by Addison Fox
Nor would he ever be.
It was only now that she knew the deepest truth. The one her conscious mind had whispered over and over, even as she refused to listen. Her feelings for Trey weren’t fleeting.
And heaven help her, there was no way she was getting out of this unscathed.
But she needed to believe she could hold on to some semblance of control. With that foremost in her thoughts, Aisha pressed back. “Yes, Trey, it is.”
He moved, whip quick and surprisingly agile for having been in a hospital bed less two hours earlier. His arms came around her, hard and fast, and his mouth met hers. Harsh. Demanding. And absolutely in the moment.
Oh, how she wanted this. Wanted to believe they could sink into the heat and need between them and everything would be okay.
Because it felt okay. More than okay, actually.
It felt glorious.
That was her last coherent thought as his mouth took her under, his tongue urgent and insistent as he branded her. Unwilling to hold back, she gave him the same in turn, willing all her feelings to somehow manifest in the physical what she knew she couldn’t have in the emotional.
They were friends. Better than friends, really. But that didn’t mean they were destined for forever.
She’d convinced herself they could be better. Bigger than what they’d already been. That making love and pretending their way through a fake engagement was something their friendship could withstand.
Only now she knew the truth of it all.
There was no going back.
Ever.
There was only one way forward and she feared once the dust settled they’d realize that path was one they’d each walk alone.
“Trey.” She pressed her hands to his shoulders, holding him still.
He stopped immediately, his dark gaze sharp with awareness. Of her. Of what beat between them. “Oh, Aish. Please don’t walk away.”
“It’s not real.”
“Yes, it is.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “It’s the most real thing I’ve ever experienced.”
“It’s a mirage.” She whispered the words, afraid of their power. As afraid to deny what was between them as to accept it.
“No, damn it, it isn’t! I love you!”
Whatever she’d been expecting—hoping for, even—was contained in those three simple words.
It would be so easy to give in. So easy to fall. But she’d done that once before and she had to stay strong.
Lifting her head, she pressed her lips to his, whisper soft, before she pulled back for fear she’d lose her nerve. “I love you, too. I always have. But it’s not enough.”
* * *
Trace Evigan ignored the third ping from his cell phone and settled in with his laptop. He and Barton had always had a limited relationship and over the past month he’d remembered why.
Damn, his kid brother could whine. He’d done it as a kid, chasing behind him on the ball fields and as they rode bikes and even as they got older, battling each other for some of the prettiest girls in high school. His brother was a grade A pain in the ass and the last thirty years hadn’t done much to change that.
So yeah, he was going to ignore his texts and focus on his own business. The whole reason he’d taken such an interest in Barton’s sudden deep-seated desire to serve the public.
What Trace really needed was for Barton to get the job so he’d have an ally in the sheriff’s office, ready to look a blind eye toward his expanding business.
The guns had been a lucky thing. He’d been looking for a few expansion opportunities and the high rollers who filtered in and out of Roaring Springs had finally paid dividends. Trace always kept an ear to the ground and when he’d caught wind through one of his enforcers that a player in the drug and gun trade was giving up his beautiful Miami winter to do a bit of skiing in his great state, he’d made it his business to charm his way into an introduction.
He’d worried in those first few minutes. Victor Espirito hadn’t seemed all that interested in expanding and seemed more than a little pissed he was being asked to give up any part of his vacation to talk business. His dark eyes were cold—way too cold for someone who spent the majority of his time in the heat—but Trace had pressed on. He’d explained his connections in the western part of the United States and how he could help build an expansion plan for Espirito’s business. Yeah, sure, it had been a bit of tap dancing, but he’d pushed his way through.
And had a contract to run a few shipments of drugs and guns by mid-May.
The discovery on the mountain of all those women had nearly done him in. Espirito had spooked, concerned that the “federal scrutiny” suddenly bearing down on Roaring Springs would be too much, even though the first few runs had gone perfectly. But again, Trace had pressed on.
That was when he’d gotten the idea to drag baby Bart in on the whole thing.
Barton thought all Trace did was run numbers and that was fine. The less his brother knew, the better. But putting Big Bad B, as he’d begun calling him, into the sheriff’s office would go a long way toward calming down any fears there was too much interference in his business.
If only there was someone other than a Colton in the sheriff’s spot. And Trey Colton was the worst of the bunch. Trace had analyzed how he might make inroads, planting something at the dude’s house or making up false accusations, but the man’s reputation was ironclad. Add on the new fiancée he was parading around town, and Trace was stuck.
He needed something, and time was running out. He’d believed Barton had the upper hand, especially as they spread rumors about Trey Colton’s incompetence in dealing with the Avalanche Killer, but based on the rumors around town, the winds might be changing. People loved the guy, and the woman he’d left for dead at the edge of the woods had people concerned but possibly thinking a copycat was on the loose.
