Then she’d spotted him again at the Stray Cat after that stupid bachelor party gig. That clinched it. More than once was once too often. He’d filmed her on his phone. There were no coincidences. If something seemed sinister, it was sinister. Count on it.
She craned her neck until it ached, squinting through the rainspotted window at headlights and taillights. She didn’t dare draw any more unhealthy attention to Bea, who had problems of her own. It was wrong to pull anyone into the toxic mess of her life.
Like she’d done to Tim.
She shoved that thought away fast, before it could swallow her.
She’d been on the bus since that bizarre belly dancing gig, just riding the loop and hoping to keep Ponytail off her trail until she pinned Bea down one last time.
Sexual fantasies were a huge improvement over her usual thought patterns, at least. Noah Gallagher was going to haunt her dreams, and her dreams were already haunted. His smoldering gaze was a mindblowing distraction.
One she didn’t need. Not when she had to fight for her very existence.
Her eyes stung from lack of sleep. Lashes were gummy from old mascara. She rubbed them, and when she opened them, her stomach dropped into a bottomless hole.
Her hands were wet, crimson. Slippery with blood. She held a boxcutter in her shaking hand. It dripped with hot gore.
She looked up, in dread. The big guy who had been with Mark Olund on the night of the attack at Dex’s office stood before her. The one who had held her down on the worktable while Mark murdered Dex.
She’d killed him. Almost by accident. She’d grabbed the boxcutter at random with her scrabbling hand, and gotten in a wild lucky jab right to his neck. He’d cut her too, in the brief struggle that took place afterwards. She’d barely noticed at the time.
The ghost man stared at her with pale, accusing eyes. His bloody fingers pressed against the hole she’d punched into his throat. Slowly, tauntingly, he lifted his hand—and hot pulsing spurts of blood pumped out, drenching her.
He grinned, with bloody teeth, and toppled slowly toward her.
She jumped up to evade his falling body with a cry—
He was gone. So was the blood, the boxcutter. Of course. It was just the old lady on the plastic bench, peering up with a suspicious frown. Her tiny dog stuck its head out of the purse and bared its sharp yellow teeth, growling low in its throat.
The bus was dead silent. Everyone was giving her the Look. Shrinking away as far as they could get from a crazy passenger who yelled at things no one else could see.
It made her cringe to be that girl again. With her overdeveloped capacity to visualize, combined with extreme stress, hallucinations could happen out of nowhere. The first time was when she was little, after Mom died. Since then . . . she’d had others.
She knew the difference between fantasy and reality. And it wasn’t all bad. Her freakish visual ability had given her art, masks, costume design. It had brought her to the attention of Dex Boyd of GodsEye Biometrics. Which had transformed her life.
Her body clenched instinctively when she thought about Dex. His murder had happened only eight months ago. Still a raw wound in her mind.
The bus lurched to a standstill. It was one stop too soon, but she had to get away from the sidelong glances. She grabbed the bag that held her dancing costume and headed for the exit as the door opened.
The vehicle hissed and groaned and lumbered away, leaving her in near darkness with raw wind gusting around her. Her knees still wobbled from the shock of the ugly hallucination. And now she had twelve extra blocks to walk. Great.
She was chilled to the bone when she found Bea’s boyfriend’s house. She tucked her glasses into her bag, spat out the jaw prosthesis, peeled off the wig, raking a hand through her flattened hair. She felt horribly exposed without her disguise.
She spun around. No one seemed to be lurking. So far, so good.
The house was a weatherbeaten green, the sparse lawn fenced with chain-link. She went up onto the sagging porch and pressed the doorbell.
The curtains twitched to the side. A man peered out. Her heart sank. She’d been hoping desperately to talk to Bea alone. The door opened, stopped short by a clanking security chain. A stocky, bearded guy peered out. She knew who he was. Todd Blount, originally from Chelan, Washington, a special ed teacher in elementary school.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I hope so. I want to speak to Marika.” The name Bea used in her new life.
He looked at her suspiciously, but not like he was afraid of her. Caro concluded that he knew diddly about his girlfriend’s secrets.
