Blood in the Water (Dixie Mafia Series Book 2)

by Cynthia Rayne

  “You must be paying a fortune for tech support.”

  “Money is no object.” His family had a lot of wealth. From what she could tell, Valentine was the only one accessing it. It was yet another red flag, one she should’ve pursued earlier.

  “I’m curious about you.” Jane wanted to keep him talking, find out more. “Why the blonde girls?”

  “My father, Otis Valentine, had a weakness for them.”

  Juliet had been right. “So this is about getting even?”

  “No, it’s about doin’ what’s right. I’m savin’ these girls.”

  “By killing them?”

  “I’m purifying them, so they are clean for their maker.”

  Trying to reason with a crazy person was futile.

  “Did your father like one blonde girl in particular?”

  “Yes. Annie was a lifeguard at the local pool—you know the type—pretty, young, big breasts. She paraded in front of him in her skimpy bathing suits, daring him to take it.”

  She always looked for shades of meaning in her client’s testimony. Jane thought “it” was a telling statement, as though the lifeguard was an object, a thing Otis could possess.

  Valentine’s assessment of the young woman was interesting too. As a lifeguard, Annie’s job was to wear a bathing suit and patrol the pool. Jane doubted she “paraded” around. Yet Valentine blamed the young woman for his father’s infidelity. Though she thought it was typical. Society blamed women in these situations for stirring a man’s lust and being a “homewrecker,” like the husband had no will of his own. Otis had been an older married man with family responsibilities—therefore he bore the brunt of the blame, in her view, anyway.

  “So your father started an affair with Annie?”

  “He couldn’t keep it in his pants. Otis started swimming before work every morning and then it was late nights and weekends.”

  “What happened?”

  “What always happens in these stories, Jane. Otis divorced my mother, so he could openly date the slut.”

  Jane cringed.

  “You know I loathe using such vile terms, but it suits such a hateful, scheming woman.”

  “And when did it happen?”

  “My sophomore year in high school. He moved out of the house one weekend and never came back.”

  By her calculations, it was right around the time Oscar had attacked Juliet. Maybe his father’s infidelity and subsequent divorce had been the stressor which sent him off the deep end. In her experience, serial killers had a natural inclination toward killing, but a high-pressure situation often led to their first murder.

  “The bastard even took an early retirement from his job. He said he was going to move to France and ‘enjoy the fruits of his labor’ even though Otis never took time off for us, but I guess the slut somehow deserved his attentions.”

  There were some seriously twisted family dynamics at play, but she had another outstanding issue.

  “Oscar, what happened to your family? When I took your case, I tried to get in touch with them, but none of them responded.” Jane had an awful feeling something horrible had happened to them.

  “Not long after an incident in high school, which I’m sure you discovered by now since you’ve been digging up the past, my mother and brother moved to my family’s flat in London.”

  Jane remembered the passport information. Valentine’s hadn’t been used to travel to either France or the United Kingdom. However, it didn’t mean he hadn’t gone there under an alias. With Valentine’s access to resources, it would’ve been easy for him to obtain a fake passport.

  “Did you murder your own family?”

  A long, cold silence followed.

  Jane waited it out, wondering if he’d hang up on her or answer the question.

  “No, Otis and his whore had an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t there, but from what I gather, they went yachting on the Mediterranean and were never heard from again.” He cackled, and the sound was maniacal, unhinged. “I’m not surprised—the water can be so dangerous.”

  Once again, she saw the pictures—no, the trophies—he’d taken of all those young women. Their lifeless bodies blurred beneath the bloody water.

  “And what about your brother and mother?”

  “When they found out what happened to Otis…well, it couldn’t be helped. Collateral damage and all that. So you see, my father’s whore destroyed my entire family. Not me.”

  Valentine didn’t take the blame for any of his actions. In his view, people “made” him kill them. His moral compass was so skewed, concepts like right and wrong were foreign to him.

  Byron knew right from wrong, though he chose to break the law. He had his own moral code, of sorts, although at one time, she’d accused him of being just as immoral as Valentine. The comparison was ludicrous—these men were nothing alike.

  “I would’ve grown up different if it weren’t for her and my father. Otis betrayed all of us, like you deceived me.”

  The hair stood on the back of her neck and along her arms.

  “I never realized what a deceitful woman you are, Jane. I’m the man who loves you, who’d do anything for you. Yet you ran off with another—a mobster, no less. You betrayed me.”

  Valentine made it sound like she was in a committed relationship with him and she’d been unfaithful. Maybe, in his own mind, he was reliving his father’s infidelity, and he’d cast her in the role of “sinful” woman.

  Or maybe he was just nuts.

  “Have you slept with him?”

  She sat up straighter in the chair. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Like I said earlier, you’re mine, even though you’re acting like a disloyal bitch.”

  Jane gritted her teeth. “Don’t talk to me like that.” The words were brave, but it was easier to take a stand when he wasn’t in the room with her.

  “I’ll speak to you any way I please. Are you in love with him?”

