by Kayt Miller
The blush is back, but this time it’s not because I’m embarrassed. No, this time the heat rising up from my center is for all the right reasons. “Okay.” I can barely hear myself, so hopefully Gage caught my response. I’d better say it again. Clearing my throat, I nod. “That’d be nice.”
“Yeah?” He nods. “Great.”
We stare at each other for way too long. An awkward amount of time. Until he breaks the silence with a question. “Daisy, can I ask you something about that night?”
I know which night. “Sure.”
He pulls out his notebook from his chest pocket and flips the pages around. “You said you saw the redhead when you came upstairs from getting your laundry. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t see her enter Kara’s apartment?”
Shaking my head, I repeat what I said before. “No.”
“And when you went back into your apartment, you didn’t hear anything? No conversations between the redhead and Kara?”
I shake my head again.
“Nothing later?”
“No.”
“How can that be? You knew when Finch and I were in the apartment. You’re very cognizant of what’s happening in the hallway. Why not that night?”
It’s a good question. One I answered, but I’ll repeat it. “I put on my headphones when I got back into my apartment.”
“Those prevent you from hearing anything?”
“They’re noise canceling. I listen to them while I work.”
“While you do research?”
“Yes.”
“How long did you work? With the headphones on?”
I get why he’s asking. I heard them say something about the time of death; it was between the time I saw the redhead and two or three hours after that. “I worked for a few hours. I tend to work late into the night.”
“So did I wake you this morning?” He’s sliding the notebook back into his pocket along with his pen. I guess we’re done with the questioning portion of the morning.
“I was awake.” I say it with a smile. “Barely.”
“Sorry.” I do believe Mr. Golden is blushing. “Since I’ve taken over the investigation—”
“You’re in charge now?” I don’t know why that surprises me. He’s probably the best officer on the Ames police force.
“I am.” More blushing, and it’s adorable.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Clearing his throat, he continues. “I usually work nights, but now that I’m doing this, I’ve got to be in early.”
“I get it.”
“So, my apologies if I woke you.”
If he only knew how much I’d like him to wake me up every morning…. “No worries. My sleep patterns are all over the place.”
“Mine too.” Gage chuckles, and I want to grab him by his collared shirt and drag him to my bed, but I can’t. Not today. I’ve got too much to do.
His eyes move from me to somewhere behind me. “Wow, you’ve really cleared out the place.”
I look back at my relatively sparse living room. “Yeah. I got rid of my mom’s stuff.” Most of it.
“It looks nice, Daisy.”
And there it is again. My name. Holy hotness, my panties just melted.
“Thanks.”
And we’re back to the staring at each other thing. If I didn’t need to be somewhere in less than an hour, I’d keep right on looking at this man with his blond hair and pretty smile. But I can’t. “Well, I need to get going.” I jerk my thumb backward. “I’ve got to shower and get out of here.”
“Right.” Gage runs his fingers through his wavy hair. My fingers itch. I want to do that for him. “I’ll, uh, talk to you soon.”
“Good luck with the investigation.” Because the sooner he solves this thing, the sooner we can eat together.
Wow, did that sound as anticlimactic as I think it did?
“Thanks.” Gage waves, turns, and walks down the hallway.
Shutting the door, I lean my back against it and sigh. “That man is going to be my undoing.”
Chapter Twelve
Gage
“That woman is something else.” When she opened the door in that little tank top, I nearly passed out. Not only that, her hair was down and sort of messy from sleep, and her glasses were long gone. I was right. She’s all curves and softness. “Damn.” She might be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Sliding it out, I see a message from another very pretty woman.
Quinn: We’re back in Ames. Can we meet?
I’ve been expecting her call. According to Cooke Thompson, they were due back about now. Since Tayler’s out on bail, I’m sure she wants an update. I just hope I can give her news she can live with.
Me: Sure. Let me see what my day looks like and I’ll get back to you.
Quinn: Sounds good. Thanks, Gage.
Me: Talk to you later.
At the station, things are at a standstill. The team consists of me, the captain, Finch, and surprisingly, Dan Trumbull, who decided to make an appearance today. We brought in a veteran officer, Jane Bradshaw, as well. She specializes in the behavioral science or psychology part of this kind of crime. Trust me, she’s good.
“So, typically what we call a crime of passion, I’d prefer to call an impulse murder because it’s a sudden, strong impulse such as sudden rage rather than a premeditated crime.”
That part of Jane’s statement isn’t a surprise. We’re all familiar with that part of the definition. But what she said next piqued my interest. “We’re all biologically predisposed to violence in certain situations.”
I’m not sure I agree with that, necessarily, but she’s the one with the psych degree.
“Our brains are wired for danger,” she continues. “And when we sense danger, we use our defense mechanisms, which are often violent, for our own survival.”
Okay, I can see that. But how does that relate to this murder? “So, our perpetrator felt as though they were in danger?” I hedge.
