Liam studied him objectively, sensitive to every nuance in Bryce’s body language and voice. “Did the news anger you? So angry that you murdered Presley?”
“No. Never.” He vehemently shook his head. “I would never have hurt Presley. She was adamant that she wanted to have the baby. At first, I tried to talk her out of it. I told my dad what had happened, and he exploded. Said giving up my scholarship was sacrificing my future. He had this grand delusion I could make it as a pro quarterback. Truth is, I never even enjoyed football all that much. A pro career was his dream, not mine.
“Anyway, we met that night—the night she died. After I’d had a day to absorb the news, I came over to talk with her and make plans.”
“Where did you meet her? What did you tell Presley that night?”
“It was bitter cold, so we met at her house.” A sheepish look flashed in his eyes. “Her mom was a little hard of hearing, which helped us from being discovered. Usually, she’d sneak out and meet me around the block, where I’d be waiting in my car. But this time, as arranged, Presley left the back door unlocked for me. When I came, she was there waiting, and we quietly slipped down to the basement. We were two scared kids, sitting on the rough, unfinished stairs, whispering in the semidarkness about what we were going to do. She hadn’t even told her mom yet, because she was afraid of disappointing her.”
Bryce’s face was haggard, steeped in that long-ago memory. “But at least, for that one night, I did the right thing. I offered to forgo college and start working and paying child support as best I could.”
Not that it mattered, but Liam was curious. “And how did Presley respond?”
“She was happy. Grateful. Promised that we’d figure it all out.” He let out a long sigh. “At least I have that memory.”
“And when you left—she was alive?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Can’t say I’m one hundred percent sure. Or maybe I’ve pushed the truth way down deep inside. I wanted to believe that it was just an accident. She fell, hit her head and lost consciousness. The food she’d been heating on the stove caught fire. People die from freak accidents every day. Even sixteen-year-old pregnant girls.”
“When did you realize it was no accident?” Liam asked softly.
“The very next day, when we heard the news of her death, Dad actually smiled. Smiled! It chilled me, you know? I couldn’t help remembering his rant when I’d confessed about the pregnancy less than twenty hours earlier. He’d claimed Presley was deliberately ruining my life. That I should talk her into getting an abortion. When I said I wouldn’t do that, he’d grown livid and stalked away. I figured he’d cool down and over time he’d accept the situation.”
He’d seen and heard plenty of chilling crimes, but this murder motive was pretty horrific. “You believe your own father killed Presley and his unborn grandchild? All for your football scholarship?”
“It’s what that scholarship represented to him—a way to fame and fortune.” A bitter laugh escaped Bryce. “Imagine his disappointment when I went to college and ended up sitting on the bench for two years. I finally quit and came home.”
“Did he ever admit killing Presley?”
“Not directly. And I was too afraid to ask him straight up. Even if he’d confessed, what would I have done with that knowledge? I was young and he was a respected firefighter—captain of the department, no less. The man responsible for investigating possible arson. The one reporters interviewed and who publicly swore it was an accident. Who’d have believed me?” He paused, overcome with emotion. “And you know what? Part of me wanted to think it couldn’t be true, that he couldn’t have done it. He was my father. And to imagine him doing that...”
Liam could feel for the difficult position Bryce had found himself in. Tough for anyone, let alone someone so young. Carlton sounded like a bully, a man who controlled his family by intimidation. But it didn’t necessarily mean he was a murderer. Perhaps he only wanted, in some twisted logic, for his son to believe he had the power to rule every aspect of his life. He had to ask.
“What do you mean by not directly? Did your father hint that he’d done this?”
“For years, it was this ugly, unspoken thing between us. I hoped—I tried—to believe my suspicions were ungrounded. But over the years, I became slowly aware that this gambling and prostitution ring existed. Even had a couple men tell me that Dad ran it. I finally confronted him.”
Bryce stopped his tale and briefly closed his eyes. Liam leaned forward, eager to hear the rest. “What did he say?”
Bryce opened his eyes—twin pools of helplessness that fixed on Liam. “He laughed. Can you believe it? I threatened him with arrest, and that’s when it all crashed down around me. He said that if I did, he’d ruin me. Dad turned on me, his own son. The former police chief, his best friend, had shown him Presley’s autopsy report. Dad secretly made a copy of it and threatened to release the report revealing that Presley was pregnant at the time of her death. He’d claim that I long ago confessed to murdering her in a fit of rage. That he—a loving father—had protected me from my crime. But that now he’d had a change of heart and could no longer live with his guilty conscience. He wanted to come clean and expose my murderous crime of passion.”
What a piece of work. Liam let out a low whistle. And here he’d imagined father and son were unusually close, when actually the lunches together and Carlton’s presence around the office were nothing more than a form of intimidation.
“What you’ve told me is still not a confession of murder, though. But we can arrest your father on the gambling charges and try to wrangle a murder confession—or several murder confessions, in fact. As I said, I believe the homeless men were killed to cover up the organized crime.”
Bryce covered his face with his hands and groaned. “Dad’s out of control.”
