Why (Stalker Series Book 2)

by Megan Mitcham

  “If you wanted to see me again, you could’ve just called.”

  That voice would be her conscience, if she had one. Gen lifted her head and stared into the bright blue eyes and salty smirk of Detective Owen Graham. He leaned into the car and stared down through the plexiglass and grating at her.

  “I didn’t figure you for the grand gesture type.” He lifted a hand to his chest and covered his heart. “I’m flattered.” His heavy biceps bulged, inciting the first feeling that didn’t have anything to do with despair and paranoia in days. She couldn’t even enjoy the reprieve because there was no relief to be had. He was the last man she needed to have feelings about.

  Gen swallowed. Owen Graham looked good enough to eat in worn jeans and a T-shirt perfectly molded to the striking topography of his upper body. And she looked …Her gaze dropped to the dirt on her arms, the dust covering her knees, and the sweat suctioning her jean shorts to her thick legs and her shirt to her less than flat belly. The top of her hair was flat from the hat they hadn’t let her retrieve before stuffing her into the hot car. The usually neatly curled ends were frizzy with the moisture steaming from her body.

  “Don’t be,” she snapped.

  His eyebrows hiked. The corner of his mouth not turned up to the sky joined the other side in a full-blown grin.

  Gen incited men. It kept her in control of the game. She wasn’t used to men reacting to her with such a laid-back manner. It was unsettling. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He bit the sides of his cheek and shook his head.

  She glared with every angry, hurt, and annoyed fiber in her body.

  Graham gave her the sit-tight gesture and retreated from the cruiser. Gen readied to scream when he waved someone over. Seconds later, the two officers who’d shoved her into the back of the car appeared. They exchanged words she couldn’t make out and gestures she didn’t understand. Their smiles gave her hope that her career might get out of this day intact.

  The men shook hands, and then the beat cops headed back toward the building. Graham opened the back door. Fresh air, as unpolluted as the Meatpacking District could offer, sailed into the back seat. She breathed deeply and scooted toward the edge. Her bare legs stuck to the worn leather. Shame and disgust threatened to turn her cheeks red. She jutted her chin and doubled her effort to scramble for freedom.

  To his credit, Graham didn’t offer her a hand. Not that he would. Her hands were cuffed behind her back like a perp. She ignored the fact that she was one, and very nearly could have been a booked one, found her footing, and stood face to chest with the too handsome detective.

  She cleared her throat. “How often do cops clean their backseats?”

  “Some, daily. Others …” His lips pursed. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I’m hoping for the former today.” The guys who’d stuffed her into the back looked well-kept enough.

  Graham’s grin was back in full force, nearly knocking her on her ass. She liked it too much.

  “What?” she hissed again.

  His right hand lifted. The pad of his thumb rubbed over the center of her forehead. “You would’ve never lived down your mugshot with this.”

  Breath caught in her throat. Irritation bloomed in her chest. Charisma, a bit of charm, and a face meant to be adored wouldn’t throw her off balance. She shifted to figure out exactly why she wouldn’t have been able to live down this particular mugshot, but the cuffs stopped her cold. That stalled breath moved quickly through her teeth.

  “Turn around.” The command should’ve doused her irritation in gasoline, but heat built in her belly. She did as he said.

  “What’s on my forehead?” Maybe if she talked, she could regain control of the situation.

  “Just a perfect etching of the cage on your skin.”

  Metal scraped metal. Clicks sang. The biting cuffs loosened. Freedom never felt so good. Gen felt the center of her forehead, and sure enough, the metal partition had made a perfect weave of indentions on her skin.

  “Shit. I have scales.”

  “They’ll be gone in a few hours.”

  “Hours?!” She turned to face him.

  “I’ve seen it last an entire night, but I figure you’re better hydrated than a junkie.”

  “Maybe.” She traced the outline of the pattern that reached her hairline and stretched from one brow to the other. When was the last time she’d had a drink or eaten anything? She’d been so busy overdosing on the Carter family drama that she didn’t remember.