“Perhaps not physical or bodily danger. They may have felt something much more abstract. Our victim could have been threatening something else. Their livelihood, for example. Or threatening another person who they feel the need to protect.”
“You’re really broadening our pool of suspects,” Dan grouses.
“Well, let me try to narrow this down for you.” She leans forward in her seat in our conference room. “Statistically speaking, our perp is most likely male but we can’t rule out a female. They’re right-handed based on the blood splatter, though the height of the suspect is unclear, because it appears they swung the club more than once and from two different angles: one as the victim stood and the other as she was going down.”
Finch makes a grunting noise.
“Yes, Finch?” Jane asks with a smirk.
“So, it could have been a man or a woman?”
She smirks. “Yep. Due to the choice of weapon, it could have been either.” She narrows her eyes like she’s angry. “A woman can be just as strong as a man, Finch.”
“I know,” he responds defensively. “I know.”
“So, we know nothing.” Finch says like it’s nothing. “It could be a guy or a girl. They could be tall or short. Fat or thin?”
“Body weight…” Jane starts to respond but I hold up my hand.
“We don’t know, right?” I look at Jane. “We’re back to square one.”
With a little sigh, Jane nods.
After the meeting, it’s Dan’s turn to tell us what he’s learned from Kara Becker’s social media. Leaning back in my chair, I wait for his report.
“She was a little bitch.”
Wow, that’s one way to open the conversation.
Dan hands us a packet—pages from her journal have been copied and stapled together. A second stack of papers lands on the table in front of me. “Those are screenshots of her Snappy-whatever account, but she mostly used T
wipper.”
Twipper? Apparently Dan’s not up on the latest apps the kids are using.
“I’ve made notations and numbered some of the journal entries because they coincide with shit she posted.” He sighs. “She was mean as a pit bull.”
“Hey, man,” Finch interjects. “Pit bulls are sweet.”
With an eye roll, Dan changes his phrasing. “Okay. She was as mean as a snake with a toothache.” He glares at Finch. “Better?”
Finch merely nods.
We’re getting off track.
“Can we keep going, Dan?” I ask.
“I’d like to,” he grumbles. “So, I’ve noted the entries with the same dates as the social media shit. If you look at the journal entry from June 22”—we all turn our pages—“she’s writing about someone with the initials DF in the journal.”
“Dylan Forrester,” the captain interjects.
I take a minute to read her journal. In it, she goes into detail about Dylan’s, um, prowess in bed—or lack thereof. From her details, he wasn’t good.
“Yep.” Dan nods. “Now, turn to the Twinker posting on the same day.”
We all turn to the other packet. I flip pages until I get to the one dated June 22.
Kara @beautifulbecker
#speedkills Be warned, @dylanforrester is faster than a speeding bullet. Don’t bother, ladies.
8:08 AM – Jun 22
Dan continues, “Now, look back at February 18.”
We all flip through the pages. I go ahead and do the same with the social media pages.
I read both and say, “She’s talking about someone named Bryant Falco.”
Kara @beautifulbecker
#takingonefortheteam If any of you are interested in @bryfalco as a sexual partner, don’t bother. #tinydick
“Harsh.”
Ignoring the captain’s remark, I ask, “Do we know who this Falco is?” As I look around the room, the only thing I see are heads shaking. “Let’s find him and anyone else she targeted in this shit.” As I flip through the pages, I glimpse a “Q” and a “u” and I instantly know it was about Quinn. I probably shouldn’t read it, but I open the journal packet anyway.
What is the deal with Quinn Fat Maxwell? Everyone loves her. Why? She’s stupid, plain, and her clothes are U-G-L-Y. I guess everyone likes to root for the loser. But not me. She’s going down.
I note the date and search her social media for the same day.
Kara @beautifulbecker
Hey, people—stop feeling sorry for the fat girls. Instead, encourage them to eat a damn carrot once in a while. #fatlivesdonotmatter
“Jesus,” I mutter. “What a fucking bitch.”
“Told ya,” Dan says with a small chuckle. “We should check out all these people she slammed on here. I bet it pissed off quite a few.”
“I bet you’re right.” Turning to Finch, I smile. “Guess what you get to do?”
“Already making a list of names to check out.”
“Keep in mind this journal was only from the last year,” Dan points out.
“She may have another one at home.” Turning to Billings, I say, “Captain, we need to check out Kara’s home. Will Mr. Becker let us search her bedroom?”
He nods. “I think so. I’ll talk to him when he stops in later.”
“Great.” I look at Dan. “As soon as we get the thumbs-up, we should head out there.”
Stuart, Iowa. “It’s about two hours from here.”
“No problem.” Except for the four hours I’ll have to be in a car with Dan.
“Thanks for meeting us, Gage.”
When I said I’d meet Quinn for coffee, I’d hoped she’d be alone, but I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen again. I think she’s attached at the hip to this guy.
“Mate.” Cooke Thompson reaches out and shakes my hand over the table. “Thanks for taking the time.”