As sympathetic as Liam felt for his former boss, there was work to be done. And if Bryce wanted to right the many wrongs he’d allowed to occur in the town he’d sworn to protect, then it was time to act.
“You have to make a choice, Bryce. Today. Right now. We’re closing in. Are you going to help us or are you going to keep being intimidated by your father?”
Bryce sat up straight and gave a curt nod. “Where do we start?”
“Before we confront your dad, let’s line up all the evidence against him. First, we’ll go together to interview Gunner in the hospital and take along photos of every cop on this force, along with your dad’s photo. Hopefully, he can identify his attacker. Then we’ll try and force Sullivan to admit guilt and name names when faced with evidence.”
Officer Combs popped his head in the door. “Hey, boss. Your dad’s here for lunch.”
“Tell him I’m tied up today.”
Combs nodded and left.
Bryce set his shoulders back. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
Chapter Seventeen
The hot spray of water, combined with the rose-scented body wash, felt rejuvenating. Or maybe it was merely the glowing aftermath of last night’s lovemaking with Liam. Today, life seemed full of possibilities. Harper could resurrect her dad’s dreams of turning this old place into a B&B and hire a manager to oversee the operation. She could even sell her firm in Atlanta and reopen a new interior design firm right here in Baysville. There might not be the same pool of potential clients as Atlanta, but living expenses were cheaper here than in the big city. She could get by quite nicely with a smaller number of clientele.
Doubts suddenly assailed her. How would Liam react to all this? He might not be another commitment-phobe like Doug, but he might view her plans as being too much, too soon. But the truth was, she didn’t want to live in limbo indefinitely.
And what happened once Liam wrapped up his investigation in Baysville? Nothing tied him to this town. Richmond was his base of operations
. Could she handle moving from town to town while he worked various investigations? Worse, could she live knowing that every day held the possibility he might get shot? What kind of life was she contemplating?
She turned off the water, wringing her hair dry. She’d handle this one day at a time. Keep exploring her options. Have a talk with Liam.
That decided, she dressed quickly and then turned on her computer and investigated everything involved in opening a new business.
Ding. A new email notification. Her eyes scanned the list and noticed a new email that had no subject line. Probably junk the spam filter missed. She clicked on it. It was again sent from loser@life, but this time it contained no message. Who sends blank emails? Had to be a computer glitch of some kind. Yet her stomach cartwheeled as she remembered the earlier email warning her to get out of the house. Dismissively, she turned away from the computer and resolved to push the unsettling nonmessage aside.
She arose, stretched and faced the large four-poster bed with the rumpled bedsheets. Her thighs tightened as she remembered the things she and Liam had done there last night. He’d been a passionate, attentive lover, and it had been every bit as good as she’d imagined. Better, actually.
The best ever, in fact.
With a satisfied grin, she flung back the comforter and straightened the sheets. She ran a hand down the smooth cotton. Her fingers hit a small, sharp object between the fitted and flat sheets. An earring, perhaps? Harper turned down the top sheet and stared, bewildered at the lone jack.
And that makes ten. The last missing jack.
It hadn’t been there last night. Surely one of them would have noticed if it had. No one else had been in the house today. Liam had left early for work, and she’d fixed breakfast, done a little housecleaning, then hit the shower.
And yet...there it was.
A harmless trinket from a child’s game.
Harper rubbed the chill bumps on her arm, trying to convince herself it meant nothing. She backed away from the bed. Should she call Liam? And tell him what...she’d found a jack that was out of place? Even she smelled the whiff of crazy on that one. And she’d been taunted for years by schoolchildren calling her nuts...not going there again.
She wasn’t ever going to permanently live in this house. B&B or not. Irrational or not. One decision down, many more to go.
Harper shoved into her sneakers getting ready to head downstairs, wanting to be near an exit door...just in case. She berated her unease, even while taking measures to protect herself.
Ding.
Not again. She opened the second message from loser@life.
He’ll be coming for YOU next.
Her breath hitched, and her heart pummeled against her ribs. Next? The implication was clear—someone had been after Presley.
Harper turned off the computer and went downstairs. Everything in the kitchen was as she’d left it earlier. Purse on the table, car keys lying beside it. The familiarity of everything in its proper place comforted her, but not enough to want to spend the day alone in the house. She’d escape to the friendly confines of the public library for more research on opening a new business.
The phone rang, and she jumped. An unknown number. She answered it.
“Have you talked to Andrews yet?” Allen didn’t even bother giving his name before launching into his rude demand.
“Good morning to you, too. And yes, I talked to him.”
“Is he going to help me?”
“That’s his call, not mine.”
“I promise I’ve changed.”
What a loser. “Leave me alone, Allen. I’m busy.”
“No need to be rude,” he complained with a whine. “I’ll let you get back to work or whatever you were doing.”
Harper cut him off and began to stuff the phone back in her pocket when she heard it—a sliding, grinding noise from upstairs that pierced the silent house. This couldn’t be happening. Her entire house had been swept by the police to remove any bugs.
