Monster In The Closet (The Baltimore Series Book 5)

by Karen Rose

  He narrowed his eyes as realization dawned. The ice-cream date was a setup.

  Denny. Hell. Never gave you credit for this. It was Denny who’d told him about the therapist. About their Sunday appointment over ice cream. Denny who knew Gage wasn’t running away.

  It’s a fucking trap. They’d hoped to lure him in, then take him away. Put him in a cage.

  ‘Did you know?’ he asked Jazzie.

  She was still sobbing. ‘Kn-know what?’

  ‘That they were going to use your little ice-cream outing to bring me out into the open?’

  Her head wagged harder than the rest of her body shook. ‘No.’

  The single word made him see red. ‘Liar,’ he said coldly. ‘Just like your mother.’

  They couldn’t take him if he got them first. He made sure he had sufficient ammo for the rifle before checking the clips for his new Glock. He dropped the filled clips in his pockets, then from the top shelf of his closet he pulled out the rope he’d bought to secure the girls. It was soft rope. It wouldn’t chafe them too badly. No pain. He didn’t want them to feel any pain.

  Bile rose to burn his throat as he bound Jazzie’s wrists and feet. Thanks, Valerie. Just . . . thanks. You fucking bitch. If you’d just been the wife you were supposed to be, it never would have come to any of this.

  He positioned a strip of cotton in her mouth before tying it around her head. He wanted her to be able to breathe. Just not scream. Then he did the same to Janie, who thankfully slept through the whole thing. By the time he’d finished, his hands were shaking too.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he said thickly as he gathered his things and put them into a duffel bag. He closed the door behind him, locked it, then made his way to the car and started for Giuseppe’s Italian restaurant, knowing he’d hear Jazzie’s frightened whimper in his head the whole way.

  Maybe for the rest of his fucking life. But at least I’ll have a life.

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  Sunday 23 August, 3.40 P.M.

  Taylor’s skin itched and she squirmed in the front seat of Clay’s truck as they drove to the ice cream parlor where she was to meet Jazzie.

  Clay glanced away from the traffic long enough to give her a sympathetic grimace. ‘Nervous too?’

  ‘Too?’ She lifted her brows. ‘You? Nervous? Say it isn’t so,’ she deadpanned, because Clay had been a live wire ever since he’d learned of JD Fitzpatrick’s plan. He’d railed and ranted, calling the detective every name in the book, and then some that Taylor had never heard. Fitzpatrick seemed immune, though, sitting through the rant with an expression that was a mix of boredom and weary agreement as Clay bellowed all the things that Taylor herself had considered saying, just not for the same reason.

  Taylor had been furious that Jazzie was being used as bait. Clay was furious about that too, but protested far more vocally that his daughter was being used as well. His tirade would have made Frederick Dawson proud.

  She frowned. Dad. Would have made her dad proud. When had she come to think of him by his given name? He’d always been Dad. Always would be.

  But Clay was quickly assuming an equivalent position. She’d known him less than twenty-four hours, and already he’d taken the seat next to her dad in her heart and mind. Aren’t I the loyal one?

  Clay’s eyes had narrowed at her sarcastic reply, and from the backseat Ford snorted a laugh. ‘Damn, she’s your kid, Clay.’

  Clay’s glare softened at that. ‘Yeah. So it would seem,’ he murmured.

  ‘It’s ice cream,’ Taylor insisted. ‘This is going to be all right.’

  ‘Then why are you twitchy?’ Clay asked.

  ‘Because this Kevlar itches!’ She tugged at the collar, pulling at the mock turtleneck that hid the skintight vest. Both the vest and the sweater belonged to Paige, who’d donated to the cause. The sweater was a lightweight, sleeveless cotton blend, so at least Taylor wasn’t going to roast. Sweaters in August, for God’s sake. Her father’s business partner had been sympathetic as she’d helped Taylor get dressed.

  Paige herself had not been what Taylor had been expecting. She bore a mild resemblance to Taylor herself, and by extension, to Clay’s mother. Clay had told her that he’d trusted Paige at first sight, and Taylor silently wondered if the resemblance to his mother had entered into that, at least on a subconscious level. But no one else seemed to notice, so Taylor kept it to herself.