“What’s it about?” Todd demanded.
“I knew her back in college,” Caro improvised.
“Is she expecting you?”
“Tell her it’s Caroline,” she said. “We spoke briefly yesterday.”
He looked her over. Caro self-consciously smoothed her hair.
“Wait here.” The door closed and the chain rattled. Todd wasn’t taking chances. Deadbolt was next.
She was debating ringing the bell again when the door opened again. Bea’s big blue eyes were red-rimmed. Her formerly ash blond hair had been dyed a dull black that made her look pale and ghoulish.
“I told you no,” she whispered fiercely. “How did you find me here?”
“Bea,” Caro said softly. “Listen—”
“Don’t call me that. I’m Marika, please. And I’m not interested.”
“Who’s this person, babe?” Todd appeared behind her. He flung an arm over Bea’s shoulders.
Bea flinched at the contact and gave him a tight smile. “Just someone I used to know.”
The phone began to ring in the room behind them. They all just stood there in an awkward silence, listening to it ring, and ring.
“Uh, would you get that?” Bea asked him. “Let me talk to her. I’ll be fine.”
The phone rang two more times before Todd grunted in reluctant assent and lifted his possessive arm off Bea’s shoulder. “Be right back,” he said, still scowling.
Caro leaned forward as soon as he was out of earshot. “Did you look me up online?” she whispered. “New York City? Caroline Bishop?”
Bea’s hunted gaze caught hers and slid away.
“I see you did,” Caro said. “It’s true, what I said yesterday. I’m not out to get you. We could help each other. We both have a problem, and I think it’s the same problem. We should join forces.”
“You’re going to get me killed.” Bea’s voice was a strangled whisper.
Caro could not argue with that in all good conscience, so she just moved on. “You saw the news stories about me? Because I read the ones about your boyfriend.”
“I don’t want to talk about Luke,” Bea hissed fiercely. “None of your business.”
“Mark Olund caught Luke Ryan in the same trap he used for me,” Caro’s voice was low and insistent. “It was Mark Olund who killed Luke’s client and took all that money and jewelry last year. Luke took the blame, but he’s innocent, like I am. And you must know something, or you wouldn’t be Marika instead of Bea, and selling sandwiches out of a truck instead of finishing your graduate degree at the U of Chicago. Am I right?”
“Keep your voice down.” Bea glanced back. “I don’t know anything. And how do you know the guy who hurt Luke is this Mark Olund? How can you be so sure?”
“Mark has art pieces that they say Luke Ryan stole. A famous sapphire brooch. I saw it in his apartment. Mark also murdered my boss and set it up to look like I did it. Sound familiar?”
Bea just kept shaking her head until Caro wanted to smack her.
“Luke Ryan didn’t rob or kill anybody and neither did I,” Caro went on. “I’ve been looking for you for months.” She reached through the crack in the door, and seized the other woman’s clammy hand. “Seriously? Do you want to live this way forever?”
Bea tried to jerk her hand back, but Caro’s grip was relentless. “I just want to keep living.�
�
“I understand,” Caro said. “But we could testify against him. If you have any proof of what Mark did to Luke—”
“Let go.” Bea finally jerked her hand away. “Anyone could see you out there.”
“So invite me inside,” Caro suggested. “It’s raining.”
“Todd would hear.” Bea’s eyes darted to the side. “We can’t talk here.”
Caro’s heart sank. “Please, Marika. Please. Help me.”
“Tomorrow.” Bea’s voice was a rushed whisper. “There’s a coffee shop off Pioneer Square. Luciano’s. I’ll meet you there tomorrow morning. Around eight thirty.”
“Do you have any evidence?” Caro persisted. “Did you see anything at all?”
Bea’s lips flattened. “Not personally. But Luke videoed his meeting with this guy. I retrieved it after Luke disappeared. I was going to give it to the cops, but when I saw it, I just ran. Cops can’t protect me from that guy. No one can.”