A thump landed somewhere above her head. A high-pitched wail rang out that was drowned by the roar of blood pounding in her ears. Running footsteps followed, and her eyes involuntarily slid to the stairs.
A pair of white stick legs appeared and—God help her, she didn’t want to see more—but her traitorous gaze continued its upward trajectory, feet rooted to the floor. A thin creature stood dressed in dirty rags that hung loosely on a frame that could have been a child’s or a man’s or...something else altogether.
And then she faced him.
It.
The thing of her nightmares.
The thing that had hovered over Presley’s broken body.
It possessed large black eyes set in an emaciated face with sunken cheekbones. Dirt smudged its white cheeks, and the hair was thin, partly balding and hung in greasy shoulder-length clumps, the ends as ragged as if shorn by a pair of child’s scissors.
The smell hit her senses next. Putrid. That explains the mysterious odors, she thought hysterically. It was coming for her. Just like it had for her sister.
“Get out! He’s coming!” it yelled.
What did that mean? Was he talking about himself in third person? She didn’t aim to find out. Her body caught up with her mind’s urgent scream of danger, and Harper raced to the foyer on shaky legs.
A pounding erupted from behind the front door. A knock that reverberated in every cell of her brain.
“Don’t open that door!” it—he—yelled. The thing—the man—was closer now, at least halfway down the stairs.
Like hell she wasn’t opening the door. Harper snatched it open, gulping air. She blinked at the person standing before here. “Captain Fairfax?” He was retired, but everyone still addressed him by his old title.
She couldn’t have asked for a more welcome sight, unless it had been Liam—rather, that’s what her mind tried to insist. But her fear only grew.
Be logical. This was the man who’d patiently investigated the fire. The first on the scene that night to save her and Mom all those years ago.
Trouble was, Harper had never cared for him. Not then, not now. Especially not coming so close on the heels of the warning still ringing in her ears.
“Who else is here?” Fairfax asked in his booming voice. “Thought I heard a scream.”
She glanced behind her, but the man had disappeared. It was the past happening all over again. Except this time, it was early morning instead of late night. Which somehow made it all the more terrifying.
Yet, a calm, still voice inside her warned, don’t let this man in the house. So what if he found her mentally unstable for an irrational refusal to invite him in?
“If you’ll excuse me, I was on my way out,” she lied, making a move to cross the threshold.
Fairfax laid a beefy arm across the space between them, a barricade. His gaze shifted past her shoulder, to the kitchen table where her purse and keys sat in plain view.
“Leaving without your things?” he asked drily.
“Going for a walk,” she countered, trying not to show she was flustered.
“We need to talk first.”
“Okay, let’s sit on the porch.” She glanced at the driveway and frowned. “Where’s your car?”
“Down the street,” he answered evasively. “I had lunch in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.”
He said it like this was a normal occurrence, as though they were friends who frequently visited.
They were not.
“Where did you eat? The Crab Shack? I love their shrimp tacos.” She had this insane idea that if she kept him talking long enough at the door, someone would eventually stroll by and she could call out to them.
“Have you ever had their shrimp steamed in Old Bay seasoning?” she babbled on. “It’s the best.”
“Not here to discuss food.” Hi
s mouth set into a determined line, and the yellow flecks in his brown eyes glowed in a feral manner. It made her think of hungry wolves closing in on their prey.
Don’t let him sniff out your fear. Harper raised her chin and aimed for an attitude of cool indignation. “Mr. Fairfax,” she said in a voice as cold and crisp as celery. “I told you I’m on my way out. Now step aside.”
Gauntlet thrown.
He didn’t even attempt a show of civility. “No. Get inside.”
Abruptly, she ducked and tried to slip under his arm. He gave a mirthless chuckle, lowering his hand and forcing her back inside the house. Frantically, she searched the deserted street. Where was Mrs. Henley when she actually wanted to see her?
“What do you think you’re doing?” Harper glared, faking a bravado she did not feel and praying that none of her fear showed through the righteous anger.
“I’m not leaving here until we’ve had a little talk.”
Futile. She wasn’t going to get past his tall, stocky frame blocking the exit. Perhaps even worse than that alarming fact was the knowledge that somewhere either behind her or off to the side—the creature lay in wait. Be smart and focus. One enemy at a time. There must be a way out.
And just like that, the answer arrived in a flash. Harper pivoted, racing to the back door. Her shins slammed against the kitchen table as she fled, but she barely registered the pain. There was only the roaring in her ears, the sharp, labored breath sawing in and out of her chest, and the overriding, screaming dictate to run. The command flooded her body with adrenaline.
Go, go, go.
If the creature was nearby, she didn’t see it. Eyes trained straight ahead, Harper concentrated on the back door near the basement. Next to the door was a large window with a view of the backyard. A black truck was parked close to the screened-in porch. Fairfax’s truck? Had he been the one stalking them all along? The sight filled her with more dread. No good reason for him to hide his vehicle from public view. None at all. She tried to banish an image of Carlton Fairfax dragging her into the truck, never to be seen or heard from again.
Unmasking the Shadow Man Page 16