by Layla Reyne
“Sure do.” He held Sean’s phone close to the bloom, spread his fingers on the screen to zoom, and snapped another picture. “Got it.”
Very carefully, Sean pushed the petals aside and pulled a single hair out of the center.
“So our killer has blond hair,” Marsh said. “Rachel still fits the bill.”
A resigned curse was on the tip of Sean’s tongue when another terrible possibility tore through him. A knife twisted in his chest as a horrifying picture came together, one he should have seen before but had been willfully blind to, the truth too awful to imagine. “Rachel’s hair is dark blond and curly.” He held up the long, straight, white-blond strand.
Marsh’s eyes grew wide, realization dawning. “Sean, you can’t think…”
“It all fits. All of it fucking fits. She must know about Alice.” He doubled over in agony, clutching his knees and gasping for breath. Gripped so tight in fear’s jaws he couldn’t think, couldn’t move, could barely breathe. “Call them back,” he wheezed.
Marsh didn’t need to be told twice, using Sean’s phone in his hand to call Trevor.
“Sean!” Trevor answered. “Are you on your way? You’re closer.”
“I don’t think it’s Rachel,” Sean managed to choke out.
“But the evidence—”
“Also points to Annabelle Henby.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Juggling a box of Annie’s favorite red velvet cupcakes and a tray of coffees, Charlie waved off the patrol car that had followed her over, then strode into Annie’s house, the soft hum of the dishwasher the only sound that greeted her.
“Annie?” she called to no response. “Wally?”
A half-full laundry basket sat on the floor by the open back door. She was probably outside fighting with the dryer again. Probably recruited Wally to help her too.
Charlie paused in the kitchen to unload the cupcakes and coffees and dropped her bag on the end of the counter by a set of keys. They weren’t Annie’s usual keys. Those were on a gilded stack-of-books key chain she and Trevor had given Annie when she’d graduated her MLS program. These were on a plastic Cape Hatteras Lighthouse key chain like the ones you’d get at the gift shop there. The key chain was familiar, but Charlie couldn’t immediately place it.
She unclipped her weapon and set it on the counter next to the other items before making her way outside. Hearing the dryer buzz, she rounded the back of the house in the direction of the utility room, then froze midstep, her instincts and mind processing the scene in front of her.
Rachel, bound and gagged, unconscious on the utility room floor. A person, dressed in all black, looming over her, a loaded syringe in one hand, one of Cal’s old bats in the other.
Cal’s station keys, Charlie’s mind clicked. He’d been carrying them on that lighthouse key chain when he’d been killed. A split second after making that connection, Charlie understood the rest, comprehending exactly the scene before her.
Their killer was someone with ties to HU and HPD, who had been a student at the former, was an employee of the latter, and liaised between the two. Someone who had likely heard about Jefferson Marshall’s tenure-voting tendencies, who must have known about Julian Hirsch’s extramarital affairs, who was on the case last year involving Teller’s players, who, with the help of a badge, could likely access the drugs and syringes that had incapacitated their victims, could access Beth Martin’s office, could access the equestrian center and natatorium. Who had been at those crime scenes. Someone who had been tight with Cal and who, Charlie had always suspected, had had a crush on Annie.
Someone who had recently lost a friend and work partner and a potential love interest.
Sean was right. This case was about vengeance and unhealthy obsession, but they’d gotten the who of it wrong. It wasn’t Trevor at the center of this storm; it was Cal and Annie.
And Officer Wallace Sylvan.
He stared at Charlie from over Rachel’s body, his light blue eyes full of anger and resentment.
Charlie’s gaze flicked down to Rachel. “Did you kill her?” She reached for her sidearm and cursed herself for removing it. But fuck, she hadn’t anticipated needing her gun in her sister’s backyard. Where was Annie? She took a step forward, then halted abruptly when Wallace drew his gun and pointed it at Rachel’s head.
“She’s not my target, but one more step and she’ll be collateral damage. There’s a lot of that in Shakespeare’s tragedies.”
“Where’s Annie?” she asked, worrying about other collateral damage.