Caro’s heart thudded heavily. “A video?” she said. “Of Mark, doing something to Luke Ryan? Holy shit, Bea. What the hell are you waiting for?”
“You don’t understand.” Bea whispered. “You can’t just go after that guy, Mark, or whatever his name is, if we’re talking about the same guy. He’s like . . . a monster.”
Caro flashed on a memory that her mind still struggled to comprehend. Mark Olund, clutching Dex’s frail, paralyzed body from behind as his mouth fastened onto the crown of Dex’s head. As if kissing it, or somehow . . . sucking on it.
Of course, that was disgusting and crazy. She’d concluded that it was a stress induced hallucination, but Dex had died. That was real.
So was being accused of killing him.
“I’ve seen him,” she said. “I know he’s terrifying. But exactly what did Mark do to him?”
“Who’s Mark?”
The loud male voice made them both start. Bea spun. “Huh?”
“Is this woman bothering you, baby?” Todd’s beefy arms folded over his chest.
“Ah, no,” Bea faltered. “No, she’s just, ah . . .”
Caro met Bea’s eyes. Does he know? Bea gave her a desperate head shake. No.
“Who’s this Mark guy?” Todd persisted, advancing on her.
“Um . . . I’m just doing Step Nine,” Caro blurted. “It’s part of my recovery.”
Bea and Todd looked at her blankly. “Part of your what?” Todd said.
“Recovery. I’m in Narc Anon,” she improvised. “I just got out of rehab. Cocaine. This is one of the Twelve Steps. You contact anyone that you hurt while you were using and make amends. Unless by so doing you’d hurt them worse, which I hope isn’t the case. Back in my snowbunny days, I, um . . . got really high, and, uh, slept with her boyfriend.”
“That would be this Mark?” Todd said.
“Yeah. Him.” Caro let defensiveness creep into her tone. “So, like, whatever. I’m sorry. It was a slutty thing to do, and it hurt you, and I’m really sorry.”
Todd waited for more. Caro just stood there trying to look shamefaced. Easy enough after all that time lurking in the shadows.
“All done?” Todd’s tone was cold. “OK then. Good. You’re sorry. Go now and sin no more. Have a nice life.”
Caro searched Bea’s desperate eyes. “Please, Marika?” she asked. “I’m trying so hard to get my life together. Maybe this could help both of us.”
“How about you just leave right now, lady?” Todd suggested forcefully.
“I was hoping you’d forgive me,” she said to Bea.
“It was always about you, you, you,” Bea whined. “And now you’re like, what, repenting? And to hell with anyone you leave bleeding on the side of the road.”
Caro sighed. “Look, if you want to talk, find me. Please, Marika. Find me.”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it, but don’t hold your breath.”
The door shut. Caro descended the porch steps, legs rubbery.
Maybe there was hope after all. As in an actual video to show the Feds that proved Mark had framed another innocent person for theft and murder.
Which made it more credible that he could have done the same to her.
She saw a bus approaching and ran for it, splashing through puddles. City buses were her refuge today, a dry place where she could keep on moving. She couldn’t go to her apartment if she was being followed.
Her former life seemed like a dream of crazy luxury. Her nice little New York studio apartment in SoHo, with that beautiful arched window. She’d loved that place. Her gig at GodsEye Biometrics, coaching people into seeing like she did. Or thinking that they could. Whatever. She wasn’t a miracle worker.
But oh God, how she’d loved having money for things she needed. Enjoying friends, food. Making art. Being able to go to bed and just sleep. No hellish nightmares. No cold sucking hole inside her as she lay in bed watching what Mark had done to Dex looping over and over in her mind. She couldn’t seem to stop that endless replay.
The driver had seen and waited for her, bless him. The bus door opened as she pounded toward it, trying to unthink that random thought about Dex as she scrambled up into the bus. Thinking of Dex was a trigger, and she couldn’t afford to—
Oh no. Oh fuck. She stared in horror at the bus driver.
His eyes had been torn out just like Tim’s. Blood streaked down his face and soaked the front of his uniform. Caro froze, a shriek of horror trapped in her throat.