  ‘That itchy Kevlar could save your life,’ Clay muttered. ‘It’s saved mine.’

  Taylor frowned. ‘That’s upsetting. That your life would need to be saved, I mean. How often do you get shot at?’

  ‘Not that often,’ Clay replied carefully.

  Ford snorted again. ‘Not that often this week,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Not true,’ Clay said calmly, but aimed a glare at the rear-view mirror. ‘Shut up, Ford.’

  Ford spread his hands, palms out. ‘I just calls ’em like I sees ’em.’

  ‘Well, you need glasses, then,’ Clay grumbled. ‘I’m not reckless.’

  ‘Never said you were,’ Ford said seriously. ‘But you put yourself in dangerous positions. So does Stevie. And Paige, too.’

  ‘Not lately,’ Clay insisted.

  Ford rolled his eyes. ‘Because Paige is pregnant!’ He met Taylor’s gaze when she looked over her shoulder in surprise. ‘Nobody’s supposed to know yet, but we all do. It’s hard to keep secrets in a group this tight knit. Especially the really good ones.’ He gave Taylor a lascivious wink, and she blushed furiously and looked away.

  Clay winced. ‘Jesus, Ford. Really? You do realize that her father is sitting right here.’

  Ford was unfazed. ‘And that your personal weapons arsenal rivals that of several small countries? And that you can break my neck with your pinkie? Yeah, I realize all of that.’

  ‘And?’ Clay demanded.

  ‘And I’ve behaved myself. For the most part,’ he added wickedly.

  Clay huffed an exasperated breath. ‘God.’

  ‘So . . .’ Taylor lifted her chin and pretended like her cheeks weren’t on fire. ‘With Paige being pregnant, does this mean you and Stevie will have to take her workload? Does that mean more exposure to people with guns?’

  ‘Not for Stevie,’ Clay said firmly, then winced.

  Ford’s fist pumped the air. ‘Yes! I was right.’

  Taylor’s cheeks had cooled enough that she felt safe looking at him again. ‘About what?’

  ‘That Stevie’s pregnant too,’ Ford said, his eyes sparkling. ‘Maggie thinks so, too.’

  Taylor’s gaze whipped to Clay’s face just in time to see him school his expression from fierce joy to mild surprise. ‘Why would you two think that?’ he asked Ford.

  ‘Because I heard her puking her guts up in the bathroom in the barn,’ Ford said wryly. ‘And she ate half a sleeve of saltine crackers in Maggie’s office this morning.’

  Clay shrugged. ‘She could just be sick.’

  Except that the joy he’d tried to quench came through, the small lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling in a smile even though his mouth didn’t curve an iota.

  ‘She is, isn’t she?’ Taylor asked.

  Clay opened his mouth. Closed it again. ‘If she is?’

  Taylor felt a settling in her chest. A peace. If she left him to go back home, he’d be all right. He’d have another child to love. ‘I think that’s lovely,’ she said quietly, and meant it with all her heart. ‘Congratulations.’

  His brow crunched in consternation, his joy abruptly gone. ‘That doesn’t mean that I don’t need you or love you, Taylor.’

  ‘I know.’ She expected his frown to melt away, but it became even more pronounced. ‘I’m thrilled for you, Clay. Really.’ She smiled at him uncertainly. ‘So . . . why are you scowling at me?’


  He didn’t reply or even smile back as he circled the restaurant’s parking lot, looking for a space. The lot was surprisingly full for a Sunday afternoon and the street directly in front was a no-parking zone. Remaining troublingly silent, he parked the truck in the first legal space on the street, more than a block away.

  He switched off the engine, then turned to look her in the eye. ‘You think that because I’ll be a dad again that I won’t need you. That you can go back to California and be Dawson’s daughter and that it won’t break my heart.’

  ‘I . . .’ She had no idea what to say to him.

