Chapter 14
I try to keep the surprise from showing at Gabe’s words, but honestly, I assumed the lightkeeper wasn’t home, so when I spin around and see a blurry shadow of a man looming on his front porch, my brows shoot to my hairline.
The house isn’t big, it’s not like he wouldn’t have heard me knocking.
He’s tall and trim, his shaggy and unkempt silvery-white hair glowing underneath the dim yellow of his porch light. And as he moves off the front step and stomps toward us—something dangling from his hand—I can tell that, at least at one time, he carried himself well.
“What do you mean for the first time in a decade?” I ask Gabe.
“I mean he doesn’t come out of that house. Ever.”
I twist around to meet Gabe’s stare, my insides turning at his statement—and maybe a little bit at the fact he’s so calm and collected at the scene of a murder—almost as if he can’t be bothered by it. Although, I suppose I shouldn’t cast stones at glass houses.
“He has to leave sometime,” I respond. “How does he survive? Get food? Have company?”
Gabe takes another sip of his cider and nods his head toward Lincoln. “Ask lover boy here.”
Lincoln sighs, and my gaze moves to him, ignoring the fluttering of my stomach when he meets my stare. “So you are close?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he bites out.
Gabe chuckles. “It matters a little. You come out here every single week.”
Shock flows through me. “You do?”
Lincoln shrugs. “It’s not like he’d take care of himself.”
“From what I hear, he seems a little crazy.” I chew on the inside of my lip.
“He’s not crazy,” Lincoln snaps. “He’s grieving. And the assholes in this town have never shown his family or him basic human decency or respect.”
I snort. “Funny, coming from you.”
His eyes narrow. “He deserves it.”
Fire surges through my veins at his words, reminding me of all the reasons why letting him shove his tongue in my mouth was a terrible decision. I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, the crunch of gravel steals my attention away.
Lincoln’s eyes soften as they slide behind me, and a pinch of something sharp hits my chest, knowing that he’ll never look at me like that. With warmth.
I shake it off, reminding myself I don’t need him to like me anyway. That’s not what I’m here for. I have a job to do—starting with the lightkeeper and the dead bodies showing up on and around his property.
Twirling around, I come face-to-face with Paul Jensen for the first time. A chill makes me shudder as I take him in. His shoulders are back and his jaw is set as he glares down at us, his deep blue eyes bouncing from Gabe to Lincoln and then to me, his fist tightening around what I can now see is a rifle. Animosity pours from his body and slams into me like a battering ram, but beyond that, there’s a heaviness that resonates around him, and it feels a lot like grief.
It’s impossible not to notice, and a little bit of anger bleeds into my veins, wondering how the people in town could miss it when it saturates the air just from him existing within it.
Or maybe they don’t miss it, and they simply don’t care. My gaze flicks back to Lincoln.
“Mr. Jensen, good to see you out and about,” Gabe says, a teasing lightness to his tone.
The lightkeeper grunts in response, and I take him in slowly, from the worn jeans on his legs to the tattered flannel hanging off his thin frame. I try to see him with eyes of a detective, instead of the eyes of a human with empathy, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t difficult.
“What the hell are you doing on my property?” His voice is rough, like sandpaper against skin, as if he hasn’t used it in years.
And that, more than the melancholy that seeps from his pores, has my chest pulling tight, sad that he has no one to talk to.
Solitude can drive even the sanest people mad.
Lincoln sighs. “Hey, Mr. Jensen. Sorry about all this.” He waves his arms around. “I was just here to mulch, and well...”
My eyes bounce from him to the fresh mulch in the garden beds at the front of the house. Lincoln did that?
“I don’t appreciate you bringing the pigs,” Mr. Jensen says.
Lincoln’s jaw tics. “Trust me, it wasn’t my choice.”
“Aw, come on, Mr. Jensen, we aren’t all bad,” Gabe pipes in, straightening from where he was leaning against the side of his car. “But we do need to get to the bottom of why there’s a dead girl on your property.” He tilts his head. “You know anything about that?”
My gaze narrows, irritation brewing in my stomach at Gabe trying to take over the questioning. Him basically accusing the lightkeeper out of the gate isn’t going to do us any favors.
Mr. Jensen’s eyes narrow. “Do you have something you’d like to say to me, Gabriel Wilson?”
Gabe smirks. “Just doing my job.”
“Doubtful,” Mr. Jensen spits.
Headlights flash down the drive, a black hearse’s tires crunching on the loose rocks of the driveway. A cop car follows behind, and Captain Stoll exits the vehicle as soon as it stops, adjusting his belt and making his way toward us.
About time.
“Get the hell off my property, boys, and take this dead girl with you.” Mr. Jensen points the end of his rifle toward the body before spinning on his heels and heading back toward his house.
My gut churns at his nonchalance. He didn’t seem surprised that there was a dead body on his property, and more than that, he didn’t seem to care. That’s not really a good look for a person of interest. But then again, it doesn’t really fit for a suspect either. He wouldn’t just murder someone in his front yard.
Right?
My eyes go back to the lightkeeper, and my feet start to move but I’m tugged back by a harsh grip.
