Winter (Four Seasons #1)

by Frankie Rose

  “WHY ARE my sheets on the floor?” Luke hands me a plate of toast. He’s buttered the slices all the way to the edges as if he somehow knew I wouldn’t eat them otherwise. I shrug sheepishly and accept the plate.

  “I was too hot?”

  “You’re crazy! It was freezing last night. I woke up three times because my hands and feet had gone numb.”

  My hands and feet hadn’t fared that well either, but I couldn’t deal with having his bedclothes on top of me. It felt like he was on top of me, and I was scared by how that made me feel. I crunch down on a piece of toast and chug the coffee he’s made for me—extra sweet again.

  “I’m gonna grab a quick shower, then I’ll drop you off at the hospital, okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “If you want a shower, too, you’re more than welcome to join me,” he says, winking. I choke on my mouthful of coffee, the scalding hot liquid shooting up the back of my nose. Luke bursts out laughing. “That’s what I thought.” He slings a huge white towel over his shoulder and vanishes down the hallway, leaving me struggling for oxygen. That’s what I thought? He expected me to spray my drink everywhere? Did he think I was reacting out of horror or embarrassment? Because holy hell my reaction was embarrassing. I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, still staring after him. A small part of me wants to storm down the hallway and rip the bathroom door open so I can give him a piece of my mind for teasing me. And another, worryingly large part of me wants to storm down the hallway and rip the bathroom door open so I can strip naked and make him screw me in the shower.

  I hear the water running, and my skin breaks out in goosebumps. Stop thinking about that! Stop thinking about that, dammit! I’ve got to take my mind off Naked Luke, dripping wet, running his hands over his soaped up, ridiculously toned body. How my body would feel slipping and sliding against his as he pushed inside me again and again, the scorching hot water raining down on our writhing bodies. Gah! What the hell is wrong with me?

  I inch over to the low sideboard and stroke my fingers across the file that still sits there. The instant I make contact with it, it feels as though I’ve been doused with a bucket of cold water. Well, at least the tactic worked. My heart rate trebles when I find myself opening it up at random. I’ve opened up in a safe place. Barely legible text, scrawled in blue and red and black biro, marks page after page after page. I flick through them, not focusing on the paper for too long in case I read something I don’t want to. Stupid, really, considering I want to pick this apart until I find something to clear Dad, and I’m too nervous to even read the reports. I’m about a quarter way though the file when a photo slips out of the papers and floats down to the floor. The face of a pale young girl stares up at me from the polished hardwood flooring, about fifteen years old. Her blonde hair is so colorless it’s almost silver. Other than the bleached whiteness of her skin and the fragile purple tinge to her lips, she doesn’t particularly look dead. Her blue eyes are open, staring; the accusing glare behind them makes me shiver. I suppose she looks a little like me when I was her age. More than a little like me, in fact.

  “Already playing detective?” Luke asks, inches behind me. I jump so hard I nearly drop my coffee mug.

  “Geez, are you trying to…kill me?” My brain momentarily shuts down when I see he is only wearing a towel and water is beaded across his naked chest and down his arms. I’m right back to my fantasy from the shower. The tattoos I’ve been catching glimpses of are pretty extensive: tribal black ink that traces across the tops of his shoulders and down his arms a short ways, stark and contrasting against the faint golden tan of his skin. Over his right pec, the letters D.M.F are scrawled in swooping cursive.

  I snap my eyes to his face so I have to stop staring, and Luke gives me a slight smile. He stoops to pick up the photo, displaying that the tattoos continue onto his back, too—arching, tribal wings that sweep across his shoulder blades in broad, powerful black lines. The ink really compliments his body, mirrors the way his muscles shift under his skin when he moves. He straightens, holding the towel around his waist, and hands over the photo.

  “Here.” The smile on his face has grown, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. If he does, he’s apparently not going to oblige my fantasy by losing the towel, flinging me over his shoulder, carrying me to his bedroom and punishing me really hard.

  “Thanks.” I snatch the photo back and study it intensely. The fierce clenching of my jaw probably counters the hot blush on my face, but still…I’m reacting like a thirteen year old who’s never seen a shirtless guy before.

  “What’s the D.M.F stand for?” I ask nonchalantly, pretending to be unfazed. But holy shit, am I fazed.

  “S’the band’s name,” he tells me. “The guys thought it’d be amusing to tease people with initials and never tell them what they stand for.”

  “And what do they stand for?”

  Luke cocks an eyebrow, his smile ruinous now. “I’d literally wash up on the banks of the Hudson with no teeth or fingerprints if I told you that.”

  “Well damn.” I realize I’m still holding the photo that fell out of the file. What the hell am I doing stuttering like an idiot when I’m supposed to be concentrating on the job at hand? I mentally curse myself and block out Luke’s tattoos and near nakedness. “Do you know who this girl is?” I ask, trying to force a note of indifference into my voice. Luke sweeps his wet hair out of his eyes and glances at the blonde girl staring lifelessly out of the picture.

  “No. Like I said, I was waiting for you before I looked at everything.” He carefully places his hand over mine and turns the image over, leaning closer to read the writing on the back.

  Loreli Whitman August 6th

  Poisoning. Shore of Jackson Lake, Grand Teton National Park.

  Poisoning. That explains why there’s no blood in the picture. No signs of a fight. I step away from Luke and slot the picture back in the file. “Only two girls were poisoned, right? What was it? What did the killer use?”

  “Strychnine. It’s a convulsant. Both girls asphyxiated. These were the two last killings before they stopped altogether. They were also the only ones with the fourth symbol on their palms.” Luke leafs through the file until he finds a picture of the symbols and points out the one the poison victims were branded with. It’s the circular one from the piece of paper Luke sent me the other day—the one with two smaller circles inside.

  “My contact in Wyoming PD says these girls were different to the others. Their deaths weren’t as violent. Well, in comparison, of course. Asphyxiation’s still a horrible way to die.”

  I take a sip of my coffee and sit myself down on the leather sofa, trying not to picture how that would feel. Luke carries on talking. “She said it was almost like they’d been treated reverently. Their hair had been brushed out and their finger and toenails had been painted. They were wearing dresses their parents had never seen before. It was like he’d decided to dress those two up like dolls.”

  “That’s totally sick. But why was it so strange?”

  “Because…” He cups his hand to the back of his neck and grimaces. “The other deaths were so different. Violent and cruel. They weren’t treated with any kindness. They were defiled in most cases, some worse than others.”

  My chest tightens, and I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands. I’ve considered asking about that but I haven’t had the nerve. I link the acts with the allegations being made by Colby Bright—that my Dad is behind all of this—and it’s too much to take. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Sorry, Ave. I know this is hard. I shouldn’t have involved you. I’ll do most of the digging myself from here on in. I’ll let you know if I come across anything noteworthy, okay?”

  I try to steel my nerves, try to form words to tell him that it doesn’t matter and I can do it, but I really can’t. Can’t form the words, and can’t face the details, either. Maybe it would be better to let him do the legwork. But my dad…that would feel like I
’d failed him. Let him down. “Luke?”

  “Yeah?” He looks at me, his eyes filled with an intensity that makes my breathing sharp. I force myself not to look away.

  “Does this not bother you anymore? If I just keep going, will it get easier?”

  Luke’s expression falls flat. “No. It never gets easier.”