  He took her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Now you listen to me, Taylor, and listen well. I would be the happiest father on the planet if you stayed here, but I know you have a life there and someone who loves you as much as I do. If you do leave, I’ll miss you. I’m not gonna lie. I just found you and I want more time to get to know you. But planes fly both ways. You can come back to visit and I’ll fly out there whenever I can, and that’s a promise. Because, bottom line, I just want to be part of your life, however that happens.’

  ‘But a new baby will help, right?’ She studied his face anxiously. ‘You’ll be so busy you won’t have time to miss me.’

  There was sadness in his eyes, even though he smiled back, as if he knew that she’d made up her mind. But had she?

  ‘I will be busy, that’s true.’ He leaned a few inches closer, his dark eyes intense. ‘But I will still miss you. And I’ll always have time for you. Always.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  He let her chin go and straightened in his seat. ‘You’ll be a big sister, so you’ll have responsibilities too. You’ll have to come back to visit. Now, let’s have some ice cream.’

  He got out, but Taylor didn’t move, her attention suddenly riveted to the back seat. Ford was sitting so still, his expression flat and unreadable. ‘Ford?’ she said tentatively. ‘Look, I like you. A lot. More than a lot, actually. I don’t want to hurt you either.’

  Ford sighed. ‘I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, Taylor. I’m just disappointed. I knew this was the choice you’d make. I just hoped you wouldn’t make it for a few weeks yet. Or at least not say it out loud.’ He hesitated. ‘I haven’t been with anyone since . . . Kimberly. I haven’t wanted to be. Until you. I’d just hoped we’d have a little more time. And speaking of time . . .’ He glanced at his phone. ‘We’re way early, but that’s okay. Giuseppe should have the private dining room cleared out by now. We can wait while JD gets everything set up. At least we can get out of the heat.’

  He climbed out of the truck, opened her door, and helped her down, trapping her between the truck and his hard body. His chest was now covered with a white button-up shirt, but Taylor remembered how his skin had felt under her fingertips. And how solid he’d been when she’d needed to lean on him.

  So she did that now, resting her forehead against the hard muscle of his chest, sighing when his arms came around her to hold her closer. She gripped the back of his shirt, silently cursing the Kevlar that Clay had made them all wear that kept her from touching him.

  Of course, not touching his bare skin was probably a good thing, considering they were standing in a public place. The last time, she’d ended up against a door, being kissed within an inch of her life. She wanted that again. Desperately.

  She wanted to tell him that it would work out. That it would be fine. That she wouldn’t hurt him. Or leave him. That they could have all the time they needed to see if this . . . chemistry between them went anywhere. But she couldn’t promise him any of those things, so she simply held his hand tightly as they followed Clay up the sidewalk.

  Put your game face on, she admonished herself. You’re here to help a little girl identify a killer. It wouldn’t bring Jazzie’s mother back, but at least the child wouldn’t have to live with the constant fear of being the next victim.

  ‘Ready?’ Clay asked her, his expression so very kind it made her want to cry.

  She made herself smile. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess. This will feel very silly if all Jazzie says is “thank you” again.’

  Ford squeezed her hand. ‘That’ll still be more than she’s said to anyone else, right? This may be a multi-step process. And it could be a lot worse. At least you’re eating ice cream. It could be Brussels sprouts or something.’

  She chuckled, her forced smile becoming real. ‘Little blessings.’

  Ford bumped her shoulder with his. ‘Exactly.’

  Eighteen

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  Sunday 23 August, 3.42 P.M.

  Taylor Dawson kept a damn low profile, Gage thought with a scowl. He’d been sitting in Cleon’s car, tucked back in an alley about a half a block from the restaurant where Jazzie was to have met her therapist. Once again he’d combed through Facebook and the rest of the Internet looking for a photo of the woman, but he’d found nothing. Not even a mention of her. She’d gone to college somewhere, but it must have been a nunnery, because there were no party pics, no nothing. All he knew was that she had long black hair.

  He shifted in the driver’s seat, sweat beading on his forehead. He was hot. He was hungry, and he so needed a hit. He looked down at his hands to see them shaking. Fuck it. He wasn’t going to be steady enough to fire the fucking weapon when Taylor Dawson, whoever the fuck she was, finally walked into target range.