I know without even looking who it is. The burn of his touch is still fresh in my memory, scorching so deep I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get it out.
“Don’t.”
“I have to, Lincoln. It’s my job,” I reply.
“So bring him in.” There’s a pleading tone in his voice, one that has me listening closer than normal. This doesn’t seem like it’s Lincoln just being a jerk. This feels personal. “But you won’t get answers out of him this way. And he’s upset, you shouldn’t go near him...” he trails off.
I spin around, his unsaid words hanging thick in the air. “You don’t think…”
The way he’s speaking, the careful way he weaves his words, it almost sounds as if he thinks the lightkeeper is dangerous. Like he had something to do with it.
Lincoln scoffs, shaking his head, but I don’t miss the hesitation that flickers in his eyes or the inhale of breath before he does.
A small smile tips the corner of my lips. “Careful, Mr. Porter. Someone might think you actually care.”
“Detective Sloane,” Captain Stoll’s voice cuts through the tension. I shrug out of Lincoln’s grip and make my way over to where Gabe and him stand; the coroner already having bagged the body.
“Hi, has Gabe briefed you?” I ask.
He nods, slapping Gabe on the shoulder. “Best officer we’ve got. He’s told me the lay of the land. I’m bringing out Klepsky to gather the evidence and take some pictures. He said he’s already close by.”
My brows raise, happy the police department is finally starting to take this seriously. “Sounds good.” I smile. “I’ll make a call to my boss and see if they can send out forensics to help.”
Captain Stoll cuts a hand through the air. “No need. We can handle it.”
Frustration bubbles in my veins and I step in closer. “With all due respect, Captain, you called me here because your precinct isn’t equipped to handle this. And clearly, this is more than just a random murder. We’re dealing with someone who’s calculated. Precise. And they’re not going to stop. So unless you enjoy having the people in your town showing up dead
with carvings in their skin, I suggest you let me do my job, and call in reinforcements.”
Blood pumps through my ears, but Captain Stoll just clenches his jaw, brushes a hand over his mouth, and nods.
Satisfied, I pull out my phone and jog to the other side of the drive, glancing quickly at where Lincoln is resting against the side of the car with Gabe, his arms crossed and eyes tracking my movement.
I want to call Alex, but I know at this point, I need to call my boss instead to brief him, see if he can send out a couple of forensic guys to stay on the island.
Because the ugly truth is that Skelm Island is dealing with a serial killer.
And it’s up to me to find them.
Chapter 15
“No. Absolutely fucking not. No goddamn way.”
Gabe at least has the decency to look ashamed, toying with the strap of a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Past him, Detective Caruso assists Sloane with unloading luggage from the trunk of her car.
They speak in hushed voices, casting sidelong looks around my property, surveying the area from where they’re parked by the outbuilding.
As if you can learn the secrets of these woods or water by observing them.
“It’s just a few weeks, Lincoln.”
Captain’s request. Christ, I have half a mind to head back downtown and lay into Stoll myself, even though I know it won’t do any good. Clearly, the next course of action regarding the island’s recent murders has already been set, and like everything else in this fucking town, I’m caught right in the middle of it.
So much for lobstering in peace the way my pops somehow managed to his whole life. If he could only see me now, ruining the family business.
Not that it really needed my help in that regard. Part of me thinks the only reason the Porter Lobster Co. stayed afloat for so long was because of my father’s involvement with the local harbor gangs. And they don’t particularly like me.
I could’ve refused to let the detectives stay, of course. Third Amendment, and all. But my mother’s concerns for her safety—considering the victims thus far have been her good friends—outweighed my disdain for police presence.
But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about the invasion.
My fingers curl into the doorframe, wood splintering beneath them as Caruso piles one suitcase on top of another. I shoot Gabe a look. “It looks like they’re moving in.”
Twisting his head around, he works his jaw, watching as the detectives gather their belongings and head up the dirt path to the porch. He shifts on his heels, pressing a hand against the radio clipped to his chest as it crackles with police codes.
“I’m sure it’ll be over before you know it,” he says, dropping his duffel bag to his feet. “Probably.”
“Are you filling our gracious host with false hope, officer?” Caruso asks as he approaches, rolling a large suitcase behind him.
He brings a hand up to the collar of his windbreaker, unzipping it to reveal a Portland PD T-shirt beneath, and flips his sunglasses up so they rest in his dark hair. There’s a smug air to him, something pious that sticks to his skin and makes mine crawl.
Or maybe that’s just the badge sewn into his jacket.
“You know better than anyone that a stakeout, especially one aimed at catching a serial killer, can last for months. We could be here well into spring, still looking for answers.” Caruso glances up at my cabin, pressing his lips together. “There’s really no precedent for a situation like this.”
“But you’re not going to be extending your stay longer than necessary.” Gabe raises an eyebrow. “Surely you wouldn’t waste state resources by chasing dead ends?”
“According to the audit Sarge pulled, your entire department is a waste of state resources,” Caruso says, turning as Sloane comes over, dragging a suitcase.
He moves to help her, but she holds a hand up, shrugging him off. Those blue eyes find mine for a split second, and electricity zips down my spine; it evaporates in a flash, dissipating when she turns her attention to her partner.