  “Christ.” Graham grabbed her hand, pulled it from her forehead, and studied vibrant red rings around her wrist. A knit of concern formed at the center of his forehead.

  “It’s fine.” Gen jerked her hand back, a protective instinct she might never outgrow.

  “Like hell it is.” His gaze jerked toward the large bay doors where the officers stood talking to the crazy bitch, Bianca. He stepped back, away from her and toward the building.

  “It is. I’m a redhead.” She reached for him. Her fingers wrapped around the top of his forearm over an intricate ink artwork of the American flag. The smooth, warm skin invited her to snuggle in and stay a while.

  “That fact hasn’t escaped me, ever.” He stopped moving and stared at her hand for a second before meeting her gaze. “What does that have to do with the marks on your wrists?”

  “I’m fair skinned. I mark easily, especially when I’m trying to break out of cuffs.”

  “Do you find yourself in them often?”

  “Nope.”

  His gaze shifted back to the police cruiser, the cuffs on its roof, and then her wrists.

  “Look, I owe you one.”

  “One,” he scoffed. “Holst, you already owe me one. A big fucking one.” His blue eyes zeroed in on hers, and she knew exactly the one to which he referred. Perry. “This is peanuts to that one.”

  “All the same. Thank you.” Gen squeezed his arm. None of the steely muscle under her grip gave. She released her hold and stepped away. Her gaze searched the areas for her purse, phone, and hat, but found none. It honed on the warehouse.

  “Don’t even think about going back in there.”

  “I need my purse.”

  “It’s in my car, along with your phone and hat.” Graham headed toward a blacked-out SUV that looked too sleek and signature to be police issue.

  Not wanting to be near the cruiser for another second, she followed in the wake of his booted tread. They rounded the back of the police car and to the passenger door of the Land Rover. He opened it and stepped aside.

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  Trapped in a confined space with him for twenty minutes minimum. “Thank you, but I’ll grab a cab.”

  “Get in the car, Holst.”

  Her brows shot up.

  His expression didn’t waver. He didn’t speak.

  “I’m not leaving a tip,” she warned.

  “I’m not one that warrants tip-worthy services, remember?”

  “Right.” Gen tapped her forehead and remembered the fabulous state of her appearance. She stepped between him and the door and slipped inside to keep him from seeing her grimace.

  He waited for her to situate her belongings from the seat to the floorboard around her feet before closing her door. Had any man, besides Douglas, ever helped her into a car and closed the door? Not a single one that she could recall.

  Stupid chivalry. It’d be tolerable if it didn’t feel so nice.

  Despite herself, Gen grabbed a hair tie from her purse, scraped the untamed mess of her mane to one side, and folded it in a quick braid. Then she swiped at the makeup below her eyes. She wiped the hint of black that came away on her fingers onto her dark shorts and pulled at the fabric clinging to her belly. Not a chance would she assess herself in a mirror. Feeling the pattern on her forehead was bad enough. She didn’t want to see it.

  Graham opened the door, slid in, closed himself inside, and gave her a sinister smile. The desire to climb on his lap warred with
the urge to bail out the door. The opposing forces tore and gnashed at her insides.

  “Buckle up.” He turned on the engine with the push of a button.

  She stared at him, rebellious to her core.

  “Over four hundred thousand people died as a result of car crashes last year alone.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why the hell are you fighting me on this?”

  “I don’t know.” Fighting let her know she was still alive, still pushing forward when all she wanted to do was fall apart. Fighting let her think she had some sort of control in this chaos called life. Fighting was what she’d done for so long it bled from her pores. But she couldn’t tell him that.

  “Strap yourself in, or I’ll do it for you.” There was no suggestive wiggle of his brow. Gone was his smile. This was business for him, the business of helping people.

  Gen reached back, pulled the belt across her body, and snapped it in place.