  Jane didn’t know what to do. Antagonizing him further seemed like a bad idea. Yet, she couldn’t put up with his verbal abuse either. Placating him was out of the question. She refused to feed into his delusion of being a deceived lover.

  “I don’t know.” But that, in itself, told her something. A few days ago, she would’ve said no without any hesitation.

  “Hmm, I think it’s the first truthful thing you’ve said all night.”

  Strange how Byron praised her honesty and Valentine thought she was lying. Maybe it was because she never said the things he wanted to hear.

  “Since I’ve answered your questions, you can answer a few for me. Why Beauregard? I’m handsome, wealthy, and I’ve killed fewer people.”

  There was no way to wriggle out of this conversation, and no answer she’d give would possibly suit him.

  “Tell me!”

  “There’s more to him than I would’ve guessed. He has layers, a depth I hadn’t expected.”

  Valentine slammed the phone against something, taking out his rage on an inanimate object. Jane shuddered to think what he would do with her, once he got his hands on her.

  “You were supposed to fall in love with me, save me. You were my angel. Mine. I thought you were different, Jane, but no, you’re like the rest of them. All women are pathetic whores, and none of you are worth my time.”

  This was all going wrong. Jane was supposed to find a legal solution, one which would preserve his rights and protect society at the same time, but she’d been naïve.

  They were hurtling toward a bloody end.

  Unless she made a last ditch effort to stop this insanity.

  “Oscar, I don’t know how all of this got so twisted. Can’t we meet? In public?” Maybe she could head this off. If she could talk to him, face-to-face in a safe place, Jane might be able to reach him.

  “The time for talk is over. And Jane?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s far too late for
punishment. You brought all this on yourself. I want you to remember your sins against me in the hours to come.”

  The words sounded final, like a judge imposing a sentence.

  “Why, what’s going to happen next?”

  No response.

  “Oscar, what’s going to happen next?”

  But the line had gone dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Byron woke up to find Jane sitting on the end of the bed, a hand over her mouth. He didn’t know what had happened, but he had a damn good guess.

  “What the fuck did he do now?”

  “Valentine said I only have myself to blame for what happens next. I have no idea what he’s going to do, but it can’t be good.”

  Byron enfolded her into his embrace, and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. She was cold, trembling against his chest.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  As she spoke, Byron held her, stroked her back, and tried to soothe the stiffness away. Afterward, they hauled their electronic devices out to the car. Vick promised to do a security sweep on the equipment when they got back to Hell, and she apologized for not suggesting it earlier. Byron should’ve thought of it too, but they’d been distracted by the cameras.

  Their last hope, their only hope, of a peaceful solution was Juliet. Byron doubted anything would come of it. When she’d run off last night, Juliet had been rattled.

  Sure enough, they waited for her in the hotel eatery and she didn’t show. At half past nine, they decided to look for her.

  As soon as they headed up the stairs, Byron knew something was wrong. Somehow, he could feel it.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the scars on her pale wrists, and his stomach clenched. He took the stairs two at a time, and Jane was right behind him.

  “Juliet?” Byron knocked on the last door at the end of the hall marked private.

  No answer.

  “Juliet?” Jane called. “Are you ready for coffee?”

  Silence.

  “Fuck this.” With a grunt, Byron kicked the door open.

  The room was empty. It was also a mess—the bed was unmade. Clothes were strewn around the room, and a collection of wadded up paper littered the carpet.

  I hope she ran off.

  At least then, she’d be alive. Her family could find her, coax her into coming home. Juliet could go into therapy, maybe get some depression meds. Hell, he’d hook her up with marijuana if she wanted some.

  “Juliet?” His heart pounded like an anvil beating against his ribs.

  There was still one more door against the far wall. Somehow it appeared even further away.

  “Byron, these are suicide note attempts.” Jane held a piece of paper in her unsteady hand. “Oh, God. I think she hurt herself.”

  That’s when he noticed blood seeping under the door, staining the carpet.

  Byron froze as the memory of his mother’s murder surfaced. And once again, he was a child standing in a bloody hallway. His father opened the door with wide eyes—blood spatters on his face.

  Grab her ankles, son. Help me drag her onto the shower curtain. The memory hit him with brutal force—the weight of his mother’s lifeless body in his hands, the thick, sticky gore on his hands and shirt. His father’s harsh commands. The smell of freshly turned earth as they’d buried her out in the back forty.

  Byron shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs and the pain of yesteryear. Then he shouldered open the bathroom door.

  Juliet floated face up in the bathtub, arms spread open wide, eyes lifeless. The water was stained red with her blood.

  “Goddammit.”

  Jane cried out, then stifled a scream with her hand.

  A razor blade lay next to the tub. Her forearms were flayed open, along the length of each vein. She’d probably used the hot water to keep the blood flowing. The pain must’ve been excruciating.

  No, no, no! Fuck it all. Not again.

  Byron laid a hand on Juliet’s forehead. I’m so sorry. He swept his palm down over her eyes, shutting them. At the very least, she deserved retribution for all she’d suffered.

