So as of tomorrow morning, Paul Jensen will be a free man.
My gut sours thinking of the people in town who were close to rioting until we took him in, and what they’ll do when they realize we’ve let him go.
I can feel the tension in the air, as if the town’s energy is winding tight, a single crack in composure and everything will come spewing out like lava, burning us all on its way down.
The lighthearted banter with Lincoln is helping, but it doesn’t wash away the feeling that’s sparking against my skin.
“Let’s go ask him,” Lincoln says, his fingers grabbing mine as he pulls me across the room.
I open my mouth, about to ask him what he means, when Oliver Klepsky comes into view, standing in front of the snack table in full uniform as if he hasn’t been missing all afternoon.
My eyes take him in, noting the way that even though he’s in a roomful of people, he’s standing off to the side, completely alone, his left hand resting on his gun holster, almost like he’s trying to exert his power.
I can’t believe I didn’t think of questioning him sooner.
He’s always in the way, extremely difficult to work with, and seemingly on edge.
He claimed that no one was able to look up a Latin phrase, knowing that Stoll would trust his word.
He’s constantly impeding the investigation, making Alex and me look incompetent, when really, it’s been him throwing road blocks this entire time.
But something whispers in my mind that Klepsky isn’t methodical enough to take down the women in town and carve into their bodies without getting caught.
Klespky looks over as we approach, his spine straightening, fingers tensing on his holster. “What are you supposed to be?” he sneers at Lincoln.
His hate is so potent it’s a visceral thing, poisoning the air and anyone who breathes it in. Lincoln said they used to be friends, but looking at them now, I can’t imagine that to ever be the case.
What could Lincoln have done that was so bad?
“You can’t tell?” Lincoln smirks. “Thought pigs were supposed to be the smartest of the food chain.”
Klepsky’s teeth grind, and I jab my elbow into Lincoln’s side. Him being a smart-ass is not going to help the situation.
“Hey, Oliver, can we talk for a second?” I ask, trying to push a lighter tone in my voice.
His gaze snaps to me. “We’re not on a first name basis, Detective. And I’m busy.” He sniffs before rocking on his heels and staring past me.
I tilt my head, irritation bubbling in my veins. “Funny, nobody told us you’d be here to keep an eye on things. Could have saved myself the trip.”
“We don’t report to you,” he hisses, his gaze peeking at me before going back to the crowd.
Lincoln huffs out a laugh.
“Well.” I purse my lips. “You kinda do.”
Klepsky scoffs, turning to face me fully. “You’re a real bitch, aren’t you?”
Lincoln’s body stiffens, and he moves before I can blink, Klepsky’s hand in his hold, bent at a ninety-degree angle. “Watch your fucking mouth,” he snaps.
“Fuck,” Klepsky whines, his face scrunching in pain as he sinks to his knees.
My eyes widen, desire pooling in my stomach at Lincoln’s protective nature; at the way he’s able to control the situation with a simple flick of his wrist, bringing a grown man to his knees.
I reach out, rubbing my fingers up and down the flannel sleeve of his arm. “Linc, it’s fine.”
It’s the first time the nickname has flown off my tongue, but it doesn’t feel unnatural. It feels good to say it. Lincoln looks over at me, his eyes softening. He drops Klepsky’s hand and moves back to me, an innocent grin on his face.
Klepsky shuffles to a standing position, gripping his hand to his chest. “Dick.”
Lincoln spins around and points at him. “Call her a bitch again and I’ll break it.”
“I should arrest you for assault on an officer,” Klepsky replies.
“That’s fine.” Lincoln nods. “But if I’m going down for assault, I’m sure as fuck making it worth my while.”
I prod at Lincoln’s chest. “Go… over there or something,” I say, pointing at the punch table in the corner.
Lincoln shakes his head. “No fucking way.”
I blow out a breath, frustration at everything building inside of me like a geyser, unhinged and untamed. “Please, I don’t have time to deal with a pissing contest. This is important.” I move my eyes to Klepsky. “I need to talk to you about the case.”
Klepsky’s lips thin. “Not with him around. He isn’t even a cop.”
Lincoln runs his hand down the back of my hair, leaning in to press a kiss to my temple. “I’ll be right over there, watching everything he does.”
He walks away, my heart swelling at his words, and I bring my gaze back to Klepsky.
“Have you been telling him confidential information, Detective?” he whistles. “That could get you into deep shit.”
A laugh bubbles in the center of my chest at the fact that this incompetent man is trying to make me seem like I’m bad at my job. “Look.” I lean in close, my patience fraying like loose ends of a blanket. “We can either talk here, or I can pull out my cuffs and cause even more of a scene, and you’ll answer my questions at the station. Which one will it be?”
His eyes widen, his hand splaying across his chest. “Wait, you’re questioning me?”
I shrug. “I follow any and all leads, officer. Surely, you understand.”
He blows out a deep breath, his gaze scanning behind me before he gives a slight nod.
“Good. Tell me about the church,” I say.
His face hardens. “I don’t know shit about the church, haven’t gone there since I was a teen.”
“And why is that?” I press. “Rumor has it you used to live and breathe the place. What changed?”
