by Leigh Lennon
The window treatments are pulled back, a darker beige to match one of the many colors on the quilt. And through the window is a beautiful backyard with a gazebo, a covered porch, and flowerbeds overflowing with many types of floral arrangements.
I take a few steps until I twist my body toward him, he’s still in the doorway. In the peripheral of my view, is the cat picture, the first one I’d ever painted for him. “You kept it?” The tears pool toward the edge of my eyes, and I grab them before they fall from my cheeks.
“Malia, I’ve told you, the impact you’ve made in my life has been profound, and I all I’ve ever wanted was to bring you justice for the life you lost with your family.”
It always goes back to finding justice and being a case to him. I mean, I want nothing more than to find the sick fuck who’s detonated a bomb on my life. I can’t dwell on any of this because I want to live in the here and now, in the presence of the man who framed all my art throughout the years.
“I may not have been able to keep in verbal contact with you, but this was my way to keep you in my heart.”
Be still my heart. His words are about to undo me right now. I have very little experience with a guy. Just a sloppy kiss with Micah Summers after our senior prom, only because Georgia begged me to go with her date’s best friend.
But Wells is so unreadable, and maybe it’s the age gap. At the end of the day, I’m still thirteen years younger than him, taboo for many. In my thoughts, my quietness has him concerned when he passes the invisible line he hadn’t crossed yet, moving closer to me as his body, massively morphing me, leans over, and tips my head to the side.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks.
My smile wavers. I can feel it turn downward, and honestly, I’m conflicted. But I won’t tell him this. I’m more than okay in his space. I want to be here, but under these circumstances, it’s horrible. People have died, but I’m with Wells, and it makes me happy. I ping-pong my gaze everywhere and anywhere, besides his eyes. My thoughts are broken in my head, and they sure as shit will come out more broken if I attempt to explain them.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I don’t believe myself.
“I don’t believe you, not for one moment, but I’m not going to push, either. So, for that reason, I’m going to let you get yourself unpacked while Higgie and I go over some of the case files in my office. Okay?” he asks.
“Okay,” I mutter, walking away from his closeness.
“Hey, sweetheart, you can come to me with anything. I hope you know this.”
I bob my head up all the while I wobble and waver on every emotion I’ve experienced while back in Seattle. But a thought occurs to me when something pops in my head.
“Hey, Wells?”
He stops, pivoting his entire body to me. His resolve to be at my beck and call confuses me more. But it’s nice for once to have this attention, though it messes with me as to who I am to Wells Shanahan. “Yeah, sweetheart, what is it?”
“Do you have every picture I sent you still?”
“To the very last one.” He doesn’t have to think but spins around, and his minty orange aftershave leaves with him. I instantly miss his force, the part of him I don’t have to see to know he’s there. I can just sense him, and I’m instantly calmed.
Chapter 15
Wells
“Can you be any louder, asshole?” I ask Higgie, whose voice must carry through the wall. “She’s on the other side and doesn’t need to hear anymore about this fucked-up case.” My hands rake through my hair because the sleepless nights are getting to me.
He doesn’t reply, but lowers his voice, shuffling through the pictures from last night in comparison to the Strickland murders from so long ago. “You understand the house of the new victims is similar to the Stricklands’ house, right?” Now, his voice is barely an audible whisper when I sit down next to him and look at the similarities. I noticed it last night, how the dining room was off the foyer, and the kitchen was behind it, with a sunroom through a small hallway.
The Mastille family had dark features like the Stricklands, too, all with almost jet black hair and dark brown eyes. The parents were in their forties like Maria and Martin. The boy was twelve, close to Cabe’s age, and the Mastille daughter was sixteen. The similarities were too uncanny and a coincidence like this, almost never is a mere coincidence.
“Did you compare the family from last night to Malia’s family?” I ask, waiting to see if the rookie detective catches it. He’s not lived and breathed this case, as I have all this time.
“Yeah, it’s the first thing I noticed.” He compares a picture of Annie Strickland and Sarah Mastille, side by side. “Down to the length of hair. This person is a sick fuck.” He adds because it’s the truth.