  Graham put the vehicle in gear, whipped the car in a tight one-eighty, and pulled into the street so quickly that if she hadn’t been wearing the stupid seat belt, she’d have been cheek to window with the SUV. He could have said, “Buckle up, I drive like a maniac.” She wouldn’t have given a shit about that. His caring nature put her on edge. It’d taken her long enough to get used to the girls caring. A man, though? They’d let her down time and again.

  “Why’d you trespass to rummage through junk?” His grip on the wheel tightened, making the muscles in his hands bulge. “They were going to take you to the station and book you, Genevieve. That’s your career and everything you’ve worked for down the drain. Have you lost what’s left of your mind?”

  Had she? So often she didn’t play by society’s rules, but they’d only landed her in the back of a police car once before. Right after her sister’s trial. Right after her sister’s suicide. She clamped her eyes shut to block out the past. When it didn’t work, she flung her lids wide and stared at the buildings flying by.

  “It’s for a case I’m working on.”

  “Looking to get another monster back on the streets?”

  His question ripped a layer of her armor off and delivered a blow that caught her off guard. Her head snapped around, and she glared at him. “I prosecute.”

  “Until you don’t.” There was no malice in his tone. That didn’t stop the accuracy of its impact. His grip had relaxed on the wheel. Their pace grew more leisurely.

  “Until I didn’t.” No denying it.

  “What’s your deal? A smart lady like you could have done anything. Why the law?”

  She just stared at him. No one had ever asked her why. It just was what she did, a part of who she’d become. The best part of her, really. The SUV slowed to a stop as the herd of traffic paused for a red light. His gaze met hers. He didn’t push, just studied her and waited.

  “Because I wanted to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.”

  His eyes lifted as though surprised by her answer. Then his gaze narrowed. “Until you didn’t?”

  Genevieve had given him a small part of her soul with that answer. With it, he’d stripped the last of her defense away and cut deep. So deep that something inside her ruptured.

  “He did it,” she shrilled. “I set a sadistic murderer free. Is that what you want to hear?” Her hands balled into fists and slammed into her thighs. The emptiness of her gaze landed on the sky outside, barely visible for the buildings. “I fucked up. I completely fucked up.” She squeezed her hands too tightly that her nails dug into her flesh. “Those sweet children. Pamela.” Her head shook back and forth. Tears bombarded the backs of her eyelids. Waves crashing into a levee. She heaved. Her brain pressurized and pushed against her skull.

  She lunged for the door, needing air, needing out, needing … she didn’t know what she needed.

  Graham’s large hand captured both of hers in his and pulled them back to the center of the car. Behind them, a car honked. Someone screamed. The traffic trudged on, but they remained still except for the rushing horror of her thoughts.

  “Breathe.” He placed his other hand under hers, trapping her. Only it didn’t feel like a trap. The contact, his touch, quieted the demons. It was what she needed, and exactly what she didn’t want to need.

  “Let me out.”

  “I will. When I get you home. Now, breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

  The inhale quaked inside her lungs and quivered out between her lips.

  “Again,” he demanded.

  Someone else honked, long and mean.

  “Good. Again.” Graham ignored them and focused on her. She’d never been more terrified. The admission of suspecting Perry’s guilt was haunting, but she gripped Graham back and held on for dear life, and that scared her more.

  Another honk joined the chorus.

  “You can drive.”

  “They can wait or go around.”

  “I won’t jump.”

  A deep breath left his chest. He released her with his left hand but held tight with the right. His thumb flipped a button on the dash and blue lights danced in the front windshield. They must have shown in the back too. The honks immediately died, and the traffic poured around them.

  “You sure?” he asked.

  She nodded, which ignited a throbbing in her skull near the hideous pattern on her forehead.

  Graham drove. A minute later, he turned off the lights and continued maneuvering them through the city. Gen closed her eyes and breathed. She held on to Graham’s hand as though it were an anchor. When she opened her eyes, they were near the park.

  “Perry never told you he did it, did he?”

  Genevieve didn’t speak. She didn’t know how to play this. They turned onto her road. “What I said, it wasn’t a proclamation of Perry’s guilt. It was what you wanted to hear.”

