The coldness in her gaze, the dead certainty shook him.
“Evil’s going to win,” she whispered. “It always does, and there isn’t anything you or I will be able to do about it.”
Chapter 23
Evil always wins.
It certainly had that day in the park when a mugger got too rough and killed his mother. Riley hadn’t been able to stop it; he hadn’t been able to save her.
Evil always wins—it was his biggest fear and what he’d been fighting against his entire life. “You’re wrong. I won’t be evil’s punching bag and neither will you. We’re going to fight back. We have to. It’s either that or give up and die.”
Devra sighed. “You’re right. Running and hiding isn’t the answer, it isn’t living. You taught me that.”
He held her close, and looked over her shoulder into the deep pockets of the trees where the light couldn’t reach and stifled a quiver of uneasiness, then kissed her. With a little more force, a little more passion to chase away the fear that she was right. Something bad was coming.
Rocks crunched beneath steel-toed boots as someone stepped behind them. Devra drew back with a start, her eyes wide. Quickly, Riley turned. William Miller was standing directly behind them, his watery eyes filled with sadness.
“I think it’s time you two left.”
No goodbyes? Riley didn’t know why he was surprised. He stood, pulling Devra up next to him. “I agree. Thank you for your hospitality. And please thank Mrs. Miller, too.”
Devra stopped in front of her father. “The devil was here, Papa, only he wasn’t inside of me. He’s not in my ‘blood.’ If you can’t find it in your heart to see the truth and help me, the devil might just win.”
Riley didn’t like the surprise that entered her father’s eyes or the certain knowledge that he was hiding something. Something that might just get them killed.
Fifteen minutes later, Devra pointed to the sign that read Rosemont. Trepidation rose within her as she saw it. She shouldn’t have come back here. There must be a different way. Every person she saw would look at her and think, ‘There’s that crazy girl, the one who killed Chief Marshall’s son.’ She shuddered. She couldn’t go through that again.
Riley slowed as signs of civilization came into view. The whole town consisted of maybe five blocks, with restaurants and stores and gas stations on either side of the highway. He stopped in front of Mrs. Hutchinson’s Bed and Breakfast. She stared up at the gray Victorian with loads of pink gingerbread trim. It hadn’t changed, not one bit.
“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I know this place.”
“Looks like we don’t have much choice.” He pointed to the abandoned Crazy Eight Motel across the street, where several windows were boarded up and a Closed sign hung haphazardly from one hinge.
“At least no one would know me there.”
Riley squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll be all right.”
She smiled at him, got out of the SUV and reluctantly climbed the front steps. It wouldn’t be all right. Nothing had been all right, not for a very long time.
The door chimed as they opened it and walked into the front parlor. The familiar smell of lemon oil assaulted her as they moved deeper into the room, passing polished antique furniture and walking across a worn maroon carpet to a long wooden counter. Her head began to swim and her stomach turned at the heavy lemon smell.
Nothing had changed. The same pictures adorned the walls, the same candy dish sat on the sideboard and Mr. Peabody… She stopped and stared at the tortoiseshell cat lying in his basket. “It’s not possible, is it?”
Riley turned. “What?”
She bent down to touch the cat, mere inches from his soft fur, then stopped herself and quickly straightened. “It’s not breathing.” She stepped back.
“Oh, hello, there.” A woman entered from a back room. “Don’t be alarmed. That’s Mr. Peabody. I couldn’t bear to part with him, so I had him stuffed. Hard to tell, eh?”
Devra stifled a shudder as she looked down at the poor cat. Poor Mr. Peabody stuck forever in this lemon-scented tomb. She tried to wipe the expression of revulsion off her face before turning back to Mrs. Hutchinson. Thankfully she had changed, or Devra was sure she’d run from the room, screaming.
The woman’s hair was now completely gray and cut close to her head, somehow making her appear softer than she remembered.
“We were hoping to get a room for the night,” Riley said.
“Of course you are. Why else would you be here? Here, sign our guest register.” She turned and selected a key off a brass rack behind her. When she turned again, her smile faltered as her sharp eyes perused Devra’s face. “Do I know you?”
“No,” Devra lied.
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“We’re from Louisiana,” Riley added.
“Hmm, still…something about you looks familiar. I never forget a face.”
Devra cringed under her scrutiny. If she knew the truth, would she let them stay? Would she call Chief Marshall? Would they tie her to the nearest stake and burn her?
Riley paid for the room and accepted the key she offered. They followed her up the stairs to a quaint room on the third floor, decorated with too many flowers and way too much pink. “I have a cat whose been stuck in the car for days,” Devra started.
“There’s a greenhouse out back. You can let him roam in there.” Mrs. Hutchinson’s lips drew tight as if pulled by an imaginary string. “It’s perfectly safe, no predators or man-eating plants, probably just an extra-large rodent or two to keep him company.”
Devra arched a brow and shuffled uncomfortably under the woman’s narrow gaze.
“We would really appreciate that,” Riley said, giving Devra a nod before following the woman back downstairs to unload their bags and get Felix settled in the greenhouse.
