by Cynthia Eden
I already thought like a killer. So why not try to learn more and catch the other killers out there?
“I lied to myself for years. I believed my own lies as easily as I believed his.” And her father had been such a genius when it came to lying. On the surface, he’d been charming. Everyone had loved him. That was why—when the truth came out—all the neighbors had been so shocked.
He was such a good man. Always willing to help out with my yard work.
He never bothered anyone. He was a widower. He took such good care of his little girl.
He never caused trouble with anyone. Quiet, courteous . . .
Lies.
“There was this boy at school . . . he’d been teasing me, calling me names.” She had to swallow to clear the lump in her throat. “I hadn’t even told my dad about him, but I learned—later—that one of my teachers had called Dad. She was worried about me being bullied and she was trying to follow up at home.” She bit her lip. She bit it to stop the tremble.
“Stop, Sarah.”
He tapped her lip.
She realized that she’d nearly drawn blood.
Sarah’s tongue swiped over the lip, soothing the pain.
“I was having a sweet sixteen slumber party. My friends were coming over when I found the—the bag downstairs.”
He’d gone still. As still as stone.
“Ryan was in that bag. My dad had . . . sliced his throat. From ear to ear. Ryan’s blood had soaked through the bag, and my dad was there . . . telling me happy birthday.”
Jax swore and pulled her into his arms. He held her there, right against his heart, with a hold that was so tight and warm.
“My dad said he did it for me. To protect me.” She shook her head. Jax’s hold tightened on her. “I never wanted that. I never wanted him to kill anyone. Not for me.”
“I know.”
Did he? She’d seen suspicion on so many faces.
“He’d trained me to kill, for years, and I didn’t realize it. I was thirteen and he was showing me people in malls . . . people who weren’t paying attention to what was happening around them. People who would make easy marks. I didn’t know he meant people who could be his victims!”
“What did you do?”
Sarah pulled back to stare up at him.
“When did you cut your wrist, Sarah?”
She blinked. “That night. On my birthday. I—I canceled my party. Told my friends that I was sick. And when I was alone . . . when he left to get rid of the body . . . I sliced my wrist.”
“Christ.” His hold was almost painful then.
“I was bleeding out on the floor. I thought I was dead, and then he came back.” She’d never told anyone this part. Not the shrink she’d seen, not the cops. “He was crying when he found me. My dad told me that he couldn’t live without me . . . that he needed me to keep going.” He’d wrapped up her hand. He’d rushed her to the hospital. Then he’d fed the nurses a lie about her being despondent because her boyfriend had broken up with her.
The boyfriend? Ryan Klein. A guy who’d seemingly deserted everyone and left town.
“He watched me after that, so carefully. He would stare at me as if he couldn’t figure me out. I think he expected me to be just like him. I wasn’t though, so he kept trying to turn me into a hunter, just like he was.”
“Sarah, you don’t have to tell me this.”
Maybe he didn’t want to hear it. She pulled away, her body curving a bit as her shoulders hunched.
“Stop.”
She looked up at him.
“You’re hurting when you talk about him. Do you think I can’t tell?” His jaw was clenched so tightly as he gritted out those words. “I wish I could take all of this pain away for you. I wish I could have stopped him.”
“I did.” Her chin lifted. “I’m the one . . . I finally stopped him.” The night was burned in her mind. “He’d taken a woman from the city—a lady who worked at the bakery. I’d seen her dozens of times, and he had his knife to her throat. He was telling me that I had to watch. That I had to see what she’d do . . . what she’d say. That in the end, they all confessed and they all begged . . .”
She wanted to stop the words, but now that she’d started talking, it seemed like a dam had burst and she couldn’t hold them back.
“I found a gun in my dad’s closet. He liked to use his knives when he was . . . working . . . on the victims. Said it was more personal.” In college, she’d learned that others thought just as her father did. A knife was intimate. You got close to your victim with the knife. It sliced into the skin, cutting deep into flesh. Carving—one life, taken. “But he had the gun . . . just in case. Just in case some burglar ever broke in, so we’d be safe.”
