When the Devil Wants In

by Cate Ashwood

  John pulled back after a beat, not too far, but far enough for Matt to know John wasn’t ready for anything more.

  Matt looked him over, saw the cuts and scrapes. “Shit. What happened to you?”

  “Long story,” John said, his expression unreadable, too many emotions flitting across his face to catch them all. Matt could see relief and worry warring with each other. And grief. So much grief in John’s eyes, it made Matt hurt a little to look at him.

  “I’ve got all night.”

  John looked like he was debating with himself how much he should tell Matt. Finally, he simply said, “Fell.”

  “You fell? Where? Off a fucking cliff?”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  “Running was about the stupidest thing you could’ve done,” Matt said, his voice softer, but John looked back at him, his expression unchanging. There was a jaggedness to it, a callousness that Matt had never seen in him before. He wanted to scrub it all away, to slough off the coarse parts of him, the hurt and the anger and the betrayal, and leave him soft and pure and protected.

  John took a step back, the minute distance between them feeling suddenly cavernous.

  “I know,” John said slowly, leaning back against the counter. “I knew the second my feet hit the dirt, but I couldn’t stop myself. I can’t sit around in a cage while they try to figure this mess out.” After a long pause, he added, “They think I did it, and that’s good enough for most of ’em.”

  “I’d have done the same thing, but it makes you look guilty.”

  John met Matt’s gaze, their eyes locking. “Yeah, but, swear to Christ, I didn’t—”

  “I know.”

  With one sharp nod, John seemed to accept Matt at his word. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he said, glancing down. “You don’t need this. I just… I needed to see you, make sure you didn’t think…. Hell, I don’t know.”

  “No,” Matt protested. “You were right to come.” There was no guarantee the house was a safe place for John to hide, but Matt doubted Andy would have someone watching. The department was spread thin enough as it was.

  John’s expression softened, his vulnerability shining through the hairline cracks in his armor. “I’m sorry to put this on you,” he said quietly. “Sorry to…. Hell. Just sorry.”

  Matt knew it was crazy, knew he should call Andy, get this sorted through the right channels, but instead he said, “Tell me what you need.”

  “I need to find out what really happened.” John took a breath and closed his eyes, as if saying it all was too painful for him. He looked at Matt again, his voice cracking slightly as he said, “I need to know who killed her—not just for me, but for Bell and Marty… for her.”

  Matt swallowed hard. John’s grief seemed to tangle with anger and determination, and Matt’s heart broke for him. There hadn’t been time for John to process the loss. He’d been thrown into this shitstorm, and he thought he was battling it by himself.

  Matt needed him to know he wasn’t doing this on his own.

  “We will, I swear. We’re gonna find out what happened to her, and we’re gonna make it right.”

  “Can’t make this right,” John said, as if it was the only certain thing in his life anymore.

  Matt reached for him, pulling him against his chest. John was stiff at first, as if he couldn’t let himself relax or have anything for himself. But after a moment, John fell against Matt, his body pliant, as though the fight had seeped right out of him, and Matt was left holding his shell. Matt stroked his hair, careful not to graze his injuries. For several long moments they stayed like that, taking comfort in each other in the quiet of Matt’s house.

  Into the stillness, John whispered, “I just want her back.” And with those words, John let out a near-silent sob.

  Matt had seen plenty of death during his time on the force. He’d been the one to deliver the bad news to families more than once, but this? It was almost too much for him. He held John tightly, let John cling to him as long as he needed. “I know,” he whispered, unable to say anything else.

  When John took a steadying breath and pulled back, looked at Matt again, Matt ran his hand down John’s neck, splayed his fingers over John’s heart. “We can’t let anyone know you’re here, all right? Not even Mel. No one.” Mostly for John’s sake, but Matt knew damn well what would happen to him if it came out that he was harboring a murder suspect. His badge, his career, would be in the toilet, and he’d likely face criminal charges.