Stepping over Rachel and out of the utility room, Wallace stalked toward her with the gun and the loaded syringe. “Annie took a walk like she always does when she gets home. A little earlier today than usual, but after that scene at the cemetery…”
Charlie’s gut churned. She’d asked for Wally on backup. She began back tracking toward the house, toward her gun on the kitchen counter. “Let’s talk about this, Wallace.”
His eyes flashed dangerously, and in that instant, Charlie knew there’d be no reasoning with him. Spinning on her heel, she bolted for the house and ran smack into Annie coming out the back door.
“Get out!” she shouted at her sister, as she kicked the laundry basket over and shoved Annie toward the living room on the other side of the raised dining bar. “Go, go, go!”
Annie teetered, confused and off-balance, into the living room, knocking over lamps and tables. Continuing to track her movements as she raced parallel through the kitchen, Charlie reached for her gun and curled her fingers around its grip, only to have it knocked loose when the baseball bat came hurtling down on her outstretched forearm. Bones cracked, and Charlie’s legs gave out from under her, pain making her dizzy. The gun skidded down the counter out of reach, knocking the box of cupcakes and coffees to the floor.
“Annie, get out of here!” She screamed from her knees, clutching her arm.
To her horror and dismay, Annie stopped dead in her tracks less than a foot from the front door. Her wide, terrified eyes were locked on a point over Charlie’s shoulder. “Wally, what are you doing?”
A telltale click echoed in Charlie’s ear, followed by the press of steel against her temple.
Wallace’s voice was as cold and hard as the gun pointed at her head. “Making sure you get everything you deserve by taking it all from her.”
Annie’s wrecked gaze fell to her, searching for an explanation, beseeching her older sister to make it all better, but all Charlie managed was a whispered “I love you” before a needle pricked her neck and her world faded to black.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sean careened into the circular driveway of Mitch’s old house—Annie’s now—and brought the borrowed police cruiser to a screeching halt behind two other cruisers. Charlie’s Mustang was parked in front of the garage, a spark of hope. Snuffed out as he looked past the car to the front patio, its screen door hanging off its hinges.
He shoved open the car door and barely missed colliding with Marsh in front of the car as they ran toward the house. “Are they here?” Sean shouted at the uniformed officer—not Wallace—who stepped outside. “Are Charlie and Annie here?” he repeated. “Where’s Officer Sylvan?”
“They’re gone,” the officer said. “We followed Charlie here earlier. She waved us off. Wally’s car was here.” She pointed toward the cruisers, then removed her cap and ran a shaking hand over her hair. “We turned around as soon as we got the call from dispatch.”
“Where’s your partner?” Marsh asked.
“Utility room.” She gestured the opposite direction, toward the backyard. “We found Rachel tied up and unconscious. She was just starting to come to when we got here.”
Sean moved toward the door, but Marsh stepped in front of him. “Careful, Hale, this is a crime scene,” he reminded before leading Sean through the patio and into the house.
Sean froze the instant Marsh stepped aside, his insides clenching at the destruction.
Cupcakes and coffee spille
d on the kitchen floor. Charlie’s holstered gun teetering on the edge of the cracked kitchen counter, a baseball bat and used syringe beside it.
Sheer terror overwhelmed him. Charlie was injured. He’d just gotten her back. He couldn’t lose her, not again. He couldn’t let Trevor lose her either.
Fuck. Trevor. How was he going to react to this? Was there enough power in the universe to contain him?
“Lock it down.” Marsh’s stern order— Sean called it the army voice—cut through his panicked haze. “Lock it down and focus. What do you see?”
Taking a deep breath, he beat back the terror and forced himself to detach and examine the rest of the scene. Beyond the mess in the kitchen, at the opposite end of the galley, by the open back door, a laundry basket was tipped over, clothes scattered on the floor. To his left, the living room was in disarray. End tables toppled, two broken lamps, muddy shoe prints on the floor. There’d been a chase, an attempted escape, a struggle. Charlie had gone for her weapon, but Annie had gotten the upper hand, wielding the bat and syringe. She’d knocked Charlie out and dragged her out of the house. Had Wally helped her? Was he unconscious somewhere too?