Devra parted the lace curtains and stared down at the street below as she tried to relax the tension in her shoulders. From the outside, Rosemont, Washington, was the perfect Americana small town, where everyone knew one another and nothing bad ever happened. But it had. And she had a terrible feeling that now that she was back, it was about to happen again.
She watched the wind kick up and give the tall pines a good shake. Black clouds raced across the sun darkening the sky. A chill raised the hair on her arms. Riley stepped behind her and placed his arms around her waist. She leaned back against his chest and sighed.
“Come on, let’s lie down,” he whispered.
She nodded and followed him to the bed.
He stretched out on his stomach and then turned to look at her. “Do you trust me, Devra?”
She looked into his eyes and saw how open he was to her, how much he wanted to believe. “Yes,” she said softly. “I trust you. I trust you with my life.” It’s my heart I’m not so sure about.
“Any more secrets?”
She stared at him. “There are so many things… I’ve been afraid for so long.”
He pulled her next to him and within minutes she drifted asleep with his warm smell offering a comfort she knew was only temporary. Secrets? There were so many.
He walked slowly through the woods, following a narrow path that looked as if the forest had almost succeeded in reclaiming it into its fold. He stepped around a massive tree and the house came into view. It was a small house badly in need of repairs. The siding had come off in places and several of the windows were boarded up or broken where the boards were missing.
He was humming, a familiar tune that nagged the back of her mind. An overwhelming sense of fear flooded through her. It entered her mouth, her ears, her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.
Please, don’t go near the house!
She tried to run, but couldn’t. The tune danced across her mind. A sick, torturous melody—somehow distorted, somehow wrong.
The boards had been removed from the front door. He reached out his hand and turned the knob.
“No!” her mind screamed.
&nb
sp; The door swung open.
She saw the room as it was before—hardwood floors gleaming, a round rug that she knew would feel rough beneath her hands and knees. Her vision blurred and suddenly she could see him placing daisies in a dirty glass on a warped table. The rug was gone, the floor splintered and beyond repair.
“Daisies for my Devy,” he whispered.
Her throat tightened. He picked up the glass with the flowers and turned toward the kitchen. As he walked, she thought she saw him stepping in something on the floor. What was it?
Pain erupted in her chest. It hurt. She wanted to cry, to scream.
Blood. There was so much blood.
Mama!
A strangled cry erupted from Devra’s throat. She sat straight up, coughing, unable to catch her breath.
“Devra, what is it? What’s wrong?”
She turned to Riley, unable to comprehend the horror of her dream or the certain knowledge that it was more: a premonition, a memory?
“You’re so pale,” Riley said, pulling her into his arms and rubbing her back.
But it was no use. She couldn’t feel him. She could only feel the sensation of ice-cold water rolling over her skin, could only see a large puddle of blood spreading slowly across a golden floor, could only hear the simple tune from a child’s music box playing over and over in her mind.
“Devra you’re scaring me. What is it?”
His tone, his rough shake pulled her from the last vestiges of her dream. She stared at him, her eyes locking onto his. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Bad dream?”
She nodded and could see that he wanted more. But she couldn’t give it to him. She didn’t know how. “I…I think I’m going to drown.”
Alarm filled his face. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m just so cold. I can feel the water, can taste it.”
“Okay,” he said and pulled her close. “It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be all right.” After a few minutes the warmth returned to her skin.
“Can you tell me anything more?”
She shook her head. “Nothing that makes any sense, sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m here now. You don’t have to face this alone. We’ll get through this thing.”
She nodded, though she could see the lie in his eyes. He was scared, and not just of her devil. He was worried her father was right about her. He was looking at her as if she might have to go back to the sanitarium and that he would have to be the one to send her there.
“You think you’re up to seeing Chief Marshall?”
She shook her head. She would never be up to facing the chief, to looking into those cold, hate-filled eyes. But she knew she couldn’t avoid him, she knew she’d have to face him if she wanted to live. Because one thing was certain—her time was almost up.
“No, but I will.” She changed into a chambray peasant skirt that flared around her legs and a long-sleeved white blouse.
“Feeling better?” Riley asked when she was dressed and ready to go.
She nodded, though she couldn’t shake the trepidation squeezing her heart. Even though Riley was by her side, she felt very alone. She wouldn’t be facing the chief with her lover, she’d be facing him with another cop. And even though the chief didn’t have anything to hold her on, the irrational fear that once she walked through his doors she wouldn’t walk out again, was overwhelming.
She shook it off and got into the car next to Riley. She had to make the most of this visit, because finding out who killed Tommy was her only hope. Within minutes, Riley parked the car in front of the small courthouse building. “I’ll be right by your side,” he whispered and squeezed her hand.
She smiled as she looked at him and wished she could count on that, but something inside her whispered his support would be short-lived. He was a cop after all, and they were walking into cop territory—into Chief Marshall’s territory.
The few people sitting here and there in large vinyl chairs looked up as they walked into the station. The reception area was pleasant, with lots of windows, ferns, and comfy chairs. Unfortunately, the decor was lost on her.