Which was the last thing he needed.
He’d been careful but he didn’t need Espirito catching wind of the news up here. Nor did he need someone who suddenly decided they needed to look for someone else other than the Avalanche Killer.
Damn, what a freaking mess.
His phone went off and he answered it by rote, forgetting he was screening Barton’s insistent messages. “Evigan.”
“Hello, Mr. Evigan. I’m glad you’ve answered.”
Trace pulled the phone back, curious to see the number was blocked. Was it Espirito?
He didn’t dare ask, so he pushed as much snarl into his tone as he could. “Who is this?”
“A friend.”
“I have plenty of friends. And I know all their names.”
“You don’t need to know mine.”
“Then I should hang up.”
“Do and it will be all too easy to share your name with the authorities. They’re rather desperate to close the case on the death of that poor Wendy Sinclair.”
Panic, raw and edgy, coated his stomach, and Trace stood as nerves pushed him into motion. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“Of course you do. She’s the poor tourist, traveling here alone, who ended up dead at the edge of the woods. You did a good job of hiding your identity, but not quite good enough.”
Trace had learned the lesson early that you never gave in or gave up too much. He had been careful, and other than those few taunts to the cops to poke at Colton and make his deputies think less of their sheriff, he’d been careful with the kill. It wasn’t his favorite chore, but he knew how to do it and he knew how to keep his hands clean.
“As I said, I don’t need any more friends.”
“I think you’re going to want to get to know me. Why don’t we aim for that copse in the woods you’re so fond of? The one now covered in police tape? I’m an early riser so I’ll see you at five.”
The line went dead before Trace could protest or even att
empt to keep up the pretense of innocence. The back of his neck prickled—had done so since the start of the call—but there was nothing for it. He needed to see this one through.
Too much was riding on his new work with Espirito. He was standing with the big dogs now. And big dogs didn’t leave any stray leashes hanging around.
* * *
It’s not enough.
Trey stared at his computer screen, refusing to give in to sleep even as the words and images blurred and his eyes burned with fatigue. But Aisha’s words burned in his mind, far hotter than sleep burned his eyes.
They were enough. He knew they were enough. It might have taken them a long time to get to this point—and their path was far from logical or orthodox—but they were here, damn it.
They’d found their way.
Why couldn’t she see that? Or worse, why was she so determined to paint him with the same brush as that ass she’d dated in college? Yes, their fake engagement was a ruse they’d conjured up, but that didn’t mean it was totally a lie. They’d been honest with each other. With their immediate families, too.
What had happened to her in New York had been something else entirely.
Damn, the man had a whole family he’d hidden from her, blithely leading her down a path of pretend happiness when all along he’d played her.
This wasn’t the same.
Since his thoughts kept circling around that same thought, he tried to shift gears. He was tired already, might as well keep going. Besides, there was no way he could risk losing another day while a killer loomed large.
Besides, Aisha wasn’t with him so what did any of it matter?
He’d downed another round of aspirin around 2:00 a.m. and settled in with the files Daria had pulled. They were classic Daria—thorough and detailed—and still he’d had to read several of them over, fighting through the exhaustion.
The ring of his phone startled him, pulling him from the lull of putting one mental foot in front of the other. Trey glanced at his mobile phone, the screen face lit up and the caller identified as Unknown immediately piquing his interest.
Unknown?
To the county sheriff’s personal number?
“This is Colton.”
“I thought you’d be up.”
The voice was slightly muffled, as if the caller wanted to hide his voice, but there was no mistaking the menace or an odd, underlying glee.
The Avalanche Killer?
“What do you want?”
“Oh, it’s not what I want. It’s what you want.”
“I don’t want anything.” Which wasn’t true, but Trey opted to go for it, curious to the possible reply.
“Sure you do, Sheriff. We all want something. Respect. Understanding. Reelection. Human beings have any number of reasons for why they do things.” A low rumble of laughter came through the line. “You should know that better than most. Your pretty fiancée studies the human mind, doesn’t she?”
At the mention of Aisha, Trey’s blood ran cold, fear ratcheting his pulse through the roof. “What do you want?”
“I told you, friend. It’s what you want.”
“What do I want?”
“The man who killed Wendy Sinclair. You can find him at the dump site. Be there around five. You’ll catch your man and watch the sun come up.”
The phone clicked off and Trey hardly dared to believe what he’d heard, let alone the meaning behind any of it. Who made a phone call and offered up the location of a killer?
Trey glanced at his watch, mentally calculating the time he had and how quickly he could call in reinforcements. He wanted to catch a killer—desperately wanted to put something right in his world—but he wasn’t stupid.
Nor was he interested in going into battle without any backup.
