figure out. Who connects all these people.”
“I agree,” Liza said, her eyes bright, expression full of purpose, and as he watched her, he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth.
“We’re discussing serial killers on our first date,” he noted.
She grimaced, shaking her head as she leaned back. “I’m sorry. This is probably the last thing you want to talk about after thinking about it all day.”
Reed smiled. “Actually, no
. It’s good to get a different perspective. And I appreciate your insight. I was just sort of hoping to romance you a little.”
Liza let out a small laugh on a breath, color blossoming in her cheeks. “The night is young,” she said softly. There was meaning in her voice, even though nervousness skittered quickly across her face. If Reed had blinked he would have missed it.
And yet, when their eyes met, chemistry sparked to life between them despite the apprehension he’d caught—and despite the grim nature of their dinner conversation. Reed wanted to groan aloud. He wanted to take her back to his apartment and head directly for the bedroom. He wanted her naked beneath him. Plain and simple. Only it wasn’t, because he wanted more than just her body. He wanted her heart, and he didn’t know if she was ready to offer him that.
Frankly, he didn’t know if she was ready to offer him her body again either. Now that he knew what sex was for her, how could he treat it with anything other than an extreme sense of gravitas? He’d been ignorant the first time, but he couldn’t use that excuse again.
The waiter showed up, interrupting the moment and clearing their plates. “Dessert?” he asked, and Reed looked at Liza. She shook her head, using her napkin to dab at the corner of her mouth.
“Not for me, thank you. I’m stuffed.”
Reed paid the bill and they left the restaurant, Liza pulling her coat around her as they walked. Reed reached down and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. Her hand stiffened for a moment but then relaxed and she glanced at him, giving him a shy smile that made his stomach clench.
She was still such a conundrum. A woman passionate and confident—at least for the most part—about her career as a doctor, and almost a . . . girlishness about her when it came to flirting, to dating, to the smallest of touches. She’d put on a façade for him that first night they’d met but it’d quickly dissolved into a sort of skittishness that he believed spoke honestly of her feelings regarding physical touch. He wondered if she’d ever had a normal relationship, but didn’t feel like it was the right time to bring that up. For now, he’d follow his gut and his gut was telling him to take baby steps.
