by Lisa Jackson
Books by Lisa Jackson
Stand-Alones
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
WICKED GAME
WICKED LIES
SOMETHING WICKED
WITHOUT MERCY
YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW
Anthony Paterno/Cahill Family Novels
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
ALMOST DEAD
Rick Bentz/Reuben Montoya Novels
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
SHIVER
ABSOLUTE FEAR
LOST SOULS
MALICE
DEVIOUS
Pierce Reed/Nikki Gillette Novels
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
TELL ME
Selena Alvarez/Regan Pescoli Novels
LEFT TO DIE
CHOSEN TO DIE
BORN TO DIE
AFRAID TO DIE
READY TO DIE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LISA JACKSON
TELL ME
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
Copyright Page
Dedicated to the people of Savannah.
I love your fair city, even if I do take liberties with it.
PROLOGUE
His hand was cool as it slid up her leg, smoothly brushing her calf, tickling and teasing, causing her spine to tingle and a warmth to start in the deepest part of her. Ever upward it traveled, slipping effortlessly against her, nearly undulating.
“Don’t,” she wanted to say but couldn’t, because her voice wouldn’t work, and really, she didn’t want him to stop. His touch was magical. Divine. And downright dangerous. She knew all this even though she hadn’t yet woken.
Hovering somewhere between consciousness and sleep, she thought she was on the edge of a dream, a warm sensation that lulled her into wanting to snuggle deeper inside the covers.
Still, his touch was sensual. Arousing. And because of it, she was in trouble. Big trouble. But she couldn’t stop. Even now, when she knew it was the worst time ever for him to be sliding his hand along her bare skin.
The smell of wood smoke filled her nostrils, and the bed was warm and cozy, even though she heard the sigh of the wind as it rattled the windows.
Amity vaguely remembered that she wasn’t at home, that her mother, ogre that she was, had forced her and her two younger siblings out here in the middle of no-damned-where for the night.
That’s right. Amity wasn’t in her room at the house her mother rented. There was no lock on the door, no way to ensure privacy.
But Mother was out or asleep, and now Amity was with him.
Right?
Did that make sense?
On the edge of dreamland, she decided he’d taken a risk to come to her . . . of course he had. Despite the danger. But she’d dozed and now was still in that blissful state between being fully awake and dreamland. Somehow avoiding Blondell’s watchful eye, he must’ve sneaked into the cabin and slid beneath the covers. God, he was good. Experienced. Made her feel like a woman, not a girl.
Of course, not everything was perfect, and now . . . now there was big trouble. Amity had needed to talk to someone about it, so she’d called her friend. She’d begged Nikki to sneak out and come to the house by the lake, and her friend had promised she would, but like everyone else in Amity’s pathetic life, Nikki had abandoned her. Well, good. Then she wouldn’t have to share her secret.
For now.
And he had slipped in unnoticed, come to her, loved her. For the first time in her life, she felt secure.
Yet something wasn’t right. Even in her semi-dreamlike state, she knew they had to be careful.
Quiet.
Nearly silent.
Hoping the darkness was enough of a cover, though soon, of course, they would let the world know of their love. That thought warmed her as much as his touch.
Her lips were dry, her mind still fuzzy with sleep. She thought she heard a dog barking in the distance but wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter, of course. Nothing did but him. Realizing that since he’d started touching her, he hadn’t uttered a word, she said softly, “Come closer.” Anticipating his weight, anxious to feel his body against hers, she was disappointed. All she knew was his arm, long and fluid, sliding across her bare skin.
Was he just being careful?
Or was it something more?
It was strange that he wasn’t pressing himself urgently against her, wasn’t nuzzling her neck, or reaching around her to touch her breast. He should be tangling his hands in her hair, his lips hot and anxious as they found her own.
But tonight he was aloof. Playing his game. Toying with her.
And Mother was so close. Wasn’t she? Or had Blondell left, assuming yet again that Amity would babysit the younger ones? These days, who knew?
However, him being here was dangerous. They couldn’t be caught together. Not yet. She writhed a little, anxious for more of his touch, but he kept stroking her, sliding his arm against her.
With his silky smooth touch, he trailed his hand along her thighs, along the outside of her hips, and ever upward, across her rib cage, trailing the length of her.
Oh, Lord, this was magical. And playing with fire. Which, of course, she already had. That’s why she was in so much trouble already.
His arm slid between her breasts and ever upward, yet somehow managed to move against the skin all along her thigh and abdomen and . . . ? Wait! That wasn’t right.
She was waking now, dreamland fading . . .