“Did we ever get the arrest warrant they used to get Smith Turner?” I ask. Vanessa has been hush-hush about it, but with Turner about to walk, we’ve been read in.
He hands me the file, wearing a large grin on his face. “It was a partial hair, no root. And the judge never would issue a search warrant. Vanessa used strings to get this processed. But Turner admitted he’d had lunch with Annie that day. They’d stayed friends.”
The pinch on my face is felt throughout my body. The aches, the stress, the out-and-out uncertainty of this case has me experiencing physical pain.
“Don’t you find it odd that the judge didn’t at least clear him?”
He purses his lips together, lacing his fingers behind his head, rocking back in the chair. “Smith Turner is Theodore Turner’s son.”
The name is not lost on me. “Senator Theodore Turner?” I ask.
“Yep, the one and only, and with this new evidence, it’s taken Turner’s lawyers less than twenty-four hours to have the charges dropped for now.”
How’d I miss the prominence of the one person of interest on the case? However, I’d never had a gut feeling about him, and neither had the first detective assigned to the murders. “And why did Vanessa push for this hair to finally be considered?” Which is odd, I know nothing about this piece of evidence, as many times as I’ve combed the file.
The man smirks at me, adding a bemused grin. “Really, you of all people are going to ask this?”
He’s right, and his point is validated. Vanessa is a climber and it doesn’t matter who she steps over to get higher and higher on the ladder of her success.
“Yeah, good point, kid.” A chin jut tells me he’s about to challenge me, but I shoot him down. “Oh, don’t fucking start with me, just be glad I like you enough to even bestow a nickname or two on you.” It reminds me, the ways his eyes follow every move Malia makes. “Oh, and by the way, Malia Strickland is off-limits to you. Do you understand me, Higgie?”
His sideway glance along with the way his brows furrow, he’s ignoring me. “So, back to Turner? You think there’s a chance he’s involved?” Higgie asks.
“I understand he’s a great person of interest, especially with how personal Annie Strickland’s death was.” I lower my voice, and his eyes watch my lips, trying to hear me better. “But, no, it seemed more heated, more passionate. The level of intimacy was something far greater than an old boyfriend, and everything he’d shared, early on, along with the countless interviews, there wasn’t one person who spilled anything that would lead me to think it was Smith Turner.”
His eyes focus to the pictures again, this time comparing Gracie Strickland with that of the mannequin. “Hey, look at this.” He slides the pictures over and continues, “The mannequin has on almost matching clothes to that of Gracie Strickland. It can’t be a coincidence.”
He’s heard my theory of coincidences time over time. I think I’ve swayed him to agree with me. “No, kid, it certainly isn’t.” I pat him on the back because I’ve not even seen this similarity yet.
“Do we have the lab results, any DNA at the scene found, not belonging to any of the victims?” I inquire.
“Not yet, but as soon as they do, we’ll be the first to know.”
“Okay, you continue with this. I want to check on Malia, but be sure to keep the door shut and locked. There’s no way I want her to see these graphic photos.”
“Yeah, copy that, Wells,” he says, and my hand is on the handle, ready to find Malia. And if I’m being honest, it’s not just to check on her. Sure, there’s that, but somehow, some way, her presence in my house calls for me to be near her. And I’m not going to not listen to it. No, when it comes to Malia, I’m putty in her hands.
Popping my head in her room, I see it’s empty except for her suitcase. She’s not unpacked and there is a pile of makeup on the bed. So, she’s not neat. It’s not the end of the world. I laugh because I’d normally find this a turn-off, but for some reason, it isn’t with Malia.
Vanessa was the biggest slob I’ve known, and I almost felt I needed a tetanus shot when I got out of her car.
The door to the bathroom is opened, and she’s not in there. I open my door just in case, and it’s vacant, too. My heart begins to pound. In the twenty minutes I’ve been locked up with Stewart, could someone have come in here and hurt her? My feet begin to run to the front of the house, and sweat pours down my face. In the five seconds it takes to get to the little walkway between the couch and the kitchen island, I’ve run through every worst-case scenario, only to look up at Malia’s chocolate browns.