“Where’s Abel?”
“Right here,” came the older man’s voice, followed by a “Holy fuck” in a second voice Sean hadn’t expected.
Trevor stood over the threshold, his face white as a ghost, his hazel eyes wide with fear.
Behind him, Jaylen and Diego didn’t look much better.
“Annie’s got her,” Sean said as they stared past him, gazes jumping from one horrific sight to the next.
Marsh clasped Trevor’s shoulder while Sean addressed the others. “Wally’s missing too.”
Abel shook his head, dazedly looking around the rooms. “How’d we miss this?”
“Abel,” Sean spoke sharply, mimicking Marsh from earlier. “We don’t have time for that right now. We have to get to Charlie and Annie and find Wallace.”
“Wally has them.”
The three of them spun toward the scratchy voice. Rachel stood just outside the patio door, leaning against another uniformed officer. Abel moved first, lunging for Rachel and wrapping her in his arms. “Baby, you okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” She accepted his embrace, but her attention remained locked on Sean.
As did his on what she’d said. “Wally has them?”
Rachel nodded. “Wallace Sylvan is the killer, not Annie.” She sniffled and cuddled closer to Abel. “I thought it might be Annie too after the roses at the station, so I came here to talk to her, but Annie was on a walk and Wally attacked me.” Her voice cracked, tears winning out, and she turned into Abel’s embrace.
And Sean turned back to the scene, considering it anew. Considering past events in a new light too. The nosy young officer with light blue eyes, a too-thin nose, and peeling sunburnt skin at Mitch and Cal’s funeral. An officer who had been at the other crime scenes this week, including at the natatorium. The officer who had told Craig Rowan they had a suspect in custody.
“He’s municipal affairs, right?” Sean asked. “Dealing with HU and city hall?”
“That’s right,” Jaylen said, a terseness in his voice Sean had never heard there.
“Voluntarily?” Marsh asked.
“Said he needed a break,” Abel supplied. “After everything with Cal and the Salazar case.”
Threads began to come together in Sean’s head. “And he was tight with Cal?”
“Cal was his partner. He and Annie were close too.”
“Always thought he wanted more with her,” Jaylen said, his voice gone brittle.
“Was he involved in the Teller case last year?” Sean asked.
“Yeah,” said Diego from the doorway. “He was HPD’s liaison with Atlanta PD.”
“Fuck me,” Trevor said beside him, clearly coming to the same conclusion.
It was never Rachel. Nor Annie. It was Wallace Sylvan. And he was targeting Charlie as Lady Macbeth. For calling Cal to come get her the night of the accident, which he’d somehow learned about. For taking Alice, Mitch, and Cal from Annie. For climbing the HPD ranks.
The rose with Annie’s hair in it beneath the bleachers.
A gift. A clue the killer couldn’t help leaving.
Sean shivered. “We need to get an APB out on Wallace Sylvan.”
“On it,” Diego said, turning back for the driveway.
Marsh grasped Sean’s arm. “My tablet’s in the car. I’m going to go grab it and start running searches.”
“Let me get Rachel checked out,” Abel said, “and I’ll get on the horn too.”
Sean figured Jaylen would follow them out, but he stepped closer instead, lowering his voice. “I need to get Annie back.” He wiped a hand down his face, and the professional mask fell away, the full weight of his distress becoming obvious. “I love her, and she’s the mother of my unborn child.”
Trevor’s unsteadiness intensified, and he rocked into Sean’s side. “Annie’s pregnant?”
Jaylen nodded. “Annie wanted Charlie to accept the FBI job first. She didn’t want either of you to pass up your futures to stay here with her.” He returned his gaze to Sean. “Please, man, we gotta get them back.”
“We will.” Sean squeezed his shoulder. “Give me two minutes here, then we’ll sort a game plan.”
Jaylen said his thanks, then joined the others in the driveway. Beside Sean, Trevor was a different deteriorating story. His breathing had become erratic, his head frantically shaking back and forth. The fear in his eyes was an emotion Sean understood all too well.
