by Brynna Curry
Just before she had fallen asleep at her computer, the killer had caught up with Macy in the dank old parish, and knocked her out. Macy had awakened to find herself tied to the blood-soaked altar, a crucifix hovering above her chest, and the wide mad eyes of a killer staring down at her. Macy was trapped in limbo. Liv didn’t how know she’d gotten into bed, but considering she’d woken fully dressed, including her house shoes, she guessed she had sleepwalked there. If she hadn’t been known to do that a lot, it might have bothered her. She couldn’t remember hitting the pillow or drifting away, and she didn’t remember her dreams.
She got out of bed, shaking the uneasy feeling away, and stumbled into the kitchen. The coffee was ready. Blessing Ryan, she picked up the note he had left for her.
Liv, seeing as your light was still on at midnight when I turned in, I didn’t wake you. Coffee should be decent if you stir before eleven. Don’t be so rushed you forget to eat breakfast. It will be around seven before I get in. Ryan
She drank the coffee, forgot the breakfast, and flew out the door.
* * * *
Jack sat in the hard metal folding chair, at the small table, and wrote. He thought his hand would fall off. Whoever said writing wasn’t real work had to have been crazy. He knew things about two hours’ worth of people their mothers probably didn’t know. Mandy Lou something or other had a granny who thought he was grade A and she was his number one fan. She didn’t look old enough to be allowed to read his brand of horror, but she had two copies of each of his books.
Jack had politely—he hoped—shrugged off the forty invitations to dinner, fourteen offers for coffee, and two very indecent proposals for ‘wild, hanging from the chandelier sex’ to quote one lovely fan. All in all, a long day barely described it, but he’d seen people and observed, that was for sure. If it helped with the new book, it might have been worth it, and then again maybe not.
Ellie dropped by to see how things were going, and then promptly ran away when he tried to beg out. He didn’t like being maneuvered, and Ellie was a champion at it. Entertaining the notion of strangling her got him through the second hour, but considering he needed a good editor, he changed his mind.
The line grew shorter. While he juggled the newest Hastings baby on his knee, which the boy’s proud papa had insisted on, Jack inscribed a message in the front cover to Mrs. Hastings, another number one fan and the mother of six children all under ten. How does she have the time to read at all? His message to her read, “Mrs. Hastings, I’m your number one fan. You rule. Jack.” Mentally saluting her efforts, he passed back junior, and sent them on their way. He automatically reached for the book a slim hand offered. Eyes down on the cover of what he’d created, he said the same thing he’d told countless others. “Hi, who should I make this out to?”
“Just sign it to Olivia Corrigan, fellow mystery writer.”
Her voice alone lifted his eyes to meet hers, a musical lilt that teased of mist and bogs, faeries and leprechauns. She was dressed professionally, but he could easily imagine her calling up a wild wind or casting spells. She was only about 5’4” and slim, claimed black Irish coloring. He saw a flash of what might have been a premonition, but after blocking the gift so long he couldn’t hold on to it. Did he smell rain? Candles or lightning? But the sun was shining. For a moment he just stared, couldn’t speak , and was certain he knew her but couldn’t remember where from.
“Is something the matter?”
He quickly signed her book, before he forgot that was the reason for their meeting in the first place. She was the last in line, and he was free. Thank God! Sorry, muse, position filled.
“Jack Roarke, it’s a pleasure, Miss Corrigan. You’re a writer?” If he kept her talking for a minute, maybe he would remember where he had seen her before. She was a writer. Maybe that’s how he knew her.
“I’ve an ongoing detective series. It’s doing well, and my readers keep me hopping for new material. I’m sure yours is going to be a great book.”
“Thanks, are you here on vacation? Not being nosy, but the accent gives it away. Irish, right?” Maybe it was the dreamer in him, but Irish accents always made him think of magic. Those heels did great things to her legs.
“Yes, I’m visiting my brother. How did you pick up on it? Most can’t place it. The girl in the candy store asked me if I was from London. I nearly murdered her on the spot.”
“My wife was born in Ireland, but she moved to the states when she was still young. I’ve heard it most of my life. It really is beautiful to listen to.”
“Thank you for the autograph, Mr. Roarke.”
“I hope you enjoy it.” She was leaving. How could he stop her? He glanced down and saw her bag of books.
She had almost gotten to the door before he could catch up to her. Olivia looked confused, and then saw he was holding the bag containing the books she’d bought. The books that had slipped from her hand when he had looked at her.
“Forget something?”
“Umm… Sorry, I guess I got a bit distracted. Thank you.”
“Listen, could I buy you a cup of coffee?” He hurriedly tried to find an excuse. “I don’t get the occasion to talk to someone in the same line of work where there isn’t competition.”
“I’d love to, but I don’t go out with married men, no matter what we might talk about over it.”
Jack watched her flip her long curly hair.
He was crazy, part of his brain reminded him. She’d been flirting and he’d mentioned his wife. Stupid, Jack. Where is your wife? He could have sworn he heard her say, “I’m dead, Jack, and I’m never coming back. So why are you standing there like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar?” Sissy was only in his head.