  “You’re a shit liar.” Graham laughed a soft chuckle that shook his shoulders and, in turn, her hands.

  “It was worth a try.” She shrugged. “I don’t usually bother with it. People say the truth hurts, but lies, lies hurt worse than the truth.” They get people killed, apparently.

  He drove next to the stunning green grass and vibrant fall foliage of Central Park and then turned expertly into the parking garage of her building. She didn’t ask how he knew where she lived. He was a cop and had access to all kinds of information. Information she’d love to be able to access. The car wheeled into a visitor’s parking space, and he placed the car in park all while still holding her hands.

  “You must think I’m a monster.”

  “Actually”—he turned toward her—“I think you’re pretty fucking amazing. You’ve prosecuted over forty cases and won them all. You work with victims of sexual assault and—”

  “I got him acquitted.” Her near scream sucked the oxygen from the car.

  Owen Graham’s stunning blue gaze nipped low. “Anyone else could have.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re a shit liar.”

  “Worth a try.” He winked.

  Gen cataloged his face. Every angle was perfectly formed. A hint of a five o’clock shadow tinged his smooth complexion. All those dummies who said eyes were the windows to the soul hadn’t met Owen Graham. His eyes were lasers into her soul, not windows into his own. Those lasers and those plush lips were surprisingly close.

  “You’re the farthest thing from a monster.”

  Tears threatened to breach her tender eyes. She closed them, and her head shook. His anchoring warmth left her hand, telling her what she already knew. She was as guilty as the man she’d freed. Gen drew her hands into her lap and opened her eyes in time to see Graham’s hands bracket her face and stop the shake of her head. The tenderness forced tears over her lids and over his fingers.

  “We’ve seen the work of monsters, Genevieve. You’re not in their orbit.”

  But she was. Perry had killed his family, and she'd gotten him off. There was no redo because double jeopardy was in play. He could never be
charged for their murders, no matter what kind of evidence she found to back her gut feeling.

  Graham leaned in. His gaze was locked on her mouth. Hers was on his. She loved the feel of him, the strength and the heat he radiated. Leaning in felt so right that she pulled back. Her shaking hand found the door handle, and she leaped from the vehicle and turned, grabbing her things in a rush.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The sincerity in his voice drew her gaze.

  “You didn’t,” she breathed.

  “Says the woman standing ten feet away from me with a car between us.”

  She shrugged because she didn’t know what to say. The truth that she’d wanted to kiss him more than she’d wanted anything in a long time would only hurt them both. She could hardly juggle the knives she tossed now. He was a machete.

  “I’m sorry.” He flashed her a smile that incited her libido.

  “Why on earth are you sorry?” She gestured to herself. “I’m the one digging in literal dirt, nearly getting arrested, screaming at you, and crying like a maniac.”

  “I know, if Perry had told you the truth, you would have submitted a motion to withdraw from the case.”

  She nodded. “And I would have done anything in my power to put him away forever.”

  She still would.

  Seventeen

  This wasn't scary. Gen rolled her eyes. Marlis, the pampered New York City debutant, had never set foot in East Harlem, now known as Spanish Harlem or El Barrio. So why did she feel the need to spread falsehoods about the place? They didn’t have doormen or multimillion-dollar condos, but it was nice. It looked like Gen’s old neighborhood. Only Brooklyn in the 80s didn’t have vibrant, artful murals on the sides of its buildings. It had straight-up graffiti. Ugly, rag-tag graffiti at that.

  The Uber had carried her past small community gardens and cultural centers, delis and a handful of museums. Fifth-generation Puerto Rican immigrants and a growing segment of Latin Americans populated the area. She hadn’t intended for anyone to know she planned on coming to this part of town, but a reminder flashed on her phone when she and Mar had been at lunch Monday. Not that she’d been likely to forget the trip. It had been foremost in her mind since nearly getting arrested Saturday. A day in court at the first of the week and prepping for it Sunday hadn’t left her with time to go until after work today.