Letting out her breath in a sigh, she opened a bleary eye. The room was dark, aside from the merest light from the fire and the lowest setting of the kerosene lantern on a nearby table. Lying on the hide-a-bed tucked beneath the loft of the cabin, she heard rain beating against the roof. A hard, steady tattoo. But . . . she was alone. There was no one with her. He wasn’t stretched out on the mattress beside her. No. It was all a dream.
The only others in the old shack were her brother and sister.
Just Blythe and Niall, upstairs in the loft, sleeping. And Mom was probably still on the porch. That’s where she said she was going when you started dropping off, when she grabbed her opened bottle of wine and a glass and walked through the connecting door.
Still, something seemed off. The dream was so real. But if he wasn’t here, beside her, then what the devil . . . ?
Alarm bells clanged through her mind.
Someone, no, make that something had been touching her a
nd even now . . . Oh, Mother Mary! . . . it was rubbing up against her, only to stop suddenly, the length of it trailing over her.
Oh, no!
Hissss!
The sibilant sound echoed through her brain.
For the love of Jesus! No!
Screaming in sheer terror, she frantically threw back the covers and scrambled backward on the bed in a single motion. The snake, its reptilian eyes reflecting the red of the dying embers, hoisted back its sharp, triangular head.
Shrieking, trying to fly off the bed, her legs tangling in the covers. “Mom!”
Too late!
Quick as lightning, the snake struck, its coppery head still visible. Fangs sunk into her leg, hot pain searing.
“Mom!” Amity screamed, reaching for the side table, her fingers touching the base of the kerosene lamp, turned so low as to barely glow as the snake slithered quickly off the bed. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! Mom!” In a full-blown panic, Amity grabbed the lamp and threw it hard against the wall, glass shattering, kerosene bursting in a blinding flash that quickly died.
The snake.
Where the hell was the snake?
I’m going to die . . . Oh dear God. “Mom! Where the hell are you?
“Mom! Help! Snake!” she yelled. Afraid to get off the damned bed, she turned toward the door to the porch, only to see a dark figure hiding in the shadows. “Help! Oh, God, I’ve been . . .” Her heart was pounding, sweat collecting on her body. “Mom?” she whispered, scared out of her mind. “The snake just bit me! It’s still in the house, oh, holy crap! Did you hear me?” Tears began running down her face, her heart pounding wildly. “We have to get to the hospital!”
Movement.
Was the figure one person? Or two?
In the dark, without her contacts, Amity couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. Were they kissing? For the love of God! No, maybe wrestling?
“Mom!” No, wait. That wasn’t Mom, was it? It was only one person, kind of wobbly on their feet. Or not? Chaotic footsteps pounded in the loft above her. Her siblings!
“Niall! Blythe! Stay upstairs!” she cried when she saw, in the faint light, silhouetted in the figure’s hand, the image of a pistol.
Was Mom going to shoot the snake? In here? In the dark? Why the hell didn’t she turn on the lights and—
She realized the gun’s muzzle was aimed at her.
“No!” Cowering in the corner of the sofa bed, she pointed toward the corner where the snake had slithered. “It’s over there. A damned copperhead, I think. Mom—”
Blam!
A deafening blast roared through the cabin.
A flash of light.
The muzzle of a gun as it kicked back a little.
Amity’s body slammed against the musty pillows of the couch, pain searing through her abdomen.
Disbelief tore through her mind. She’d been shot? Someone had shot her? No way . . . but the blood running through her fingers told a different story, confirmed to her unwilling mind that someone wanted her dead.
She was still screaming as the world went black.
December 2nd
First Interview
“Just tell me what you know about that night. Let me tell your side of the story to the rest of the world. If you didn’t try to kill the children, if you didn’t mean to hurt them, then tell me the truth. Let me be your mouthpiece. Trust me, I can help!”
The eyes beyond the glass don’t so much as blink. I’m not sure she’s even heard my question. Then again, did someone who’d tried to murder children in cold blood ever hear anyone else? Ever really try to explain?
As I sit in my tiny stall, an open booth with an uncomfortable stool, a heavy telephone receiver and thick prison glass separating the free from the incarcerated, I try my best to be convincing and earnest, hoping to wring the truth from the person on the other side of the clear barrier.
But it seems impossible.
The prisoner suspects I’m up to something. That I’m using the information I might get from this interview for my own purposes, which, of course, isn’t far from the truth.
As I stare through the smudged glass at the woman who’s agreed to be contacted, a woman whom the public has reviled, someone with whom I’ve been through so much, I wonder if I’ll ever get through, if the truth will ever be told. Suspicion smolders in her eyes, and something more too, something almost hidden. Hopelessness? Fear? Or is it accusation?
As if she knows.
But then, why wouldn’t she?
It isn’t as if we’re strangers.
My heart trips a bit, and I want to bolt, to hide. But I force myself to sit on the worn-down stool where thousands have sat before me.