“I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate.” His eyes narrow. “I used to love it and then I realized that I didn’t. People can change.”
“Can they?”
He clears his throat. “Maybe you should quit badgering me about something that happened when I was a kid and look at your boy toy again. It’s his traps everyone keeps showing up in.”
I jerk back, my brows rising. “You seem to have quite the problem with Lincoln. Why is that?”
“Am I being questioned as a cop on this case, or as a person of interest?” His voice is incredulous.
I lift my shoulders. “Just a friendly conversation.”
“This is bullshit,” he snaps.
“Oliver,” I sigh, well aware that ever since Lincoln touched him, we’ve had the eyes of everyone at the party on us. “Just tell me a little bit about the church, and I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your night.”
His gaze scans the room before meeting mine. His hand runs over the top of his head, and even from where I’m standing, I can see the tremble.
He’s shaken up.
Or he’s nervous.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he finally mutters, breaking our stare.
My gut clamps down. Sandra didn’t say much, but she did tell us that back in the day, the preacher’s hands got a little loose with the kids, and she thought maybe it was somebody mad at them for letting it happen.
Klepsky turns to walk away.
“Did Preacher Cartwright ever hit you?” I ask.
His body freezes and he slowly spins back around, his eyes blazing as he stomps toward me, stopping when the tips of his shoes hit mine.
My chest twists and my fists clench, but I hold my ground.
From my peripheral, I see Lincoln moving back over, but I place my hand out to the side, palm facing out, hoping he understands I’m telling him to stop.
“You should worry less about my past with the preacher,” Klepsky says. “And focus more on the whispers about you around town.”
My stomach tightens as I lift my chin. “We’re not t
alking about me.”
He tilts his head. “Aren’t we?”
My nostrils flare, and I swallow over the knot in my throat. My senses are in overdrive, a burning ball of anxiety rolling in my gut. “The Monster Mash” plays in the background, but other than that, it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and I know without looking that we have the attention of every single person in the room.
“Meet me at the station,” I hiss. “So I don’t embarrass you in front of all these people.”
Oliver smirks, his beady eyes slowly trailing down my form before glancing over at Lincoln and winking.
“I’d worry more about yourself, Morgan Jense—” His voice is loud, and he shakes his head, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. “Oops. I mean Sloane.”
And then he turns around and saunters off, and I’m stuck in place, my insides tossing like a ship in a storm, listening to the gasps of everyone behind me, the whispers rising in volume until they’re so loud it feels as if they’re imprinting on my soul.
Chapter 41
Every cell in my body is screaming at me to run after Klepsky and beat his face to a pulp. Humiliate him in front of the entire town the way he just did to Morgan, and make him regret showing his pinched little face in my mother’s house.
We all watch him stalk off, leaving Morgan stranded in the middle of the room like a ship lost at sea.
A hand grips my elbow, fingernails digging in the second I start in Klepsky’s direction.
“Don’t you dare go after that boy right now, young man.”
My jaw clenches, and I frown at my mother. “I should fucking kick his skull in.”
She pushes a piece of her straw wig away from her face. “That girl right there is one dirty look away from a complete meltdown. Do you want to make the night worse for her?”
Morgan’s face flushes as she glances around the room, her cheeks flooding with the scarlet stain of embarrassment. Slowly, she spins in a circle, immediately seeking me out, and she plasters a massive smile on her face as she walks over, shoulders pushed back and spine straight, as if Klepsky’s claim hasn’t visibly rattled her.
It’s not any different from what I’ve been saying, but I suppose the thought just became a little more concrete. The fact that other people are thinking the same thing about her origin adds credibility to the notion, and that’s a much harder pill to swallow when you can’t write everyone off as insane.
“Are you okay, dear?” My mother asks, gripping Morgan’s bicep in one hand and giving a gentle squeeze.
She looks up at me, something broken and lost flashing in her eyes, and I want nothing more than to reach out and yank her into my embrace. Keep her vulnerability tucked close to my chest, where it can’t hurt her.
“I’m okay,” Morgan says, her smile wavering slightly. Anyone else might not catch it, but I see the twitch at the corner of her lips. “Do you mind if I borrow your son for a minute?”
My mother releases Morgan’s arm and reaches behind me, shoving me forward; I catch myself before toppling over, steadying my weight with a hand on Morgan’s waist.
“Of course, you two. Go, have fun.” Wiggling her eyebrows, my mother grins. “But don’t miss the pumpkin lighting! Skelm Island Weekly predicts it’ll be spook-tacular!”
Rolling my eyes, I drop my hand, linking my fingers with Morgan’s as she draws me through the crowd and up the stairs. My eyebrows arch as we get to the top and pause.
“Which room?”
“Are you planning on having your way with me, Catwoman?”
She doesn’t reply, tugging me farther along and picking the first door on the left; coincidentally, the one that used to be mine, although now it mostly doubles as storage for Gabe and Daisy’s shit. My old bed is pushed into the corner, fresh flannel sheets stretched out across it, as if my mother was expecting company.
Or maybe this is where Gabe’s been sleeping.