  “You sure about that?” John’s tone rang with sarcasm. “Thought I might post a sign on your front lawn, see how long it takes ’em to find the clue.”

  Yeah, John wasn’t an idiot, and Matt knew that already. “I just know how close you are to your family. This’ll be harder than you expect, I think.”

  John nodded and then went to the fridge for a beer. He grabbed two and popped the caps off before handing one to Matt. “I know,” he said before taking a long pull off the bottle. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a dick here. I’m just….” John didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he asked, “What do they have so far?”

  “Your knife with your prints on it was recovered at the crime scene. Chloe’s blood was on it.”

  John began to pace the kitchen, his hand on the back of his neck and his head tilted forward. “Shit.” He took another long sip and set the bottle on the counter. “What about Jay?” Matt could tell John was grasping at straws. “They know where he was that night? Or Thompson? I wouldn’t put it past that boy, just for the sake of hurtin’ me and Mel if nothin’ else.”

  “No, we didn’t interview any of our own…. Jay’s an ass, but I doubt he’d….” Well, Matt had seen stranger cases, but convincing Andy to look into Jay’s whereabouts didn’t seem likely. “We did interview Thompson, though, and he had a good alibi that night.”

  “Yeah? Some meth whore? A bartender?”

  “Both, actually. And the guy he got into a brawl with.” Matt hated to say it, hated for John to have to think about anything or anyone else right now. “If he was going to do something, I think he’d go after Mel, not hit you sideways. He’s not that smart.”

  “Great.” John let out a frustrated breath. “So my knife—Christ.” By the look on John’s face, Matt could guess what happened. John had just put it together that Chloe was killed with his own knife. John looked like he couldn’t breathe, and Matt felt even worse for having told him.

  In an attempt to get John to focus on something else, Matt said, “But that’s the strongest piece of evidence they’ve got.”

  “That’s enough, though, isn’t it?”

  “For an arrest, yeah.” No need to sugarcoat it. “Getting it to trial could be difficult. At least under normal circumstances.” Though, they both knew things were a little different in this town. “None of that matters, though. I know you didn’t do this, and we’re gonna prove it.”

  John sat at the kitchen table, fidgeting with the label on his half-empty beer bottle. “Thanks,” he said after a moment. “I know we….” With a shrug, John finally said, “Feel like I’m takin’ advantage here, takin’ advantage of you.”

  Matt dropped into the chair across from John. He could understand. If the shoe were on the other foot, he might feel the same. But, no. “You really don’t have to worry about that, okay? I want you here. I want to help you.” He ducked his head, catching John’s eye. “It’s mostly selfish. I don’t wanna visit you behind glass, okay?”

  The corners of John’s mouth curved slightly, nearly a smile. He huffed a small breath, almost a laugh. He sounded exhausted. “What else do you know? About the case?”

  Matt had thought of nothing else for the last two days—three? He couldn’t remember now. “We found flowers at the scene—magnolias. Not sure what they mean, and as far as I know, they haven’t figured out how to connect them to you.”

  “There’s a tree in my yard.”

  “There’s trees in half the yards in town. The knife can be expl
ained too,” he said slowly. “We were there not long before, and it’s a fishing spot you frequent fairly regularly, yeah?” That was the hopeful part. The rest, though…. “Beyond the physical evidence, it’s a lot of speculating based on your temper, your relationship with Chloe, and the fact that….”

  “She was my beard,” John said plainly.

  Matt didn’t respond. John already had the answer. He didn’t need Matt reinforcing what he already knew.

  John snorted a laugh, but it lacked any amusement. “That’s what she called it. I didn’t even know what it meant at first.” He let out a long sigh and added bitterly, “So much bullshit over nothin’. She was right all along.”

  Matt watched John tear himself apart, blame himself, and he wished he could take the pain away. “Can’t go there, John,” he said quietly, reaching across the table for John’s hand. He didn’t take hold, simply brushed his fingers against John’s. “Need to focus on the here and now.”