She stopped a minute, lost by the insanity of that. Her dad had kept a gun because he wanted to keep them safe from burglars. Who would keep us safe from you, Dad?
“I took that gun. When he was down in that basement, making her scream, I took the gun.”
She could see that scene so clearly in her mind. She’d gripped the gun in her hand. Her palm had been slick with sweat. She’d inched down the stairs, one at a time. The wood had creaked beneath her feet, but her father hadn’t heard her approach. The screams had been too loud.
She’d reached the bottom. Crept right up behind him. Daddy, stop.
“He thought I’d come to watch. To help. But I put the gun to his head. He laughed at first and said it wasn’t even loaded.” Every breath felt painful. “But I’d found the bullets. I told him that if he didn’t let her go, I’d shoot him.”
Jax was staring into her eyes.
“I meant it.”
“I know.” His voice was soft, gentle. There was no horror in his eyes, no pity. Just a blue stare that held her own.
“She ran out . . . I knew that she’d call the cops and I didn’t move. I kept that gun to my father’s head. If he’d tried to attack me, I would have pulled the trigger.” Goose bumps had risen on her arms as she told him the story. “When the cops finally arrived and they took him away, do you know what he said to me?”
Jax shook his head.
Right, of course, he didn’t know. Stupid question. No one knew . . . no one but her and the cop who’d been holding her father. “He said he was proud of me. That I had his killer instinct, just like he’d always wanted.”
There it was. Her shame. Her horror.
Her life.
And now he knew everything.
Chapter 11
DETECTIVE WEST?”
Brent tensed when he heard his name and he turned away from the window. Not that he’d had much of a view—the hospital’s waiting room window overlooked the place’s parking garage.
A young nurse, one with short, curly brown hair and dark eyes, waited a few feet away.
“The doctor wanted me to tell you that Ms. Guthrie has stabilized some. She may even be able to answer a few brief questions. Very brief,” she emphasized.
Relief had him rushing across the room. “Can I see her now?”
He was aware of Gabe Spencer rising behind him. Gabe and the blond looker had been in that waiting room for most of the night. He’d heard Gabe on his phone, calling in favors left and right—and Brent knew just how important that kind of power was. When a guy could get the Feds to jump and do your bidding, then that was a man with some serious pull.
He’s a man that I want on my side.
“Now,” the nurse agreed, with a nod, “but only for a few moments. And she can’t be stressed. Her body has been through a terrible trauma.”
Her body and her mind. And when the poor girl found out that her only remaining family member was dead, the pain would be even worse for her.
Brent turned toward Gabe. “You want in?”
“Hell, yes.” Gabe pressed a quick kiss to the blonde’s cheek. “Let the others know,” he said to her.
She nodded, and Gabe hurried toward Brent.
Brent had done his research on the other m
an. He knew just what had happened to Gabe’s sister, and it was some seriously messed-up shit. On paper, the guy was a tough-as-nails ex-SEAL. And in person, well, the man knew how to get the job done.
“This is my show,” Brent warned him before they entered Molly’s room. “I ask the questions because this is the NOPD’s case.”
Gabe lifted a brow. “A case we’ve sure as hell assisted on.”
“And that’s why you’re here now.” But he didn’t want the guy stepping on his toes when he went inside that little room.
“Lead the way,” Gabe murmured.
Squaring his shoulders, Brent entered the room. When he saw Molly Guthrie, he felt a fist punch into his chest. The woman looked so delicate, so damn breakable, as she lay against the stark white sheets. She had bruises on her face and arms. Her lip was busted. But that was nothing . . . nothing compared to all the bandages that covered her. The perp had sliced her, again and again.
“He tried to break her,” Gabe said, his low voice carrying only to Brent. “But it didn’t work. She made it out. She got away from him.”
The machines around Molly were beeping in a steady chorus of sound. A doctor stood to the left of her bed. He was checking her chart and when Brent approached, the guy tensed.