“I’m not married, and it’s just coffee.” He hoped he wouldn’t have to explain, but Olivia narrowed her eyes.
“You mentioned earlier your wife was Irish.”
“She was. She passed away a year ago.”
Those eyes of hers were dangerous, hot storm clouds and rain, a promise of something more. They were witch’s eyes, filled with secrets. What man in the world could resist trying to discover their mysteries?
“I’m sorry for that. She must have been young. Let’s be on our way then. I’ve some time before I have to get back, and I might as well give it to you.”
He’d been expecting her to wallop him with those books. She was clutching them like weapons.
“It doesn’t bother you that I’m a stranger and we’ve known each other all of five minutes? Maybe I moonlight as a murderer.”
Olivia’s smile came quick and easy enough for him to trust it. “Oh, if I thought that, you’d be the one in trouble. I could catch a killer in life as well as I do in my stories, or I could be a gold digging black widow out for your worldly goods.”
Jack laughed. It had been a long time since he’d felt like laughing. It felt good, and that was something at least. He owed this strange woman with witch’s eyes, if only for that.
* * * *
Ryan was just finishing up the quarterly on the Myer’s account. He buzzed his secretary.
“Hold my calls, June. No one gets by you.”
He just needed a few minutes to put himself back together. A knock sounded on the heavy wooden door. Ugh, what now? Couldn’t a body contemplate his being killed in peace!
“Yes, come in, June.” She stepped quietly inside, her heels sinking into the carpet without making a sound.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ryan, but Mr. Myers is here to see you. I know you said to hold all your calls, but he said it was imperative he speak with you.”
Ryan sat stiff as a board at his desk, the image of a cool aloof professional, when inside he was raging out of control. “Hold him off ten minutes, then send him on in. I really need to finish this.”
“Yes, sir.”
She slipped quietly out, and closed the door discretely behind her.
He sunk his head into his hands the moment he heard it cli
ck shut. He’d called again, that voice which couldn’t be put with a face. It commanded. You obeyed. He hated the gravelly tone, those worries, even these damn books and numbers that had once been his escape.
He wished he’d never set foot on the plane. Now he’d have to report the call to Special Agent Spiller, wait and wonder when and how it would all be over. His health was at stake because of the stress, and his life was in danger. People on both sides of the law watched his every move, and he never knew if an eye blink in the wrong direction would catch him a bullet. He could run, but which one would catch him? Which did he fear more? The US government? Or the voice of his tormentor?
Ryan thought back to how he’d gotten here in the first place. He’d taken the job because it was as far away from Kate as he could be. He couldn’t stay where his heart and home were. It had just hurt too much. He’d needed Kate, but she had wanted something else. When she left, he got as far away from her as possible to survive. It grated on him that he was so wrapped up in her. He couldn’t eat or sleep. The music he’d created and always loved had been stolen from his heart. He’d had nothing.
Ma understood his need to go. She didn’t tell him he was too young to lose his heart, that there would be others. No, Molly Corrigan had smiled knowingly, told him he was loved and always welcomed home. At the young and foolish age of twenty-three he’d packed up and headed for America. What advice would she give him now if he could ask? But he couldn’t. Never could he put his family in danger, but Liv was with him. Had he done just that by asking her here?
When she went home, he’d go with her. Damn Kate and the rest of the world with her if they didn’t like it. He picked up the phone and put the call through.
Chapter 5
They talked about everything and nothing over black coffee until the afternoon gave way to evening. Liv discussed the plot of the manuscript she was almost finished with, and gave him advice on his. Jack ran through the main characters and basic story.
“So, what’s wrong with it? I think it’s flat.” Jack eyed her, probably trying to gauge her reaction.
Resting her chin in her hands, Liv looked off into space while she considered.
“You’re right. The basic ideas are good, but it’s not flowing onto the paper. Then again, I’ve never read your work, so I hardly have anything to compare it to. That’s harsh, I guess.”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “At least you’re honest. My editor just offers suggestions, but I know it’s garbage.”
Jack Roarke was a puzzle to her. He was successful, yet didn’t seem to be used to being around a lot of people, had a brilliant mind, but just now wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. He laughed, flirted, but it never reached his eyes. Such sadness there, maybe he still grieved over his wife? Or maybe he’d lived and seen too much in his years to let in the light? The contradictions of him pulled at her. Even knowing him for so short a time, somehow she knew that he was going to change her and everything else that she had always taken for granted.
“Where’ve you gone off to?” She watched him patiently, and waited to see what he would do or say next. Jack lifted his eyes to hers. The pain seemed to still be there, but it lessened.
“Sorry, I thought I was paying attention, but I guess my mind was wandering. So, how do you decide how a case will end?”
“I don’t. Usually, I’m just sitting at the table or even once in the shower and the scene just starts playing in my head. I never know until it’s time for the end.” That was the truth more often than not. It just jumped out of her head and onto the screen.
“You don’t know until it’s over?”
“Nope, she gets out all by herself, with a little help from her partner Lucas, of course. I just tell the tale. I might wake up at three in the morning and know how it ends. Then I just write it out. I could be cooking, or driving, and there she’ll be. Right as rain with the killer collared.” She’d never told anyone else that. Maybe one day Macy wouldn’t make it past a psychopath. Who knew? This could be her last case.