A woman Devra’s age sat behind the large counter. “Hello, can I help you?”
“That’s all right, Mandy,” Chief Marshall said as he walked into the room. “They’re here to see me.”
Startled by his voice, Devra looked up.
“Heard you were back, I was just getting ready to hunt you down.”
She stared at the man who’d haunted too many of her sleepless nights. On the surface, he had a kind face with a hint of gray at his temples and soft gray eyes. But she knew looks could be deceiving. She knew how that face could darken with hate. “I’ve forgotten how fast news spreads in a small town.”
He grunted. “I’m sure you have.”
Riley held out his hand. “Chief Marshall? I’m Detective Riley MacIntyre from the New Orleans Police Department.”
The chief showed only a second of surprise before the aloof veneer dropped back over his face. He studied Riley for a minute, then took his hand. “Why don’t the two of you come on into my office? We have some things we need to discuss.”
Devra followed him, trying not to let the panic rising within her gain hold. She glanced back behind her at the few people sitting in the reception area. They were staring at her with curiosity alive in the eyes. Soon they’d be whispering about how they saw the woman who’d killed the chief’s son.
She turned away from them and watched the chief walk ahead of her. How had he known she was back so fast? Had her parents called him? Had they told him what she’d said about the others? The feeling of betrayal ate at her.
They entered the chief’s office and sat in the chairs in front of his desk.
“I’ll have to ask you to hang your piece there by the door,” the chief said to Riley.
Devra looked up in surprise. She hadn’t been aware Riley had his gun. Riley nodded and hung his jacket on the coat tree by the door, then removed his shoulder holster and placed it on top of the jacket.
Chief Marshall nodded but didn’t speak, just opened his drawer and pulled out a thick file with her name on it. Devra took a deep breath to steady herself and tried not to think about what that file might contain, or how many years he’d spent working on it.
Looking away from the file, she saw a picture of Tommy on his desk. Memories flooded her mind—his smile, his laugh, the twinkle in his eyes as he’d chase her through the forest. He’d been her best friend, her first crush. She’d loved Tommy. Yet, she’d never been allowed to mourn him, to go to his funeral, to say goodbye. This man stole that from her, that and so much more.
She fought the despair filling her heart and turned to Riley. He reached out his hand. She took it and gave him a grateful smile.
“You’ve been quite a busy woman over the years, Devra.”
“Have I?” she asked and turned to look at the chief, to face the coldness in his eyes.
“I had a hard time tracking you down at first, once you changed your name.”
A band tightened around her chest.
“It took me quite a few years to discover how you could be making a living, paying taxes, being an upstanding citizen of a community, when it seemed Devra Miller had dropped off the face of the earth. You have quite a few secrets, don’t you, Ms. Miller?”
Secrets.
She glanced at Riley and gnawed the corner of her lip. “I-I didn’t kill Tommy. That’s why we’re here. We want to discover the truth.”
“Which truth would that be? That you’re not Devra Morgan? Or that you’re not D.M. Miller? The author who writes stories of gruesome murders, stories that are suspiciously close to murders that have actually taken place.” He sat back in his chair, a Cheshire cat grin splitting his face.
Paralyzing dread grabbed hold and turned her stomach.
“You’re D.M. Miller?” The accusation in Riley’s tone cut her to the quick.
Chief Marshall swiv
eled his chair around to the bookshelf behind him and pulled down several books, all by D.M. Miller, all books Riley had heard of. In fact, Michelle had been a big fan. He recalled the typed pages he’d found in Devra’s printer describing Michelle’s death. Would his sister-in-law’s last moments end up in Devra’s next book? The thought sickened him.
“Have you read any?” the chief asked.
Riley shook his head. He’d always meant too, just never found the time.
“Fascinating stuff, plots are captivating, compelling. I’m sure it won’t be long before she hits the bestseller list.”
“How’d you find out?” Devra squeaked.
“What do you suppose your publishers would think if they found out your stories were based on actual cases? Or how will your fans feel if they find out you spent five years in a mental institution?”
Riley had heard enough. He dropped Devra’s hand and leaned forward. “I don’t see how any of this is relevant to why we’re here,” he cut in, disgusted by the chief’s smugness, disgusted that the man would throw her time in the institution back in her face, and disgusted with himself for believing all the secrets were out, that there couldn’t possibly be anything else Devra was keeping from him.
“Don’t you?” the chief asked. “That’s because you’ve never read one of her books. Here, let me save you the trouble. Book number one—A Time to Die.” He held up the first book. “Our heroine is trying to discover the identity of a serial killer. She doesn’t. Nor does she in books two and three, but that’s okay, there’s plenty of other mischief going on that she does figure out. It’s a great plot device, drawing the readers back, again and again, to discover who the killer can be. But what brings me back, are the victims. Here, I’ve made it easy for you.”
He pulled a yellow pad out of the file. “Victim number one, killed in Seattle. Victim number two, killed in Portland. Victim number three, killed in Miami. Ringing any bells yet?”
Shiver: Psychic Romantic Suspense Page 15