  John surprised him by lacing their fingers together, as if he needed the tether. “You’re right,” he said. After a moment of quiet, he sat up a little straighter. “I need access to the crime scene, see if they missed anything.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I know that place like the back of my hand. Hell, better. I grew up there. If anything’s off, I’ll see it.”

  Matt had no idea if John was right or just grasping at straws. “That’s a really bad idea. The place is still cordoned off. It’s a crime scene. You never know when one of the guys is going to be out there.” Matt paused, thinking. “I can get a copy of the case file. There’s photos of the scene in there. You can have a look and see if anything jumps out at you, yeah?”

  “All right.” John nodded and, despite the halfhearted tone from John, Matt was relieved. Desperation made people do all sorts of stupid things, and he was already in danger, having gone on the run. Matt couldn’t risk him leaving the house until they had some solid evidence he hadn’t killed Chloe.

  Matt stood and pulled John to his feet. “I can’t fix this, can’t make it right,” he said quietly as he pulled John close. He pressed a kiss against the side of John’s face, ran his hands up into John’s hair. “But I’ll do everything I can to get you cleared.”

  John pressed his forehead to Matt’s and whispered, “That’s close enough.” He dropped his head to Matt’s shoulder and edged closer, his breath warm on Matt’s neck. The touch was simple, seeking comfort like a wounded animal, a hurt child.

  Matt tightened his grip on John, wishing he could hide John there forever, keep him safe. He breathed in deep, let his body go lax against John’s, the two of them supporting each other in the dim light of the kitchen. He inhaled the scent of sweat and dirt, blood, and he didn’t like it.

  “C’mon. Let’s get cleaned up,” Matt said, though neither of them moved.

  John lifted his head and looked at Matt. “Just let me rot and die like this.” He closed his eyes, pain etched into John’s face, so deep that Matt wondered if anything could ever erase it.

  “Not gonna happen,” Matt whispered, brushing his lips against John’s. “I’m not letting you get lost in this. Not letting you go down without a fight.”

  He took John’s hand and pulled him along to the bathroom.

  Once he turned on the taps, the room filled with steam, the water hot enough to hurt, but Matt thought that might help. He turned to John, who was staring back at him, eyes soft and pleading. He stepped closer and reached out, sliding his hands along John’s sides, then slipped them underneath the hem of his shirt before pulling it up and over his head. John shivered, almost imperceptibly, and Matt leaned in, letting John rest against him. “I’ve got you,” Matt whispered, running his hands up and down John’s back, feeling his skin, grateful that John was there with him, that he was safe. For the moment, at least.

  “I know ya do,” John said, swallowing hard against the words. He let Matt undress him, the effort tender and comforting, nothing more. Matt only wanted to take care of him, and he knew how broken John was just by the fact that John let him.

  They moved slowly, dropped their clothes to the floor. The steam from the shower wrapped around them as they stepped in. John tipped his head back under the water and let out a burdened sigh. He pulled Matt against him beneath the spray and tightened his arms in a hug around Matt’s ribs.

  Matt held him for a moment before dropping his hands to John’s shoulders, his back, his arms. He wanted to touch John everywhere, trying to soothe him, soothe them both, remind himself that John was okay. He stood there in the warmth and mapped every inch of John with his fingertips. He needed to know John was real, he was there, that John was safe.

  After a long moment, he urged John to tilt his head back into the water as he squeezed some shampoo into the palm of his hand. He worked it into John’s hair, careful not to get too close to the cut. John closed his eyes, let himself go limp.

  He didn’t say anything at first, simply let Matt wash his hair, wash away all the sweat and grime.

  If only they could wash away the heartache that easily, have it flow off them and swirl down the drain, never to be seen again.

  John ran his hand over his face, wiping the water away, seeming oblivious to the cuts and scrapes. He searched Matt’s eyes, looked at him for almost too long before saying, “Thank you.” Maybe John hadn’t known what he needed. Or maybe he was just grateful Matt was there, in this with him.

