She curls her fingers into the collar of my flannel, throwing a leg over my lap and shifting closer. One of my hands leaves her hair, snaking over the divots in her spine to cup her ass, pulling her so her center grinds deliciously against my cock.
Then, the bedroom door flies open, and a muttered curse fills the air.
We spring apart, like two teenagers caught in the back seat of a parked car. Morgan slides away from me, combing her fingers through her hair, and I grab a pillow and hold it over my lap.
Alex stands in the doorway, a flat expression on his face. “Boy, am I glad this isn’t the room I’ve been staying in.”
Clearing her throat, Morgan sits up straight. “Did you need something, Alex?”
He just stares at me for a beat, and I look back, unsure if this is some sort of power struggle, or if he’s spacing out. Finally, his gaze swings over to Morgan, and he nods, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“I talked to Cartwright. Got fuck all out of him, but there’s definitely something shady happening at that church. I think we should talk to Stoll, see if anyone’s had similar complaints to corroborate Sandra’s story.”
“Okay,” she says, nodding. “But I need to stop at home first.”
So, the two left, and I spent the night reminiscing on all the time I spent actively avoiding Cartwright. Even though I was young, and he’d never laid a hand on me, there was a strange presence surrounding him that made me uneasy.
Guilt stabs at my lungs, robbing me of air as I wonder what he did to the kids that stayed for youth group. If the rumors we heard back then about his predilection for young teens held some truth.
Finishing up my shower, I towel off and head into the bedroom, pulling on a pair of jeans, a blue flannel, and a thick coat. My landline blares down the hall, and I roll my eyes, walking to it and planning to hang up.
Gabe’s name flashes across the screen, and I exhale, punching the speaker button. “What?”
“Jeez, who pissed in your cereal?” A pause, then he laughs, the sound so loud it cuts out for a second. “Just kidding, I know that was God’s doing.”
My patience wanes quickly, an ache cropping up in my temple. “Are you calling again just to piss me off?”
“Would you rather I come over to do it?” He chuckles. “Acta non verba, my friend. I’m a man of action. Don’t think I won’t.”
I don’t say anything, wishing I could reach through the fucking phone and throttle him.
“Anyway,” he says. “Just thought you might want to know I saw your girl leading Klepsky down to the detention center. From the precinct.”
My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. “She arrested him?”
“Dispatch said there was evidence tying him to the serial murders.” Gabe grunts. “Who’d have fucking thought?”
Heart in my throat, I hang up quickly, scrambling to shove my feet into my boots, and jog out to my car.
Twenty-three minutes later, I find myself on the courthouse’s front lawn with my mother, sister, and the rest of Skelm Island, watching as a police cruiser rolls to a stop in front of the building.
The flags outside have been half-mast since the beginning of October, and when Alex hauls Oliver Klepsky out of the back seat, they serve as the perfect backdrop for the ensuing walk of shame.
Camera crews line the sidewalk, capturing the—alleged—Fate Reaper’s detainment from every possible angle. Around us, the crowd begins to boo, a low hum almost blotting out the thunder crackling at the edges of town.
My stomach rolls as Alex and Morgan flank Klepsky, one hand on each shoulder, steering him toward the detention center entrance, bypassing the courthouse doors.
Fingers link through mine as I watch, my heart thrashing in my chest, and my mother scoots close to my side, squeezing tight.
Daisy wraps her hand around my free one, at the same time, Klepsky’s eyes find mine in the crowd; we’re standing in the back, but that doesn’t seem to hinder him in any way.
Almost as if he was expecting me to be here.
A knot expands in my throat, its presence suffocating, as our gazes lock; my muscles strain, and I bite down on the tip of my tongue to keep from shouting something out. Not that I think he’d be able to hear over the throng, anyway.
But what is there even to say?
There are no apologies to be made, no magic spells that can rewind time and stop him from murdering five women.
Allegedly, I remind myself, shaking off the irritation that accompanies the word. Why else would they have found Tracy Cartwright’s checkbook wedged in a secret compartment of his desk? Or Alta May’s heirloom emerald necklace in the trunk of his car?
I’m not sure what I expect when our eyes connect. Remorse, maybe. An inkling of acknowledgment. Some sign that the boy I once knew still exists inside of him, buried beneath a mountain of anger and resentment.
I don’t get anything.
His dark eyes almost look right through me, as if I’m invisible and bear no consequence to his fate. A shiver ripples down my back, like a hot whisper caressing my skin, and I hold his gaze until the last possible second, waiting for an emotion to poke through.
Beside me, my mother lets out a sniffle, and I pull my hand from hers, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and pressing my mouth to the top of her head.
Daisy moves in, too, Charlie tucked against her hip, reaching around so we’re all tangled together.
Klepsky’s eyes harden at the last second, and then the detectives push him through the detention center door, effectively severing any lingering thoughts or feelings I have toward him.
And the only thing pulsing to life within me as the metal door bangs shut behind him is a dull sadness for all the lives ruined at the Fate Reaper’s hands.
Even his own.