“Alex, let’s not harass the locals. You know that only makes our job harder.”
Scoffing, Alex holds out his hand, once again trying to take the suitcase from Sloane. She resists, pulling back, and he frowns. “Bad optics also make our job harder. I’m just trying to make sure we’re all on the same page here.”
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. I don’t miss the way Sloane’s gaze flickers toward the movement, heat flaring as my biceps strain against my flannel.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Porter?”
“Just one,” I bite out, the thin band holding my patience together threatening to snap at any moment. “Wouldn’t happen to know a good pest exterminator, would you?”
She mutters something under her breath, and then she’s hiking her luggage up the steps and to the front door. My chest tightens when she pauses at the threshold, her long lashes brushing gently against her creamy skin as she stares up at me.
“Gonna let me in?” she asks softly, blue eyes widening. Pleading. I don’t miss the double meaning.
I clench my jaw until pain radiates along it, my brows knitting together in irritation. Sighing, I push back from the doorway, practically plastering myself against the log wall in my attempt to stay as far away from the she-devil as possible.
The idea of her being in my home, using my stuff, and eating my food is annoying enough on its own. I don’t need to add inappropriate petting to the list of complications.
Still, my gaze drops to her backside as she moves through the foyer, the curve of her ass prominent in the dark jeans she has on. I almost swallow my tongue when she pauses, craning her neck as if she can sense my eyes on her.
I snap them back to her face, my pulse racing, but it’s too late.
She smirks and tosses her hair over her shoulder, disappearing into the kitchen, while my dick stirs restlessly behind my zipper.
Fuck me, this is going to be a long investigation.
I head outside with Gabe and Monet for a bit to let the two detectives touch base with their boss and get acquainted with the layout of the forest surrounding my cabin.
After apologizing again, like he has any real influence on the situation, Gabe finally takes off for his shift, leaving me out on the dock with my dog and silence.
The sea is angry today, crashing against the shore like it’s trying to punish the earth for her wrongdoings. Salty water sprays against my legs as I settle in at the edge of the dock, letting my feet dangle.
I reach over and stroke behind Monet’s floppy ear. He whines, pushing his head into my hand, and I sigh. “I know, buddy, I haven’t been home much lately. I’m sorry.”
Lifting his yellow head, he inches closer, resting his chin on my shoulder.
“I’ll make it up to you. How about we go for a nice long run, after our trawl in the morning?” His tail wags, thumping against the wood. “A run, yeah? That’ll make you forgive me?”
“Oh, so you can be nice,” a voice calls from behind me, freezing the blood in my veins. Immediately, Monet pushes to his feet, bounding down the dock.
The wooden surface rocks as he runs, and I twist around just as he reaches Sloane; she crouches down, ruffling him behind his ears as she makes kissy sounds and asks if he’s been a good boy.
My throat constricts as I imagine the unfiltered happiness washing over her face; her skin flushing with delight, eyes vibrating with excitement, and her giggles when he laps at her chin with his long, pink tongue.
It’s dark now, so I can just barely see their silhouettes through the security light mounted on the outbuilding, but I can hear her joy.
Envy pulses through me, hot and heavy like sap from a spigot, and I push it down into the recesses of my stomach. I should not be jealous of my fucking dog.
“Need something, Detective?”
She ignores me, continuing her affectionate assault on Monet, who soaks it up with every shake of his tail. A grin breaks out
across his face, one of those goofy dog smiles, and it prods at an open wound in my chest, flooding me with rage.
“Monet, hier.” He hesitates for a nanosecond, totally engrossed in the way Sloane playfully tugs at his cheeks, but then his training kicks in and he yanks back, trotting over to sit at my side.
Now on high alert, Monet sits with his spine straight, nose pointed forward, the carefree attitude from before replaced with a sharp edge. I pat his head once and push to my feet as Sloane makes her way down the dock.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” she says, her tone indignant.
“Didn’t say you were.” I stuff my hands in my pockets, our breath visibly mixing in the chilly air. “Maybe I’m protecting you. He loves bacon.”
She rolls her eyes, folding her arms across her chest, gripping the sleeves of her red sweater. “You’re a real jerk, you know that? What have cops done to you to make you hate them so much?”
“The easier question is probably what haven’t they done.”
“What, you base your entire perception of a group of people on stereotypes?”
My eyes narrow, and I take a step closer, even though doing so makes it difficult to breathe. Tilting my head down, I glare at her perfectly symmetrical face.
“No, I base my perceptions on my personal experiences. My observations. I trained for years on how to read people and situations, how to extract the necessary information from them in order to execute takedowns and successful interrogations.”
I bend slightly, her floral scent invading my nostrils, filling my lungs with fire. Our noses brush, and she sucks in a little gasp, the sound sending a shock of arousal down my spine.
What I wouldn’t give to have her gasping for breath beneath me.
“They had me take point on missions and lead investigations, because nobody could scan an area and learn the ins and outs as quickly as I could. Nobody took the time to study their opponents, understand their weaknesses, and use the information to infiltrate their operations the way I did. Everyone else wanted to react, and when you react immediately, you get sloppy.”
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 10