Sean angled to fully face him and framed Trevor’s face with his hands. “Trevor, focus.” He waited the couple of seconds it took for the other man’s breaths to settle. “Wallace needed to get away quick. A car would be too obvious. We could intercept. How else could he get out of here fast?”
Trevor stared wide-eyed at him for a moment, then hung his head. “The boat.”
“What boat?”
“The family boat we keep at the marina at the end of the street.”
Sean grabbed Trevor’s hand and dragged him out of the house to the driveway where Diego and Jaylen were waiting. “Get down to the marina,” he told the officers. “See if the Henby boat’s missing. Slip number?” he asked Trevor.
“Twelve. Wild Pitch.”
“Got it.” Diego took off running to his police cruiser, Jaylen on his heels.
Sean headed for the borrowed cruiser, Trevor still in tow. “That boat have GPS on it?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Ping the GPS on the boat,” he said to Marsh, who was leaning on the front fender. “I think I know where Wallace is going, but we need to be sure.”
Trevor gave him the registration number.
“Call when you’ve got a lock on it,” Sean said, ducking into the driver’s seat and shouting out the passenger window to Trevor. “Get in. You’re with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Heavy.
Everything was so heavy. Her limbs, her eyelids, the ache in her head, the knot in her stomach.
Charlie peeked open an eye and swiftly slammed it shut against the blinding sun. Groaning, she tried to move her arms from where they were bent uncomfortably behind her, rope binding her wrists, but then a searing pain shot through her right one, clearing the remaining brain fog. Recent events came crashing back.
Wallace Sylvan was their killer, and he’d attacked her and Annie.
Annie.
She croaked out her sister’s name, her voice like sandpaper over her dry throat and cracked lips, a side effect of the Diprivan.
“She’s fine,” Wallace’s too-calm voice said from behind her. “Just taking a nap.”
Charlie slowly blinked open her eyes, letting them adjust to the bright sunlight. She was lying on her side, facing the bow of the family boat, the tall reeds of the Intracoastal Waterway passing on either side of the prow. Angling her head, she looked past her bound feet to where Annie lay pron
e against one side of the deck. Her wrists were bound in front of her, and blood dripped from a wound on the side of her head. Wallace must have cold-cocked her with the gun, knocking her out, but judging from the steady rise and fall of her chest, she was breathing normally. But she needed to get that head wound seen too ASAP, which meant Charlie had to get them out of this situation ASAP.
She curled upright, and pain throbbed in her head and arm. She leaned against the steering column, taking deep breaths and trying to focus despite the nausea. After Wallace had incapacitated her, the world had gone mostly black, only bits and pieces cutting through the fog. Annie crying, begging Wallace to let them go, even as he forced her to tie Charlie’s hands and feet. Annie mentioning a baby. Wallace carrying Charlie across the rocking marina docks to the boat. Then nothing until the rhythmic bump and swish of the boat and the vibrating phone in her pocket had pulled her toward wakefulness.
It couldn’t have been long between the house and now. A quick survey of their surroundings confirmed Wallace had navigated out of the marina, into the sound, then up the waterway. He slowed the boat’s speed and steered into one of the many inland streams that fed the marshy waterway between the mainland and coast.
Five minutes later, the dilapidated bridge where her mother had died appeared before them. Charlie’s fear skyrocketed. What sort of vengeance was Wallace planning? Why did Annie need to be there? How did Wallace even know the truth about Alice’s death?
Her phone vibrated again, silencing the spiral and focusing her. She counted back the calls since she’d begun to wake. That was the fourth one. Sean would know by now that something was wrong, and the boat had GPS. Trevor would know that. So would Abel. She just needed to buy more time for Sean and HPD to reach them.
The boat rammed ashore near one of the crumbling bridge foundations, sending Charlie skidding across the deck toward Annie. Charlie scooted in front of her, hands fumbling behind her back for Annie’s wrists to check her pulse. Strong, delicate fingers curled around her own. With Wallace bearing down on them, a gun in one hand, a Bowie knife in the other, Charlie didn’t dare look back and give away that Annie was awake. Instead, she squeezed her fingers and whispered “Stay down” under her breath.