“I can help,” I plead, and cringe at the tone of desperation in my own voice.
Her expression falters a bit, and even dressed in drab prison garb, without makeup, her once-shiny hair streaked with gray, a few pesky wrinkles appearing on what was once flawless skin, she’s a beauty, with high cheekbones, large eyes, and full lips. The years since the horrific crime of which she’s accused have been surprisingly kind.
There is noise in the hallway, on my side of the thick window, whispered voices from other booths filtering my way. There is no privacy here, not with the cameras mounted on the ceiling and the guards watching over the line of free people attempting to speak to inmates.
I hear sobbing from the elderly woman to my right as she tries to speak in low tones. She shuffled in before me and wears a bandanna on her head, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. Her wedding ring is loose on her finger, her sadness palpable.
The stool to my left is vacant. A man in his thirties with tattoos climbing up his arms and a neatly trimmed soul patch, the only hair on his head, storms out angrily, his footsteps pounding away, echoing the loneliness of the worn souls who reside within.
But I can’t be distracted by the hum of conversation, nor the shuffle of footsteps, nor the occasional burst of bitter laughter. There is little time, and I want only one small thing: the truth and all of it.
“Come on, I can help. Really,” I insist, but in my little nook, where I can sense the prison cameras filming this interview, there is only silence as she stares through the glass at me, quiet as death.
CHAPTER 1
“I know, I know. I’m working on it. Really! I just need a little more time to come up with the right story!” Nikki Gillette glanced up at the skylight as rain drizzled down the pane. Above the glass, the sky was a gloomy shade of gray, the clouds thick with a coming twilight hurrying across the city. Beneath the window, inside her loft and curled into a ball on the top of the daybed, lay her cat, Jennings, his eyes closed, his golden tail twitching slightly as he slept. Seeing him, Nikki reminded herself yet again that she needed to pick up Mikado at the groomer’s tomorrow. Her head was so full of her own problems, she’d forgotten him today. Luckily, Ruby had assured her she could pick up the dog tomorrow at no extra fee, a kindness she wasn’t generally known for.
Hunched over her desk, Nikki held the phone to her ear with one hand and fiddled with a pen in the other. The conversation was tense. Nearly heated. And for once, she knew she was at fault. Well, at least partially.
As her agent described why her latest book submission had been rejected by her publisher, Nikki glanced at her computer monitor, news stories streaming across the screen—an alert that yet another storm was rolling its way inland, the latest breaking news.
“What was wrong with the Bay Bridge Strangler idea?” Nikki asked, but deep down, she knew the answer.
Ina sighed audibly. “For one thing he’s in San Francisco.”
Nikki could imagine her agent rolling her expressive brown eyes over the tops of the bifocals that were always perched on the tip of her nose. She’d be sitting in her tiny office, cup of coffee nearby, a second, forgotten one, maybe from the day before, propped on a pile of papers that had been pushed to one corner of her massive desk.
“And you’ve never met him,” she added in
a raspy voice. “And since good old Bay Bridge is big news on the West Coast, I’ll bet a dozen stories are already being written about him by authors in that enclave of mystery writers they’ve got out there. You know, I probably already have a submission somewhere here on my desk, if I’d take the time to dig a little deeper through my slush pile.”
Another good point. Irritating, yes, but probably spot on. “Okay, okay, but I also sent you an idea about a story surrounding Father John in New Orleans.”
“Who knows what happened to that freak? A killer dressed up as a priest. Gives me chills. Yeah, I know. He’s a better match, closer geographically and infinitely more interesting than Bay Bridge, but really, do you have a connection with him? An inside look?” There was a pause, a muffled “Tell him I’ll call him right back” on the other end of the line, then Ina was back, never missing a beat. “As near as I remember, Father John disappeared. Either moved on or, more likely, is lying dead in some Louisiana swamp. Crocodile bait or something. No one knows, and right now, not a lot of people care. He’s old news.”
“No one really knows what happened to Zodiac, and he hasn’t killed in decades, but there’re still books being written about him. Movies.”
“Meh. From authors and producers without any new ideas. The reason your first two books did so well was because they were fresh, and you were close to the investigation.”
“Too close,” Nikki said, shuddering inwardly when she remembered her up-close-and-personal experience with the Grave Robber. That horrifying episode still invaded her sleep, bringing nightmares that caused her to wake screaming, her body in a cold, damp sweat.
“I’m not advocating you ever become a victim again, trust me. But you know you have to write something that you’re emotionally connected to.”
“So you keep saying,” Nikki admitted as she looked around her little garret, with its built-in bookshelves, easy chair, and reading lamp. Cozy. Smelling of the spice candles she lit every morning. A perfect writing studio, as long as she had a story to put to paper.