“The patient shouldn’t be stressed right now,” the doctor began. “I need you to know—”
Brent lifted his hand. “Right, I got the spiel from the nurse.” A nurse who’d followed him in. “Doc, the last thing I want to do is hurt this lady, I promise you that. I want to find the man who did this to her, and I want to throw him in jail for the rest of his life.” So he can’t ever hurt anyone else like this again.
He touched Molly’s hand. She flinched and her eyes opened. Fear was in her stare. Such deep, consuming fear.
“Easy, Molly,” the doctor said. “You don’t need to be afraid. This gentleman is a police officer. He wants to help you.”
The fear didn’t ease in her eyes. If anything, it got worse.
“Hi, Molly,” Brent said, working to keep his voice gentle. A tough job because he knew that, most days, his voice sounded like a growling bear. “I just need to ask you a few questions, okay?”
She stared back at him. Such big, beautiful eyes. Eyes that showed her terror.
He tried to smile for her. She seemed to relax a little. That was good.
“Where’s my . . . my br-brother?” Her voice was a soft rasp of sound.
Brent tensed at her question. The last thing he wanted to do was tell her that her brother was dead. When she found out, he knew she’d shut down. A guy didn’t have to be a shrink to figure that out.
“Can you tell me about the man who took you?” Brent asked her. “Molly, did you see his face?”
She gave a slow nod.
“Describe him . . . please.”
“B-Big . . . like you. Wide sh-shoulders. Tall.” Her brow crinkled. “He h-had . . . bl-blond hair . . .”
“Caucasian?”
She nodded.
“What color were his eyes, Molly?” He kept saying her name. He’d been told that was a tactic to create intimacy with a witness. He didn’t know if the technique was working or not, but he was more than willing to try anything right then.
“Bl-Blue . . .”
“Was there anything about the man that stuck out for you, Molly? Any scars or marks on his face?”
Slowly, she shook her head.
“Molly—”
“I want . . . my brother. H-He said . . . the man said that Eddie had . . . had sent him to get me. To pick me up.” A fat tear drop rolled down her cheek. “I—I went with him . . . he knew about Mom . . .”
The machines were beeping louder now, and the doc was frowning at him. Brent figured this counted as getting the patient agitated.
Molly tried to sit up, but she winced, and he saw the flash of pain on her face.
“No, Molly,” the doctor ordered as he put his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve got too many stitches. You have to remain stationary—”
“I want . . . my br-brother . . .”
“Family should be notified,” the nurse snapped. She glared at Brent as if saying . . . Why the hell didn’t you bring in her brother first?
Brent squared his shoulders. “I’m sorry, but your brother . . .” Oh, hell. More tears were falling from her eyes. “Your brother is dead.”
He’d never seen a person break before. But as he stared into Molly’s eyes, he saw it happen. She just seemed to splinter right in front of him. Her face became even paler and her lips moved, but she couldn’t get a sound out. She tried to talk, again, and a low, keening cry escaped from her.
Then she jerked up in bed, fighting the doctor, and trying to reach for Brent. “No! Not Eddie!” Her hands grabbed hold of him and she held tightly to Brent. “N-Not—ah!” Her face contorted in pain.
He looked down. A circle of red had appeared on her white hospital gown.
“I said not to upset the patient!” The doctor rushed over and shoved Brent back. “Leave, now!”
She was bleeding again. Crying out. Her pain seemed to cut right into Brent.
The nurse grabbed his arm and hauled him to the door.
“H-His name . . .”
He jerked away from the nurse. Molly was trying to tell him something. “What, Molly? What is it?”
“H-His name . . .” Molly rasped. The doctor was opening her gown. So much blood. “His n-name was J-Jax . . . Jax Fontaine . . . that’s what he . . .”
The machines beeped even louder.
The nurse pushed him and Gabe all the way out of ICU.
He stood there, his hands clenched, fury twisting in him.
Jax Fontaine.