  Just a little. Just enough to take off the edge. So I can think.

  Taking the baggie from his pocket, he quickly prepared a line and snorted it up, then breathed deeply, feeling the shakes subside almost instantaneously. Now he could think.

  He put his phone in his pocket when a group of three got out of a pickup and began walking toward the restaurant. There was a woman in her early twenties and two men, a blond about the same age and a black-haired guy closer to forty. The woman had long black hair and was the same size as the girl he’d glimpsed that morning at the farm, but two other women who’d walked into the restaurant while he’d been waiting outside had also matched her description.

  The blond man looked like Ford Elkhart and the fortyish guy looked like Clay Maynard, but Gage couldn’t shoot until he knew for one-hundred-percent sure. It would bring the cops, and if that black-haired woman was not Taylor Dawson, then Taylor would know she was a target and would hunker down and hide – going even more low-profile than she was now, if that was even possible. Any more under the radar and he’d wonder if she was in witness protection.

  But he was ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure, so grabbed his rifle, placing the three in his crosshairs as they looked around, as if meeting someone. Then the young woman waved.

  At Lilah, who’d been parked around the corner, out of his view, and now was walking briskly toward the three people on the sidewalk. That would be the therapist then. Taylor Dawson.

  That’s all I need to know.

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  Sunday 23 August, 3.50 P.M.

  Ford forced himself to smile at Taylor as she walked beside him, managing not to wince even when she held his hand so tightly that he thought she’d break his fingers. She’s leaving. You knew that. The situation was no different than it had been yesterday.

  Except that twice now he’d tasted her mouth, heard her moan. Felt her up against him. And he’d watched her face relax as they’d ridden through the woods. She’d found some peace in the clearing that had always been his favorite place. And they’d sat together in the morning quiet with very little conversation at all.

  He wasn’t sure he’d ever met anyone with whom he had shared such a comfortable silence. And then . . . God, the look on her face when she’d seen that photo of her grandmother.

  Ford thought it was probably that moment when it finally hit her exactly how much her mother’s lies had cost her – Taylor herself. No
t Clay. Not Frederick Dawson. Up until that moment her concern had been about everyone else. But when she realized that she’d lost the opportunity to know the grandmother who would have loved her, her tears had broken his heart.

  As had the look of helpless frustration on Clay’s face. Twenty-three years. Stolen from them both. Stolen from Clay’s mother, who hadn’t lived to meet her only granddaughter.

  At least Clay’s dad was still alive. The gruff retired cop, who ran a fishing charter service when the mood struck him, had all but legally adopted Ford and the other younger members of their circle of family and friends. Tanner St James will love her.

  I, on the other hand, he thought grimly, won’t get a chance to find out. Unless a month was enough time to know if someone was ‘the one’. Because a month was all they had.

  Nothing has changed, he reminded himself again. But he was lying to himself. He’d hoped deep down that he’d have a chance to change her mind. That maybe she’d stay. For Clay and for Tanner. And maybe even for me.

  Taylor rested her head on his shoulder for a few steps. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘For what? You have nothing to be sorry for.’

  ‘And you’re a really bad liar,’ she said softly, her smile even more forced than his. ‘But we’ll go with that if it makes you more comfortable.’ She blinked hard and gave her head a shake. ‘Jazzie,’ she murmured, as if to remind herself why they were there.

  ‘Right,’ he echoed. ‘Jazzie.’

  Taylor paused, her gaze focused up the street as a lone figure came around a corner, approaching them. ‘There’s Lilah. But she doesn’t have Jazzie.’ A heavy sigh. ‘I bet Jazzie had second thoughts. Detective Fitzpatrick won’t be happy.’

  Clay glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘No, but I have to say I’m relieved. This idea of JD’s was ill-conceived. All we needed was a sociopathic killer showing up to eliminate his witness and you getting caught in the crossfire. This was a stupid plan.’

  Taylor huffed impatiently. ‘Are you always going to be this way?’