She shut her eyes, teetering on the edge of screaming panic. Not real. Not real.
Noah Gallagher. She seized onto the image of him. His intense gaze as he sprinted after her through the car-clogged street. Searching for her.
The image radiated heat through her.
Air came into her lungs. Slowly, she dared to open her eyes.
“. . . gettin’ on this bus or not, miss? Come on! I don’t got all night!”
The driver had his eyes again. Blue, frowning at her in puzzlement. His uniform was clean, blood free, his buttons straining over a heavy gut. Just a middle-aged man with beard scruff and heavy jowls. He looked tired and annoyed.
A few passengers put in their two cents, rudely.
She mumbled an incoherent apology, scrambled the rest of the way in and found an empty seat, winded. She’d gotten through that so quickly. No nausea. No lingering aura.
Just a vision she couldn’t shake of a man like no other. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to get Noah Gallahger out of her head.
Not that she wanted to.
Chapter 3
Noah felt strangled by his own clothing when he got upstairs. He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie with an angry tug as he strode through Angel Enterprises. His employees scrambled frantically out of his path. He must look ferocious.
He felt ferocious. He’d been on the verge of acquiring Rand Batello’s biomed company. Batello’s stepdaughter, the brilliant Simone Brightman, had just recently agreed to marry him. Batello’s company seemed a perfect match for Angel Enterprises, just as Simone had seemed perfect for him personally. She was elegant, intelligent, beautiful.
And the safest possible choice for a partner. He would have seen the signs, if Simone were mixed up with Obsidian. He hadn’t run AVP on her, since she knew nothing about his past, but even through the contacts and the shield specs, there was no way he could have missed that.
He’d never liked her stepdad Rand, but an annoying in-law was a walking cliché. Noah welcomed anything that added apparent normalcy to his life. Even if it bugged the shit out of him.
But Asa’s warning cast Batello in a new light.
It could be a coincidence. Obsidian had its tentacles everywhere. If Obsidian had found them, it wouldn’t waste time or resources on infiltration.
It would eat them alive and spit out their bones.
Several of his team, including Hannah, were still crowded around the conference room door when he approached. She called something out to him as he passed, her tone sharp and de
fensive. He couldn’t be bothered to listen or respond.
He had more pressing problems at the moment.
Simone turned to him as he walked into the room. No smile. Her lipstick looked startlingly red against her pale skin.
As always, she was impeccably put together. Understated jewelry, slender figure set off by a silver gray designer suit. Her hair was swept up, invisibly pinned. Pure class. Total sophistication. The absolute opposite of a hired exotic dancer bedecked with dollar-store trinkets and twirling veils.
Simone held herself ramrod straight, looking him right in the eyes.
He wasn’t used to that. He realized that he’d never seen her angry before.
“What’s going on?” Rand Batello demanded. “Where did you run off to? That belly dancer have anything to do with it?” Rand’s fleshy face was even redder and more congested looking than usual.
“No.” Noah exhaled before he allowed himself to answer, and the words that came out surprised him. “Things have changed. The deal’s off.”
There was a breathless moment in the room, just enough time to reflect upon how crazy it was to make a decision this big based on an unsolicited text message.
From Asa. Who he hadn’t seen or spoken to in thirteen years and whose agenda was a mystery. But it didn’t matter. When Noah made a decision, it stayed made.
Batello shot an accusatory glance at Simone, and then looked at the documentation laid out across the table where Noah had been sitting. “What the fuck? This was a done deal. What the hell happened?”
Obsidian happened. Your secret partner. My family’s mortal enemies.
“I can’t discuss the details,” Noah said.
“The hell you say,” Batello sputtered. “You can’t back out with no explanation!”
“I just did,” Noah replied.
“At least explain why you’ve changed your mind.” Simone’s voice was strained.
“Like I just said, I can’t. Sorry.”
“Sorry?” The pitch of Simone’s voice climbed. “You throw this in my face, in front of a room full of people, and then you tell me that you’re sorry?”
Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1) Page 3