SARAH HAD BARED her soul to him. Told him things that he was sure she’d never revealed to anyone else. Now she was trembling in his arms, and all he wanted to do was take her pain away.
“Do you want to run away now?” Sarah asked him.
His fingers curled under her chin, and he made her look up at him. “I’m not the running type.” He never had been. “And nothing you could say would scare me off.”
Her gaze searched his. “Why? Why do you want to be with me? I’m sure there are plenty of women who’d jump at the chance to be with you.”
“Plenty,” he agreed as his lips twitched.
“I know you’ve got money, Jax. Money and power mean a lot, in this town and in so many others. So I need you to answer my question. I need to know . . . why me? Is it because you want the thrill of fucking a killer’s daughter? Because I’ve been down that road and—”
“I can kick his ass.” He could and would. “Give me a name and it’s done.” Some prick had used Sarah that way? He would destroy the guy. He would—
“Jax . . .”
He liked it when she said his name. He liked it even more when she screamed it. Or when she moaned it.
“I don’t give a shit about your father.” Actually, he did. Jax hated that the man had hurt Sarah so much. And he was glad the guy was far away from Sarah so that he couldn’t do any more damage to her. “I’m fucking you because I look at you and I want.” Simple fact. “I want you naked. I want in you. I want you so much that I know my control won’t hold long, not when you’re around. Because the desire I feel for you is too raw, too strong.” Too unlike anything he’d ever felt, and, yeah, he had plenty of opportunities to hook up with others. But those other women . . . they weren’t Sarah.
There was only one Sarah.
“When you look at me . . .” Now it was his turn to bare his soul. He figured it was only fair. “What do you see?”
“Strength.” Her response was immediate.
“That’s what I see when I look at you.”
She blinked at him.
“Others . . . when they look at me, they see a criminal.” She needed to hear this. “Make no mistake, Sarah, I haven’t lived an easy life. I’ve broken laws. Done things that I regret.” And things that he’d never regret.
“When it’s do-or-die, we all have to fight, and I’m a fighter to my core.”
“I know.”
Yes, she did.
“I try to follow a few rules. I never hurt a woman, no matter what the hell she’s done.” Because of the woman who’d raised him. Because she had loved him, and he’d loved her. He’d wanted to protect her, but that bastard who’d taken him . . . that bastard had hurt her again and again.
Until I got big enough to stop him. I wasn’t going to let anyone hurt her ever again.
He brushed his knuckles over Sarah’s cheeks. He felt the faint wetness of her tears. “I don’t hurt innocents.” He never went after the weak. When he ran his business, the people he was involved with knew the score. Always.
“The world isn’t black and white.” Oh, hell, no, it wasn’t. “I’ve been operating in the gray for a long time.” Until Sarah. Until she’d made him want to step out and into the light again. “I wish I could be different.” He looked down at all of the tats on his hands and thought of the battles he’d faced. “But you can’t change the past.”
If they’d come to find me . . . if my parents had looked . . .
If anyone had looked for me . . .
But he’d always known that his real family hadn’t cared. No one had ever bothered to search for him.
“You’re not the only one with nightmares, pretty Sarah.” He still dreamed of being trapped in that closet. Being a lost, scared kid. Calling out for his mother. Only she’d never come for him.
Then, later, the dreams had changed. He’d been a teenager. The bastard who took him . . . he’d come swinging at Jax when he stepped in front of Charlene. Jax had swung back. He’d hit him so hard and the man had slipped, falling down those stairs . . . falling . . . falling . . .
How do I tell her that I killed a man when I was fifteen? No one knew. Charlene had helped him. They’d covered up the past.
Another secret to stay buried.
But maybe, maybe Sarah could handle—
His phone rang. Jax swore. Someone had serious shit for timing.
“It could be the hospital,” Sarah said. “Gabe knew I was coming with you . . .”
He rose from the bed. He had on a pair of jogging sweats and he stalked toward the ringing phone. Jax glanced down at the screen and saw Brent West’s number flash on the screen. He answered, saying, “Is Molly all right?”