“Wells, you okay? You look like you’re running a fever.” She makes her way around the island to me, placing her hand on my forehead. “You’re not hot, so why are you so clammy?” Her sincerity warms my heart. I’ve pushed aside the reality of my affection for her. Sure, I can’t act on it, but I might as well admit it to myself, though I won’t admit it to her.
“Yeah, I just thought…” I don’t finish my sentence, and with the pinched expression, as her eyes narrow in on me, I’m knocked off my axis.
“You thought I’d left?” Her hand, which was on my head, works its way down to my shoulder.
“No, I thought…” The images from last night—fuck, the images from eleven years ago—swirl in my head, and the idea of Malia, my sweetheart, being taken from me sends shooting pangs through my entire body.
“You thought someone hurt me?” In her soothing voice, she’s the one comforting me. I give a small bob of my head, and her other hand is on the opposite side of my shoulder.
“Wells, I’m okay. I’m here. I’m not leaving, and believe me, if I was hurt, I truly believe you could feel it.”
I cock my head to the side, so far over that it’s resting on Malia’s hand. “What do you mean?” I’m enamored by this woman. I calm her. I’m the one to make her feel safe, yet this is what I need from her right now.
Moving her hand, the one which is free, from my head, she places it over my heart. “We’re connected. I think you’d know if there was something wrong with me. I think I’d know if there was something wrong with you. It’s a bond I’ve never shared with anyone but you. Your strength that day, the day I threw myself into your arms, is what has gotten me through the darkest parts of my life. You can deny it all you want, and I understand why you did when I was a kid, but I’m a woman now. We are more than a victim and a protector.”
My eyes widen, and in it, I see Malia in a different light. She’s right. She’s grown up. She may be a young adult, but she’s an adult just the same. My head lowers to hers, and she raises a bit as if she’s standing on her tiptoes. My lips are mere centimeters from her mouth. She emits a moan, a small little whimper that makes my cock stand at attention. “Malia?” I ask. I don’t know what I’m asking—maybe for permission, maybe for forgiveness—but I’m not taking advantage of her because she wants me. I want her. And sure as fuck, I’m not giving this moment a chance to pass us by.
“Wells, please.” Her plea is heartfelt. I’m responsive as my lips touch hers, and the flavor of this woman explodes for me to taste. It’s mint and sugar cookies combined. She gives me a little nip on my lips, then explores my mouth as our tongues meet. I’m in the middle of my inner monologue, telling myself this is okay. It’s what we both want. The door opens and slams back behind me as Higgie calls down the hall.
“Old man, come quick, you’ve gotta see this.” I pull back at his voice, but with the volume, I know he’s in the hallway and unable to see us.
“Wells.” Her smile meets the guilt in my eyes.
“Sweetheart.” In my response, the shame of this, mixed with the passion of a first kiss to rival all first kisses in the past, has my clouded mind tangled with regret and desire.
“Don’t you fucking say it.” She drops her hands from around my neck and walks off. “I’m not going anywhere, but who’s to say that I still won’t get hurt in your care.”
I pause at her insinuation that I hurt her, that my continued denial will cause her more pain than anyone. It’s a blow. No, it’s a fucking nightmare.
She walks off, and I want to go after her, I want to reach out to her when Higgie continues to call, “Shanahan, get your ass in here.”
Twisting my whole body around, my heart a pounding mess, I walk toward the office and find Higgie leaning back in the chair. “What’s up, asshole?” I ask as I attempt to figure out if I’m pissed off at him for interrupting the kiss or appreciative of it.
“First, you have to say I’m a fucking genius.”
I need his humor, the moron, thinking I’ll compliment him, sight unseen. “Nah, but if you’re a good boy, I’ll give you a sucker,” I reply.
“What an asshole.” He pushes across the picture of Annie Strickland and Sarah Mastille. “Do you see something, something worth telling me that I’m a fucking rock star?”