  “Just wanna take care of you,” Matt whispered, his voice barely audible over the running water.

  John’s expression broke then, anguish written all over him. On a heavy, deep breath he said, “I know that too.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  JOHN ALMOST felt human after the shower. Almost. Whatever his aunt had given him seemed to work a charm because his aches and pains were almost gone. Or John was so damaged on the inside, in his own damn head, that the rest of his body couldn’t even register physical injuries anymore. Whatever the reason, he was glad he wasn’t limping and moaning on top of everything else.

  Once they were both dressed, Matt tried to coax John into eating, but food turned bitter in his mouth. Nothing tasted right anymore, even textures felt different, uncomfortable. Matt gave up after a while and put the sandwich makings away.

  “Another beer?” he asked.

  John wanted one, wanted something a lot stronger than beer, but he knew better. “I don’t need anything right now, but thanks.”

  Matt didn’t look like he believed him, but he didn’t press either, for which John was grateful. Instead he came close and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders from behind, kissed the back of his neck, and inhaled slowly. There was nothing seductive in the touch, no hidden heat, no desire for anything other than comfort. John was grateful for that too. He couldn’t remember another time in his life when he felt this empty, wrung out, and gutted. Being here at all, letting Matt touch him, was as much intimacy as John thought he could stand.

  “Got any whiskey?” he asked. So much for knowing better.

  Without a word at first, Matt simply pulled back and stepped away. John didn’t turn to watch him, but he could hear Matt opening cupboards. “I’ve got gin and rum, but that’s about it.”

  “Gin’ll do.”

  “Nothing to mix it with, sorry…,” Matt said over the soft sound of two glasses clinking together against the bottle.

  John snorted a small laugh. “I’m not drinkin’ it for the taste.”

  The look on Matt’s face was all tenderness and worry. John was almost used to it now. Matt had been looking at him like that since he’d found him. He didn’t say anything, though, simply poured them each a few fingers and sat down across from John again.

  “Did y’all check her internet friends? The ones she was meetin’ up with down in Florida?” John tossed his drink back and reached for the bottle.

  “We did,” Matt said, his gaze tracking John’s hand, watching as John lifted the glass to his lips a
gain. “All but one of them was already at the meeting spot, and the other had food poisoning and a solid alibi from her mother.” Matt studied him for another long minute as John went for his third drink. “It would’ve taken a highly coordinated effort and a pretty massive cover-up for it to have been one of them—or all of them.” Matt topped off his own glass and—John noticed—set the bottle farther away from them both. “I’m not saying it’s never happened, but it looks like someone acting alone, looks like….” Matt took a long sip, as if he didn’t want to say whatever he was thinking.

  “You really think you can tell me something worse than what I already know?” John asked quietly, already feeling the warmth from the gin spread through him, slowly numbing him.

  Matt worked his jaw for a minute, as if chewing his words rather than letting them out. “Looks like she was held for a while somewhere. She was… well, there were some injuries prior to death. We think maybe it was someone she knew, someone who wasn’t planning on killing her but decided to after the struggle.”

  Struggle. What a bullshit way to sum up what Chloe went through. John could only imagine, could only picture it in his mind. Her fighting for her life, kicking, scratching, screaming. He had to stare hard at the glass in his hand, trying to burn the images away. “Y’all find her gun?”

  Matt quirked an eyebrow, his expression less concerned about John and more interested in new information. “Chloe carried a gun?”

  “In her purse,” John said, letting out a breath. “Just a revolver, nothin’ major, but she always had it with her.”

  Leaning back, Matt held his glass and turned it in his hands. “If she had a gun, why the hell didn’t she shoot him? And where the hell is it?” He didn’t seem to notice when John reached across the table and snagged the bottle again. “We got her phone, but it was pretty damaged. Tech guys are still working on recovering anything useful. Her purse was there, clothes, shoes, but….”