“That is exactly the way it should be. It’s like when you go to a movie you have already seen, but the person in front of you hasn’t. Every breath or move gives away a piece of the story before it should. Your way no one knows how it ends, not even you, and that way the suspense builds.”
“Yes, that’s it. I’m going to like your book, Jack.”
“Am I keeping you?”
“Sorry, it’s just that my brother will be home by now. I’d planned to cook dinner for him, and, well I guess I lost track of the time. I enjoyed talking with you, but I really should get back. Thank you for the coffee and the company.” She gathered her bag and purse.
Jack took the bag from her. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’m sure you have things to see to. It’s no problem to call a taxi.”
“Yeah, sure, except it’s always a problem to call a cab. I’ve kept you, and it’s the least I can do.”
* * * *
Jack’s Camaro roared its way up the drive as he admired her brother’s choice of living space. Roses climbing up the side trellis were a nice touch. He reached the front doorstep, pulled up to the curb, and cut off the engine.
“Thanks for the ride, Jack, and the coffee.” She gathered her purse and bags, while he walked around the car and opened her door.
“This was fun, Olivia. We should do it again before you go back to Ireland.” He held his breath. It was a big step for him. One he hadn’t taken before, and wasn’t sure if he was ready to chance now. “I know you’re visiting your brother and probably don’t have a lot of time, but if you could free up an evening, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
She didn’t let him wonder for long. “I’ve no plans for tomorrow evening. What time should I be ready?” Liv gave him another sunny smile.
“Seven,” he said, and took her free hand in his. Still not being entirely sure of himself, but not ready to slip away, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. The familiar nature of the kiss, one he might have given a grandmother, shouldn’t have disturbed him, but he found himself wanting to run. Toward her or away? He couldn’t be sure.
“I’ll see you then.” He didn't drive away until she was safely inside.
* * * *
Liv stepped inside the house, closed the door, and then leaned against it until her heart leveled out. She walked into the kitchen, still rubbing her fingers where he’d kissed them. Ryan was already there, trying to act like he’d been cooking, but he’d been watching her and Jack through the kitchen window. The room gave off an aura—or was that smoke from burning meat?—of black and brown she didn’t think she’d seen before. Chicken? Well, it smelled like chicken anyway. Maybe it should be buried.
“Ryan, what are you torturing in that skillet? Here.”
He took the book she shoved at him, forcing a grin, but she wasn’t fooled and set that aside for later.
“A cookbook? ‘One Hundred and One Almost Gourmet Meals for Dummies.’ Very funny.” At least it brought a smile to his face. “That bad, huh?”
“I went shopping at the bookstore and that was the first to catch my eye. You study, boy-o. I’ll cook.” The time spent with Jack had put her in a good mood, so she really wasn’t trying to pry, much. It was hard, when she could see could see how worried he was.
She dumped the chicken he’d been cooking, got out fresh, and started over. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with his job. Perhaps a woman was causing him sleepless nights? Nah, she didn’t think so. She hadn’t seen signs of that anywhere. Yes, she’d looked. Was he still pining over Kate? That had been years before, but she could see that having a lot to do with it. So she was curious, it wasn’t a crime. Still, she couldn’t shake the thought that he was in real trouble, and didn’t want to involve her. Too bad, she was already involved. I’m family, am I not? We stick, and I’ll not go back until this is settled.
“Where have you gone to, Livvy?”
She fumbled for an excuse. “Just n
owhere at all. I was thinking about a conversation I had with another author I met today.”
* * * *
So Mr. Macho in the muscle car was a writer. His attention caught, Ryan glared at her with slit eyes. “What? I thought you went shopping.”
“I did, and they were having a book signing. Don’t you pay attention to what’s going on around you? Anyway, as I was late getting there and me being a writer as well, he asked me to go for coffee. So we went.”
He stood so quickly that the chair flew backward and fell over. The abrupt movement caused Liv to jump back in defense and lose the knife she was using to cut up the chicken.
Was she crazy?
“Let me get this straight. You went out for coffee with someone you just met in a bookstore. I should be the last one to have to remind you how many psychotic maniacs are out there! You could have been killed. Or far worse you could have been raped and maimed and left alive! Have you no more common sense than that, Liv?”
As soon as he said the words he knew he’d overreacted. Liv didn’t know he was watched from all sides, that because of him, she could be in danger. His mind took a mental step backward as he asked himself the question. Why hadn’t he thought of that when he’d called and ask her to come?
Never one to back down from a fight, Liv threw the chicken into the sink with a wet plop.
“I don’t have to answer to you!” she shouted back at him. “You’re the one being ridiculous over a bloody cup of coffee. He’s harmless. I’m not a baby, Ryan. I know how to look out for myself.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked to the window. It was the only way he could keep from strangling her. “Sure, you do, but you’ve only been here two days. You can’t just go running off with strange people.”
“How dare you talk to me like a child? I’ll do what I like, Ryan Michael Corrigan.”
He winced at her use of his full name. Didn’t only mothers do that to strike fear?