Later, we’re watching the Channel Nine press conference, and I’m trying not to drool over how fucking good my girl looks, talking about her investigation and what eventually led them to Klepsky’s arrest.
My mother invited Isa, Daisy, Gabe, and Jordan to my cabin as a sign of good faith, and she’s been helping me whip together a special romantic dinner for Morgan to help celebrate the solve.
Her eyes are glued to the television as she stirs her special alfredo sauce, while Isa and Jordan sit at the dining table playing checkers, and Gabe has Daisy draped across his lap, his hand high up on her thigh as he squints at the screen.
“Detective Sloane, can you say for certain that Oliver Klepsky worked alone when harming these women?” A reporter asks, pencil poised to take notes.
Morgan keeps her spine straight, giving a simple nod when she speaks. “While the case is still pending the more scientific aspects, such as forensics and DNA matches, we feel confident in the decision we made today. The Portland Police Department doesn’t make arrests lightly, and all of the evidence and circumstances uncovered thus far point to a sole perpetrator.”
“What was the significance of the Latin?” someone else asks.
“Many serial killers leave pieces of themselves with their victims if they don’t collect trophies. A way to identify their crimes, or give them specific notoriety in the event their deeds are ever publicized.”
“How do you propose the citizens of Skelm Island move on from these events? If we can’t trust the police,” a female reporter in a bright red pantsuit speaks up, talking to her recorder, “then who can we trust?”
There’s a brief pause as Morgan purses her lips, considering her answer. She offers the reporter a small smile, tipping her chin up as she finds her voice.
“I suppose that’s a valid question, especially considering the general public has a very strained relationship with law enforcement as it is. Even when they’re doing everything they’re supposed to.”
She takes a breath, reaching for the cup of water on the podium in front of her, sipping slowly. Setting the cup back down, she exhales, her gaze shifting to look directly in the camera.
At me.
“Many people in his position will actively put themselves in the way, because they want the recognition. They want to be found out before their guilt destroys them. We can’t say yet for sure if that’s the case with Klepsky, but for now, I guess that’s my answer.”
She sighs, gripping the podium with both hands.
“You can’t trust everyone. But… a very wise man once said to me, a person will tell you everything you need to know about them. You just have to give them a chance to speak.”
My heart stutters, and I feel five pairs of eyes on me. I shift, turning away to strain the pasta, and my mother hip checks me, chuckling softly.
“That sounds an awful lot like something your father used to say,” she tells me in a low voice.
I roll my eyes, focusing on the task before me as Morgan excuses herself and Alex takes over questions.
Dumping chopped broccoli into a skillet with a pat of butter, I turn up the heat and begin sautéing them, working in silence while my mother adds more Parmesan to her sauce.
“So, Detective Sloane...” I start, not sure how she’ll react to the subject.
She brushes a curly, wayward hair from her face, nodding. “Is little Morgan Jensen? I know, dear. I was at the Halloween party.”
For some reason, my fingers tremble as I continue cooking, fear singeing my nerves.
Her hands pause mid-grind, black pepper falling from the shaker she’s holding. When she looks up at me, her eyes are shining. “You found her.”
I swallow, nodding, and she tosses the pepper onto the counter and launches herself into my arms, almost knocking the skillet from the stove in the process. Her squeals pierce my eardrums, and she shakes me like a clogged ketchup bottle, her excitement washing over me.
“I believed you all along, you know.”
Daisy snorts from where she’s sitting on the couch, apparently eavesdropping. “No, she didn’t.”
But I don’t care if she did or not—don’t care if anyone did.
It doesn’t matter.
The truth doesn’t change just because people choose to deny it.
An hour passes, and the press conference drones on, but I kick everyone out, knowing Morgan will be here soon for the night I promised her.
For the first time since we met, we’ll enjoy each other’s company without duress, and my cock’s raring to sink inside of her as soon as possible.
I rush to the front door when a knock sounds, eager to get the evening started, but my chest deflates when I come face-to-face with Gabe.
It’s just started raining, so there’s a dusting of droplets across his shoulders, and he reaches up with one hand, shaking the water from his sandy blond hair.
“Too soon,” I say, hand already pushing the door closed again, but then he’s pulling his arm out from behind his back and producing a small metal box. I swallow, raising an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“Confiscated it from the back of Klepsky’s car,” Gabe says, shrugging. “That’s where they found Alta May’s necklace, and…” He unlatches the lid, opening the box just enough for me to view the contents. “And some of your drawings. I recognized them, so I checked it out of evidence for you.”
Taking the box, I shove my hand inside, riffling through the contents. My heart races, a sinking feeling opening up in my stomach and trying to pull me beneath its surface.
“This isn’t my lockbox,” I say, sadness getting caught in my throat. “And these aren’t all of my pictures.”
Gabe frowns, eyebrows drawing in. “Shit. I’m sorry, man. He must’ve switched them out?”
I nod, a strange feeling sprouting inside me, bracketing around my heart like a barbed-wire fence.
Headlights flash as Morgan’s car pulls onto my property, and the rain starts beating down harder, mimicking my fast souring mood.