  Another woman had died on his watch, and her death would be on his conscience too. And here he thought he’d evolved past such things.

  If Valentine had his way, Jane would be next.

  Fuck that. I won’t let it happen. He’d protect her if it was the last thing he did.

  “Valentine....”

  He turned to find Jane staring at the blood on the floor with wide, unblinking eyes. She was blaming herself for this catastrophe too.

  “He said I’d only have myself to blame. Do you think Valentine meant this?”

  “No, Juliet did this to herself. If Valentine had come all the way here, he’d have scooped you up too. This was an honest to God suicide, not a murder staged to look like one. She was a vulnerable young woman, and I pushed her—”

  “We pushed her over an edge she’d been teetering on for years. If I hadn’t tried to get her to testify against him, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “We should’ve watched her closer, but the bulk of the damage was done long before we both got here.” Byron said the words, but it didn’t lessen his guilt. “I don’t think she’s been right since the night Valentine attacked her. And I think she blamed herself for the women he killed.”

  Jane nodded, but there were tears in her eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s another of Valentine’s victims, and he got away with this death too.”

  “We’ll stop him.”

  She looked doubtful. “What do you think’s coming next?”

  “No clue. All we can do is wait for the fallout.”

  Jane pulled out her cell phone, fingers flying over the keys.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Warning my father and Georgia. They need to take extra precautions.”

  “Do it from the car.” Byron grasped her hand, tugging her toward the door. “We need to get out of here, before someone comes looking for her.”

  “No, we’ve got to call the authorities.”

  “The fuck we will.”

  She snatched her arm away. “Are you kidding? Somehow we’ve got to explain this to her family. And…I don’t know, comfort them somehow.” She reached for the phone again, but he grabbed it out of her hand. “Hey!”

  “And how do you think the MC will take this news?”

  Understanding dawned.

  “Yeah, the bikers will be angry, looking for revenge. They gotta blame someone, and we’ll do in a pinch.”

  Thankfully, Jane went along with the program.

  They packed up fast and got out of town before Juliet’s family discovered her. Jane was silent, and he didn’t feel much like talking either. Byron would feel better once they were back in Beauregard Manor with the cameras and security force surrounding them.

  This situation was coming to a head. One way or the other, this thing would be solved tonight.

  During the tense drive to Hell, Jane’s phone pinged, and she jumped.

  “What is it?”

  “A video file.” She pulled it up on screen.

  “Do you recognize the sender?”

  “No, I’ve never seen the email before, but the first two letters are OV, followed by a string of numbers.”

  “OV as in Oscar fucking Valentine?”

  “That would be my guess. Should I open it?”

  Byron braced himself for the shit to hit the fan. “Yeah, let’s have it.”

  He kept his eyes on the road, but he listened—all he could hear was rhythmic breathing, but Jane screamed. Byron slowed down and then pulled off on the side of the road, before taking the phone from her.

  The email read: You were gone, so I took the next best thing. He hit the play button on the file—it was a video of her friend, Georgia, sleeping.

  ***

  The drive to Georgia’s place was excruciatingly long.

  On the hellish ride over, Jane had called the security fi
rm she’d asked to check on Georgia. They’d sent a man over, but he hadn’t seen anything unusual from the outside—and he didn’t have access to the house.

  Jane had also checked in with her father, and thankfully, he was fine. Hank, the marshal guarding him, said he’d ask another off-duty buddy of his to serve as backup.

  She kept trying Georgia’s number over and over again, but she didn’t pick up. Georgia has to be alright, has to. Jane thought the words over and over again, like a mantra. Odd for someone who wasn’t superstitious, but she hoped thinking good thoughts could somehow keep her best friend safe. Even though, in her heart of hearts, Jane had begun to fear Georgia was dead.

  Somehow they arrived at their destination, though she couldn’t recall how.

  “I’m going in first. Stay behind me.” Byron pulled his weapon as they hopped out of the SUV.

  Jane barely heard the words but did as he asked. Chills raced up and down her spine, and she felt like the world had slowed down around her, like she was walking through something thick, like molasses, instead of air.

  Byron went in the apartment first and did a quick sweep before letting her inside.

  “I want you to brace yourself for what you’re about to see.” Byron took her by the shoulders, but Jane pushed him away and raced down the hall, then skidded to a halt in the doorway of Georgia’s bedroom.

  Georgia was lying on the bed like some sort of sacrifice—cold and still. Valentine had shorn her hair, leaving only a couple of inches around her scalp. Her wrists and ankles were slashed open. Her mouth was open, frozen in a forever scream.

  And the tears were still wet on her face.

  Jane bit the palm of her hand to stifle a scream.

  Valentine had dressed Georgia in the brand new Olivia Pope suit she’d bought for interviews.

  She tasted the sharp tang of vomit rising in her throat. Jane didn’t have words for the scene in front of her, couldn’t process it, and certainly couldn’t comprehend it. The grief, the despair battered her. Strong emotions were too much to handle, and she fought to get a grip on them.

  Byron also said nothing. He was a cool presence at her back, staying out of the way of her anguish and sorrow.