* * *
“I don’t like it, Trey.” Daria sat beside him in one of the two unmarked vehicles they had for the office.
“I don’t either, but what am I supposed to do? I can’t ignore it.”
“No.”
He’d called Daria first, then toyed with phoning Aisha. In the end, he’d opted for a text, telling her that he loved her and didn’t like the way they’d ended things. It wasn’t quite a final declaration in the event things went south at the dump site, but it was something.
And it gave him a place to build upon once this was over.
Whatever this was.
“I don’t know why you won’t call Agent Roberts.”
While Trey was pleased Daria had developed a better working relationship with the federal agent, he wasn’t ready to let the man fully in on their turf.
“This case is ours. Wendy Sinclair is ours.”
“Yeah.” Daria finally nodded. “She is. She has been from the start.”
“So we’ll end this.”
They’d roused six other deputies, setting people into motion as quickly as they could for roughly ninety minutes of op prep from the moment the call came in until Trey had to approach the dump site. Two followed behind in the other unmarked vehicle and the other four were partnered, one in a patrol car and the other pair embedded in the woods.
“You ready?” Trey adjusted his vest, well aware his torso might be protected but his head wasn’t. The same went for Daria.
“Yeah.”
He stepped from the car, his gun in hand as he walked toward the dump site. He had no illusions holding a gun was going to make his visitor happy, but he refused to put even a single extra second at risk.
The clearing was empty and he could still see a few stray pieces of police tape lying on the ground. This was the spot.
He didn’t question Daria had taken up her position out of sight, and he moved farther into the clearing, determined to see this through. The call hadn’t sat well with him from the start, but risking losing out on a killer wasn’t an option.
The real question was, who had made the call?
The real Avalanche Killer, irritated that he had a copycat?
Or someone else?
It hadn’t escaped his notice it felt like there was something beneath all that had happened this year. The attacks on his family. The strange occurrences at the various Colton Empire properties. Even the arrival of Barton Evigan, seemingly from out of the woodwork, had been a surprise. Unpleasant, but out of place, as well.
“Colton!”
Trey whirled at the shout, various pieces falling into place as he registered the tableau spread out before him. Trace Evigan stood in the clearing, a gun of his own in hand.
But he had one distinct advantage.
Daria stood beneath the crook of his arm, held flush against his body as a gun lay pressed to her skull.
* * *
Aisha read the text from Trey, the early-morning missive a surprise. She was used to waking up to one of his texts—something he’d thought of during the night or even something goofy he’d seen on TV or read online winging its way to her—but nothing like this.
Our conversation isn’t over.
I’m not giving us up.
I love you.
There was a weird finality to it all, even as she wanted to believe the words. Did he think she was giving up?
Hadn’t she?
The question flew through her mind so quickly she couldn’t hide from it.
Wasn’t that exactly what she had done?
She’d painted him with the “Kenneth Brush” and let that color her view of everything happening between them. It wasn’t that they didn’t have things to work out—people went from friends to lovers in a flash in fairy tales, not real life—but she was being unfair to both of them to say they didn’t have their heads on straight.
Or not know what they wanted.
The ringing of her phone startled her, and she saw Bree’s name cover the face. An unnatural feeling of d
read filled her throat as she struggled to sit up. “Hey.”
“Aisha. You have to come. Meet me at the gallery.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Trey. Rylan got a call from Liam. He’s down at the park and his deputies have called in backup.”
If she hadn’t been sitting, Aisha knew she’d have fallen to her knees.
Suddenly it all came clear. That was the reason for the text. The weird sense of apology and finality.
He’d gone out to confront a killer.
* * *
Trey kept his focus on Trace and Daria, cursing himself every step of the way. He’d done this.
Pushed this.
Insisted on this.
“What are you doing here, Evigan?”
“What are you doing here?” the man shot back. “How’d you intercept me? Are you the caller?”
“What caller?”
Evigan tightened his hold on Daria when she attempted to speak, his body shaking as he stood behind her. “Don’t lie to me! It was you who made the call.”
“I didn’t. But I got a call, too. That wasn’t you?”
“Hell, no!” the man screamed back, and Trey kept his gaze on Daria. He knew she was trained in crisis management and knew she’d take whatever opportunity presented itself to get loose.
Which meant he had to be prepared.
He’d already turned off the safety on his weapon and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Trace Evigan. Even if it meant they knew less than when they’d arrived and would miss the opportunity to learn more.
Or even why both of them had been called there in the first place.
“Let her go, Evigan.”
“Are you crazy? What other protection do I have?”
“The protection of the law if you lower your weapon and let Deputy Bloom go.”
Trace snorted. “Right. Like you’re going to protect me.”
“I am. Because it’s my job and because it’s the right thing to do.”
“That’s a load of crap,” Evigan snarled.