My eyes flash around the room, looking for signs of life, but for the most part, all I see is cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, taped shut.
Morgan pushes the door shut behind us, then whirls around, crossing her arms over her chest. “What the hell was that?”
I cock a brow, tilting my head. “What was what?”
“You attacking Klepsky like that. The second you stepped in, he shut down, and now he knows something is up with him and the investigation. You might’ve just ruined my entire case.”
The accusation stings, causing irritation to filter into my bloodstream, heating my skin. “I was defending you, Detective.”
Her mouth mashes into a firm line. “I didn’t ask you to do that. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself. Been doing it twenty-eight years without your help. It’s certainly not the first time someone on the force has called me a bitch.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. “So, just because it’s happened before, and you managed, I’m supposed to be okay with it?”
“Yes! I’m not the little girl you think I am. I don’t want, or need, you to protect me.”
Throat tight, I take a step in her direction, trying to get ahold of the rage buzzing through my veins before reaching out. Not because I’m afraid I’ll hurt her, but because I’m afraid of detracting from the conversation.
Because we’re back to this, and even though Klepsky just outed her in front of everyone, it’s clear she still doesn’t believe it.
“I’m not her,” she says, the last syllable breaking. She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, shaking her head. “I can’t be.”
Taking a gulp of air, I release it slowly, stuffing my hands into my pockets and rocking back on my heels.
“Halloween night, eighteen years ago. My mother convinced my father to let me go trick-or-treating, even though I’d been grounded after sneaking onto his boat. She told him that since I’d already made plans to walk the neighborhood with my friends, it was rude to the parents who’d rearranged their schedules to cancel. So, I pulled on my vampire costume—I was one every year—and hopped in my pops’s truck so we could go pick up Morgan Jensen.”
Her throat bobs, and she takes a step back as I advance again, bumping against the door.
Nausea spreads like a parasite through my stomach, collecting in my throat as I recount the memory. It’s one I’ve skirted around for two decades, the edges sweeping my brain and keeping it fresh without displaying the full picture.
“We’d been driving that route to the lighthouse all my life, but that night it was storming, and I remember this sick feeling dropping into the pit of my stomach. Pops even had to pull over at one point to let me vomit in some bushes, it was that powerful. At the time, I hadn’t realized it for what it was; a premonition. Everyone just assumed I’d eaten some of Simone Fairchild’s expired buffalo chicken dip, but I think my body knew something was wrong at the Jensen house before we even arrived.”
Another step forward, and now I’m just inches away from her. My teeth grind together as I stare down into those eyes, letting them steal my breath as I tell the story.
“That’s how in tune I was with Morgan. Her pain, her sorrow, her happiness… all of it was mine, too. A single soul stretched between two bodies. And when we got to the lighthouse, that tether felt one-sided. Empty, as if the opposite side had been severed at the point of contact.”
Pain flares in my chest as the story crests, flashes of red and blue filling my vision. The caution tape wrapped around the lighthouse, my mother’s sobs drowning out the thunder overhead and the angry sea lashing against the shore.
The little Converse sneaker caught on the wire fencing around Mrs. Jensen’s garden, still tied as though it’d been ripped off its owner.
My stomach cramps as I move forward still, my hips pinning Sloane’s against the door. She sucks in a soft gasp, her hands immediately coming up to push at my chest, but once they’re there, they don’t move.
Neither of us moves for a second.
“I think that was worse for Paul th
an anything else—worse than even him being implicated, the fact that the woman he loved was gone, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.”
I pause, my hand lifting, fingers tangling in the ends of Sloane’s hair. “There were whispers going around, of course, that Paul killed them. That Cindy’s condition became too much for him, so he put them out of their misery. But… they never found a body, and so nothing ever came of the whispers. They just floated around town, polluting the air with their implications, tainting the soul of a man who’d just lost everything.”
My hand slides from her hair to her neck, cupping behind her ear. I toy with the headband she has on, that magnetic field pulsing between us, stronger than ever. There’s a hint of recognition in her eyes, a fierce sheen that I feel in my bones, and so I decide to push further.
To prove what I already know, even if I can’t quite explain it.
“They sat me down with a grief specialist some time after her disappearance and tried to get me to open up about my feelings. I’d stopped sleeping, stopped eating, stopped living. Thoroughly depressed at age eleven. But I didn’t know how to explain what it was I felt. How do you tell adults that you’re missing a limb when it was never physically attached to you in the first place? How do you explain heartbreak that young?”
My hand trembles as I smooth my thumb over her skin.
“I know you don’t believe me,” I rasp, sadness and desire and everything in between solidifying in my throat, making it hard to speak. “And I don’t have receipts to prove it. But this, between you and me? Is all the evidence I need.”
Taking her hand, I press it against my chest the same way I did days ago, letting the chaotic beating of my heart bleed into her palm.
“There’s something deeper here that neither of us can explain. Something… ethereal, almost. I felt it the second you walked into that police station, and I tried to mask it with animosity. Tried to ignore what my body was screaming.”
Morgan licks her lips, and gives the tiniest shake of her head, though her eyes never leave mine.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 26