“No problem. But I only have about thirty minutes.” It turns out Kara’s father was more than happy to let us check out her bedroom, so we’re heading out to his place this afternoon. But I need to get a few things together before we take off.
“So, do you have any news?” Quinn’s voice is tentative. “Tayler’s going a little crazy, to be honest.”
Cooke scoffs.
“We have a few leads—”
“Another suspect?” She suddenly sounds excited.
I don’t want to give anything away since we really don’t have anything solid. “We’re checking out all leads.”
She rolls her eyes. “Now you sound like you’ve got a cheat sheet of things to say when you’re not supposed to tell anyone what’s really going on.”
She’s right. “Look.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “We’re seriously checking out everyone.” Hell, we even looked at the video footage of every person who came and went through the front door of Kara’s building. The management has been nice enough to identify those who actually live in the building and those who don’t. Two of our patrol officers have questioned the residents to no avail.
Quinn sighs dramatically. “Okay. I get it.”
The urge to reach out and take hold of her hand is strong, but I keep my hands to myself. “We don’t know enough just yet.”
“But Tayler’s not the killer.” Quinn looks at me, then at Cooke.
“Mate, just drop the charges on Tayler so we can get back to our lives.”
That statement irritates me. “Oh, I’m so sorry that this has upset your lives so much. I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Becker how badly you want this to be over.” I mean….
“No.” Cooke shakes his head. “Apologies, mate. I didn’t mean it that way. That’s insensitive of me.”
I nod because yeah, it was.
Cooke looks apologetic. “Just… the girls are beside themselves with worry, which makes me fret.”
“I get it. I do. But you’re just going to have to wait until we know more.” Hell, we may never know who killed her, but hopefully we’ll solve this thing.
“We get that, Gage.” Quinn looks like she’s about to cry. “This is all so….” A tear trickles down her pretty face, and I want to reach out and take it away from her, but the big English oaf gets to it first.
“Love,” he says to her softly. “Gage is going to get the killer.”
I nod because the need to make her stop crying is overwhelming. “I’m going to do my damn best, Quinn. I promise.”
“I know.” She sniffles. “It’s just so bizarre.” She pauses. Looking me in the eye, she blinks like she just realized something. “I think I’m lucky I was out of the country when it happened.” She peers at me expectantly.
She is lucky, because if she’d been around here, she’d be my number one suspect. Well, maybe number two suspect. She had the motive. Kara’s obsession with her would have made anyone snap.
Giving her a small smile, I have to agree. “I’m glad you weren’t here too.” As I stand to leave, I say, “I’ll keep you posted.”
“I know. Thank you, Gage.”
Shit, she sounds defeated, and I hate it.
Looking at my watch, I wave as I head to the door. Turning one more time before I exit, I’m about to smile at Quinn when I see Cooke lean in and kiss my… and kiss Quinn. It’s not a long kiss, but it looks like one that means something. I expect my heart to sink a little at the sight, but for some reason, I’m okay with it.
Chapter Thirteen
Daisy
As I unlock my apartment door, I’m singing to myself. I’m not a great singer, but I can carry a tune, and the one I just heard in my car is catchy. I can’t get it out of my head. That is until I see who’s made themselves at home in my living room.
“Dad.” What is he doing here?
Placing my shopping bags on the floor next to the front door, I step into the living room and see a mess. A big mess that appears to be some of my papers, file folders, and a few notebooks. Not only that, but Mom’s precious Vogue magazine is in shreds on the coffee table in front
of him.
Why? Why is he like this?
“What are you wearing?” he says in that tone I hate. The judgmental one.
I look down at myself. “A dress.” A cute green and yellow floral sundress. It’s not my style, but I like it. It reminds me of something someone in one of my books would wear to a garden party. Do people still have garden parties?
“A bit cold to be wearing that flimsy thing, isn’t it?”
I paired it with a jean jacket, so no, it’s not that cold. I choose to ignore his comment. In his defense—which he doesn’t deserve—he’s not used to seeing me in anything other than leggings and oversized sweatshirts. By his thin lips and glare, I’d say he doesn’t like it.
I decide at that moment to ask my own question. “Dad, what’s all this?” I point to the mess. As quickly as I can, I scan the things strewn about to see if I can determine what he’s after.
“I’m just trying to figure out what you were doing today.”
I blink, thinking. I need to remain calm and aloof, so I shrug. “Just running errands.”
“Errands?” he asks, standing up from the sofa.
“Yes.”
“What kind of errands did you need to take care of at First National Bank.”
No. He. Didn’t. “You followed me?”
He doesn’t bother answering. “We don’t bank at First National.”
We? What he means is we have a joint account at Vista Credit Union. It’s the account he deposits my rent money into along with the little bit of spending money he gives me.
“What were you doing at the bank, Daisy?” Dad’s voice has gotten calm. Too calm.
The thing is, I’ve been prepared for something like this. I knew I’d have to have a backstory for some of the things I’ve done until I’m ready to make my final move. “I was there about a loan.”