It stands out immediately. The pictures of Annie, strangled on the floor of the sunroom, her hands stretched out, wearing a brown beaded bracelet. The words in similar beads, but with letters reading, “You’re mine always.” The same type of bracelet is on Sarah Mastille’s left arm.
“Fuck me!” I call out. “We have Annie’s bracelet still in evidence, so this is a new one, he made just for the murders,” I explain.
“Yeah, this was my thought, too,” Higgins replies.
“How did I miss this? I lived and breathed this case.” The anger I have at myself is raging deep inside me, and I’m waiting for a response from my partner, but I don’t get one.
His one eyebrow pops up, a little higher than the other. “What?” I demand, my voice and pitch accompanying my annoyance.
“You’re too close to this case, old man.” I can’t even deny his claim.
“It won’t stop me from being a part of it.” My eyes silently challenge him.
“I’m aware of this, and I certainly wouldn’t ever suggest—now Vanessa, on the other hand, will shit her perfectly tailored suit pants.”
“Again, you’re not wrong, not one iota.” I’m not going to continue this conversation when we have finally found a break in this case. “So, what you need to do is get down to the evidence locker for the Strickland murders, then compare Annie’s bracelet to the evidence from last night.”
“Like right now?”
I bob my head up and down. “But it smells like she’s cooking something.” In the last five minutes, the aroma is wonderful and fills my home.
“Tough titty said the kitty. Go do what you need to do and get a burger from the drive-through.”
Not having him in the house after that kiss may be a bad idea, but this case comes first, even if I made a poor judgment call.
“I need your eyes on this. You know that. I mean, so you missed the bracelet, but you know this case inside and out,” Higgins begins.
“Tomorrow, when she’s at school, I’ll start looking at everything again.” I hate that the rookie is right, but I don’t let him know this. “Yeah, Higgie, even a broken watch is right two times a day.” He leaves without much more than goodbye, and it’s then, I realize I must leave this room and face the music along with the pissed-off woman in my kitchen.
Chapter 16
Malia
I’m dicing carrots when a flash comes whizzing by me. I look up to see Stewart leaving the house without so much as a goodbye. But he’s not the idiot I’m concerned with. The carrots are orange, but as I’m chopping them, all I see is red.
“Hey.” The voice startles me, and the knife slices clean into my flesh.
“Fuck, asshole, don’t sneak up on someone when they are using a knife.” My words come out as cross as I mean them to be. The pain of the cut is nothing compared to the remorse in his eyes.
“Shit, sweetheart.” He runs around the island, separating the kitchen and the living space. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” He runs the water, placing my finger underneath. “Looks like I’m screwing up everything with you today.”
His words, the way the decibel lowers and he slows his speech, tells me how truly sorry he is.
“Um, not everything, Wells,” I reply, and my tone is certainly more flirtatious as I elevate my pitch.
“Come here.” He takes a wad of paper towels, putting pressure on my finger. “Sit down and let me get the first aid kit.” He’s under the sink, but then in my space again in a matter of seconds. “I’m really sorry, Malia, for everything.”
I could be shy and timid. Fuck, if anyone has an excuse for that, I sure the hell do. But I don’t. I stare at him until he can feel my gaze on his skin, as he turns his eyes to me.
“I’m not going to entertain for one second that our kiss was a mistake.” I declare these words as boldly as I can make them fall from my tongue. “I’m going to care for you my whole life. And if you can’t get on board with that, it’s your fucking loss.”
He lets out a deep belly chuckle. “Fuck, you just say it as it is, don’t you?”
The antiseptic stings, but I don’t bother with this minor sensation. “When you’ve lost as much in your life as I have, I don’t have time for frivolities. But I’m not going to pursue you. Obviously, I’ve never been shy about how I care for you, so it’s in your court.” I stand, pushing away the chair. “And since I’ve bled all over some of the dinner, I’m ordering pizza. But for now, I need to be left alone.” I push to my feet, and I’ve shocked the man in front of me. His mouth is hanging wide open as I rotate my body toward the guest room.