“I’ve gotta get Daisy back to the sitter,” Gabe says, taking a step back, pulling the collar of his jacket around his neck. “I’ll look into it for you, okay? See if I can find the rest of your shit.”
Nodding again, I move back into the doorframe, setting the box on a hutch in the hallway.
Plastering a smile on my face, I cross my arms and lean against the wall, trying not to give much purchase to the thought that I’ve lost part of my childhood, for good.
Chapter 47
Usually after a case gets solved and a killer gets put away, there’s a sense of relief.
And although the trial hasn’t happened with Klepsky, and won’t for some time, I highly doubt anyone in Skelm Island will be willing to help him with his bail.
He didn’t have alibis for the nights of the murders.
Claims he was “drunk at home” and doesn’t remember most of the time.
Between that, the checkbook, and finding missing jewelry of Alta May’s in the trunk of his car, we have enough to keep him in custody until the hearing.
He’s a flight-risk, one hundred percent.
And even through all of that, I don’t feel the relief that I normally would. Instead, I feel like a failure. Because Klepsky blindsided me. I thought he was connected, sure but I never actually thought he was the killer.
I thought it was too obvious. That he was too dumb.
Sighing, I lean back in my chair, grinning over at Lincoln who sits across the kitchen table. “That was so good, Linc.” I cock a brow. “You sure you made it?”
He takes a sip of his champagne, stifling his grin.
I haven’t had a single drink of alcohol since before the case started, wanting to keep my mind clear, but this is a celebration. And celebrate we did, the second I walked in the door, Lincoln had me stripped down and at his mercy.
So the food got a little cold, and instead of dressing up for our first official “date”, I’m dressed down in nothing but one of his shirts; they’re so big they skim my knees.
“I can’t believe you would doubt my culinary skills, killer.”
I smirk. “What time did your mom leave after she was done?”
He groans, throwing his head back in laughter. “Ah, damn, is it that obvious?”
I lift a shoulder. “I may have been born on a day, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”
He chuckles again and I stand up, moving over to where he sits and plopping down in his lap, resting my head against the crook of his neck.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“Honestly?” I say, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “I feel a little meh about the whole thing.”
“Well, the town is about to erect a statue in your and Alex’s image, I’m pretty sure.” He shakes his head. “Fucking Klepsky. I can’t believe it.”
I nod against him, taking comfort in the way I can feel the beats of his heart. “Crazy, right? I’m hoping we can get a psychologist in to talk with him.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” I cringe. “I feel kind of… bad? I don’t know. I just—we don’t know what happened all those years at the church, or what exactly Preacher Cartwright did. And he’s still just there. Living on, existing. Pretending like he’s a man of God, and giving all the good pastors out there a bad name.” I shake my head. “I don’t understand why Oliver would murder everyone who helped shield Cartwright from persecution but wouldn’t go after the preacher himself.”
Lincoln hums, shrugging. “People process trauma in different ways.”
Something taps at the back of my brain, but when I try to reach for it, it dances just out of my reach. “Yeah, maybe.”
“So what now?” Lincoln says.
“Now.” I blow out a breath, pasting a smile on my face. “I’m gonna do the dishes.”
I stand up from his lap, grabbing the plates from the table and his hand pops me on the ass, the sting making my abs clench as I whirl around and glare.
H
e throws his hands up. “Don’t look at me. You’re practically asking for it, bending over in nothing but my shirt.”
I tsk, gripping the dishes in my hands and walking them into the kitchen, turning the faucet on and letting the water run over my hands until it’s warm.
Heat trickles along my spine, rough palms wrapping around my waist as a body presses against my back.
I smile, contentment rushing through me as I lean against him.
His lips skim along the expanse of my neck. “Do you know how sexy you look when you’re in my home, wearing my clothes, and begging me to come over here and fuck you?”
I giggle, pressing into him harder, feeling his cock grow hard as it strains against his sweats. “Is that what I was doing?”
“Yep.” His teeth nip at my throat, sending a rush of desire through my core, settling between my legs. My hands rest on his forearms as they squeeze around my middle, my head laying back on his broad chest.
“It’s what you’ve always done,” he continues. “Completely wrecked me for anybody else.”
His palms trail up my stomach and cup underneath my breasts, his thumb and finger rolling my nipples through the oversized cotton tee. I let out a small gasp as tiny pinpricks of sensation flow through me, as if his touch is directly connected to my clit, making it ache for attention.
“Lincoln,” I whine.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
I reach back and grasp his erection through his pants, my hand wrapping around his thickness and rubbing it up and down in firm strokes, heat coiling in my stomach as I feel it grow beneath my palm.
He groans, his lips working their way up my neck to nibble at my earlobe, sending tingles skating down my body.
I spin around in his arms, and his hands move from my chest down to my ass, gripping it firmly, his hips grinding into me.
“Do I get my dessert?” he asks, his fingers twisting in my shirt and lifting the material until it flies over my head and drops somewhere on the kitchen floor.
“It’s my celebration. Where’s my dessert?” My hands sneak beneath the waistband of his sweats, and push them down his thighs, his cock bobbing out, swollen and thick, the tip glistening with precum.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 31